It had already been eight days since we moved into our new home. The days felt relatively ordinary, filled with small discoveries, as if every corner still hid something we hadn't noticed. Even though we were used to Elise's house, our own home had its own details, and I kept finding more of them each day.
For example, the conductive metals Iolanda had explained to me months earlier. I still hadn't received any weapon or item to help me cast spells, so Emanuelle and I began practicing directly with the iron that held the water and fire stones in place. The cold touch of the metal responded to our intentions, and every time a stone lit up or went out, it felt as if the house itself breathed with us.
Of course, this had consequences: during those eight days, mother scolded us more than she had in all the previous years combined. The smell of burning incense and heated stone had already become part of our daily life, and sometimes I heard her sigh deeply, as if forcing herself to get used to the idea of having two children playing with magic inside the house.
But something surprised us. Even without magical affinity, Anthony seemed to handle the conductive metals more easily. Anna, who had stayed with us more often than Iolanda during this period, explained that it was common among those who couldn't cast spells. According to her, their willpower tended to be stronger, precisely because they had no magic to protect them.
That reminded me of something. Before all the tragedy, before we went to Elise's house, Anthony used to talk about training with swords. He never got the chance. Disaster struck, and his time was stolen along with it. Perhaps, without realizing it, life was opening another path for him — one where will mattered more than mana.
Another thing we did often during those days was visit our father's grave. The soil around it still carried the damp smell of freshly turned earth, mixed with the light perfume of flowers someone — perhaps mother — often left there. The wind always felt colder in that place, even when the sun was high.
Anthony and I still didn't talk much. The silence between us was heavy, like a wall I didn't know how to climb. But in front of the grave, that silence changed. It was no longer distance, but memory. Slowly, we began exchanging a few words, almost always short, simple. But it was something.
"Hey, Anthony."
"Yes?"
"What do you want to do when you grow up?"
That question had haunted me for months. Anthony used to say he would take father's place, but was that really what he wanted? Deep down, I believed he wished for more — maybe to work the land, like father and our grandparents had done. We never knew our grandparents, but from the little father told us, they had been good people, tireless workers.
Anthony didn't answer right away. He stood before father's grave, eyes fixed on the stone as if searching for an answer carved there.
"Honestly? I don't know yet." His voice was low but steady. "But… I think I'd like to be like him. Maybe better."
"What do you mean?" I asked, a strange tightness in my chest.
"It's not that I'm ashamed of dad." Anthony sighed, lifting his gaze to the clear sky where the sun burned at full strength. The hot wind ruffled his dark hair, and for a moment, I saw Arthur in him. He would turn twelve in just a few months, but he already had a sturdier build than many older boys — even stronger than that insolent noble brat from the Javier family, who must've been fifteen. Anthony continued: "I love what he did as a farmer. But… I wanted powers that could change the fate of our village."
A chill ran down my spine. The question slipped out almost on its own:
"You'd like to be a mage? Do you… resent me and Manu?"
My voice was tense, as if afraid of the answer.
Anthony pulled his eyes from the stone and fixed them on me. They were the same blue as mother's, but now heavy with sincerity.
"If I said I don't feel jealous or envious, I'd be lying," he admitted without looking away. "The two of you are heading to great orders. That's no small thing…"
Then he crouched down, scooped a handful of loose earth from the grave, and tossed it into the wind. The grains scattered and vanished, like memories carried off by fate.
"But what good would envy do?" he continued, his voice heavier. "It would only bring us pain… and even more suffering to mom. She's already noticed I've pulled away, I know." He paused, his eyes drifting back to the grave. "But if you want my real answer… I want to be someone who can lift this village up. I want to become a noble and rip poverty out of here."
We stayed in silence for a few seconds. It wasn't peaceful, nor deafening — just heavy. Anthony kept staring at father's grave until his voice finally cut through the air again:
"But I know… I'll never get the chance to become a noble. I have no magical powers. No skill with the sword."
There was pain in his words. I didn't know how to answer. I wanted to tell him he could still train, that he could find another path… but it would've sounded hollow. The world is cruel. Not everyone gets the chance to become something.
I remembered where we came from. Peasants who barely had enough to eat, who gave up their own meals so Emanuelle and I could survive. I remembered father, mother, even Anthony, dividing their hunger so that we could have strength. I always blamed myself for being reborn instead of my sister Luana. I had been a killer, a monster in my other life, and here, once again, I carried the guilt of existing while others sacrificed.
And there I was, unable to find words to comfort my older brother. What good was the mind of an adult if I couldn't even be a pillar for him?
"That's why I have a request," Anthony said, turning to me. "If you ever become a noble, fulfill my wish. Help this village prosper. And above all… destroy that damned Baron Hoffmann who killed our father."
"I don't know if I'll ever become a noble," I replied firmly. "And even if I do… I have no interest in lands."
"I know…" he murmured, his face marked by sorrow. "It was selfish of me to ask."
He turned back to the grave, but I couldn't let the conversation die there.
"Still… if it ever happens, I want you to support me. I want you to be the one to manage those lands."
Anthony looked at me as if he hadn't understood.
"But I haven't studied."
"Then start studying."
"No one will teach me! Studying is for nobles and rich merchants," he snapped bitterly.
"I know that. But will you give up just because of it? Just because you're a peasant?"
"You think it's that easy, Elian?" he exploded, his voice raw with frustration. "Who would want to teach someone who doesn't even have magic? I'm not you, or Manu! I'm just someone who knows how to work the fields. I'm nothing more than that!"
The hot wind lifted dust around us, as if scattering his words through the air.
"Then become more than that, Anthony!" I shouted back, my voice almost a cry. "Ask help from the Dark Throne mages guarding our home and family!"
"Once again I'd be leeching off your status as a disciple… what kind of brother would that make me?" he muttered, his voice thick with shame.
"So what?" I snapped without hesitation. "What's family for, then? Just to pretend we're happy? To say we have people around us without ever helping each other for real?"
Silence fell between us, heavy. The hot wind swept through the field, stirring the dust before father's grave. Anthony stared at me, fists clenched, but he couldn't answer. I knew. It was his pride resisting — the same pride that always stopped him from asking for help. I knew it well, because I had worn it myself, in my past life, as an older brother.
"You'd do the same for me, Anthony," I pressed, stepping closer. "I know how much you sacrificed to help dad. I know how many times you gave me your share of food when I was just a baby."
His eyes widened in disbelief. His lips parted, but his voice cracked:
"How did you kno—"
"It doesn't matter how I know," I cut him off, firm. "What matters is that nothing changes the fact that we'll always be family. Until the last day of our lives."
He averted his gaze, his jaw trembling. Shame wrestled with relief on his face.
"Even if tomorrow we become strangers to each other," I went on, struggling to put my thoughts into words, "we'll still have the same blood running through our veins. The same parents, the same sister. So… why not help each other, while we still can?"
Anthony said nothing. He stood silent, eyes fixed on the ground, searching for words he'd never find. I knew. His pride was high, but he also knew when he had no answer.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. I had to look up a little — he was already taller than me, almost twelve.
"Please, Anthony…" I spoke slowly, so every word would be clear. "If I ever become a noble, I want you to be the one by my side, helping me. You're my older brother, the one I trust most after our parents. You're the only one I can count on."
Anthony lifted his eyes, and finally let a broken whisper escape:
"I'm sorry…" he murmured, his voice shaking. "Before, this helplessness didn't consume me. But after dad's death… it started eating me alive."
Tears ran down his face. I could feel the pain in his confession. It was like staring at a reflection of myself, back when I was Rodrigo — when guilt crushed me and I felt like nothing but a murderer. I knew that weight all too well.
I pulled my brother into a tight embrace.
"I know, big brother," I said firmly. "I envy your strength and everything you've always done for us. I've always watched you… and that's why I know you can help me when the time comes."
We stayed like that for a while, unmoving, while the hot wind swept around us, lifting the dust and tossing my long hair into disarray.
Anthony wiped his tears with the back of his hand and tried to smile, still trembling.
"And you can be sure, Elian… I'll do my best."
I nodded in silence. There was no need for more words. For the first time in a long while, the distance between us seemed smaller. Maybe we would never return to what we had before the suffering, but at least we had begun to break the wall dividing us.
And within me, a promise burned: Baron Hoffmann would pay for all the suffering he had brought to our family.
That's when we heard our mother's voice calling from the house:
"Anthony, Elian! Lunch is ready. I need to talk to you."
"We're coming!" we answered together, almost like old times.
We walked side by side toward our house, carrying the sense that, even among scars and pain, we could still walk together.