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Emmet and Rhyka walked side by side through the winding streets of Darren, though it would be more accurate to say Emmet walked while Rhyka trailed a few careful steps behind.
The village was alive with its usual midmorning rhythm—bakers pulling fresh loaves from stone ovens, stall keepers shouting prices for cloth and incense, temple workers sweeping the steps and pouring offerings into stone braziers. But as they moved through it, a quiet pattern emerged.
Everyone smiled at Emmet.
And not just polite nods or surface-level pleasantries true, beaming smiles. People waved from across streets. Elderly women called out greetings, their eyes crinkling with fondness. Children shouted his name and chased after him for brief moments, laughing. Younger women blushed and giggled in groups. Even the typically gruff apothecary offered a rare nod of respect.
It irritated Rhyka.
More than he wanted to admit.
It wasn't just that Emmet was liked. It was how easily it seemed to come to him. As if the entire village simply opened up for him wherever he went. As if he belonged everywhere, to everyone, without ever having to try.
And of course, they were stopped more times than Rhyka could count.
"Oh, Emmet! It's been ages since I saw you last—how's your brother?"
"Tell me again what the high priest said when you—!"
"Are you still tutoring on the side at the academy? I've got a niece who's hopeless.
Every few feet, it was someone else. Some "old friend" or past acquaintance or temple contact eager to catch up, to shake hands, to share some inane story from five years ago. Rhyka rolled his eyes and drifted further behind each time, making sure no one even tried to rope him into the conversations.
He hated small talk.
He hated pretending to be polite.
And most of all, he hated being noticed.
It was easier when people didn't like him. At least then he knew where he stood.
Eventually after far too many smiles and far too many "Oh, you've grown so much!" comments aimed vaguely in his direction Emmet glanced up at the sky, cursed under his breath, and began cutting conversations short.
"Sorry, I really have to go—yes, later. No, I promise, another time. Temple business. Urgent."
By some miracle, they reached their destination.
It was a restaurant, but not a flashy one. Tucked almost completely below street level, the entry was a narrow stairwell between two larger buildings, with only a small, polished plaque to mark its name: The Root Cellar. Rhyka stared down at the stairs with a flicker of intrigue.
The whole place was sunken into the earth. From the outside, it looked like a secret.
If I ever had a place of my own, Rhyka thought, I'd want it to look like this. Quiet. Hidden. Like a secret base.
Emmet practically dragged him down the steps and into the dim, warm interior, ushering him to a low table near the back. The walls were made of rough stone, wrapped in hanging ivy and flickering lanterns that gave everything a soft, amber glow. The place smelled like roasted meat and thyme.
A few quick exchanges with the server, and Emmet had ordered for both of them before Rhyka could even glance at a menu.
He didn't complain.
Because the food, when it arrived, was incredible.
Thick slabs of seasoned meat were stacked between soft bread, glazed in spiced butter and something smoky-sweet. On the side came mashed potatoes—creamy, smooth, with bits of roasted garlic—and gravy thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Rhyka didn't even realize how hungry he was until he took the first bite. He devoured the sandwich with a quiet, burning focus, as if the food might be taken away if he hesitated.
Emmet leaned back, watching him with the satisfied smugness of someone who knew this would happen.
"Best meat sandwich in the village," he said. "Told you."
Rhyka gave a faint grunt of agreement between bites.
For a while, they just ate. No talking. No questions. Just the low hum of conversation from other tables and the occasional clink of cutlery on stone.
But eventually, Emmet broke the silence.
"So," he said casually, swirling his drink. "Have you given any more thought to what we talked about last week?"
Rhyka tensed.
He knew what this was about.
He pushed his plate away, half-empty, and stared at the stone tabletop. "Do we have to talk about that now?"
Emmet raised an eyebrow but didn't push—yet. "Just asking."
Rhyka didn't answer immediately. His hands curled slightly in his lap, the old habit of clenching his fists to keep calm.
Last week, Emmet had brought up the possibility no, the suggestion—t at Rhyka leave the temple school and begin an apprenticeship with a blacksmith in the northern part of the village. A craftsman known for forging high-grade spell-steel, the kind used for mana-channeling weapons and priestly relics.
It was an honest trade. Respectable. One of the few paths not reliant on magic.
And it felt like an exile.
Rhyka finally looked up.
"I don't know what I want," he said, the words flat but honest. "If I'm being honest with myself… I don't know what I want to do. Not yet."
Emmet studied him for a moment, then sighed.
"I figured you'd say that. But something's changed. And I don't want you to find out the hard way."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped low.
"Don't tell anyone I told you this, but… two of your classmates Eto and Rinnte are close to awakening their cores."
Rhyka blinked.
"Cores?"
Emmet nodded. "They're close. Both of them. And you know what that means."
In this world, mana was not just something everyone had it was everything. Life, power, purpose. Most people could access it in minor ways, just enough to light a candle or bless a prayer. But true mages, real spellcasters, had to awaken their mana core.
That awakening marked the beginning of something greater It was when magic stopped being passive, instinctual and became something active. Controlled. Dangerous From that point forward, a mage could begin learning spells outside of their natural affinity. They could harness true magic.
It was the gateway to real power.
And Rhyka… had no core.
No potential.
No place in that world.
Emmet's gaze softened, but his words were blunt. "Once the awakenings start, the lessons are going to change More incantation theory spell shaping All of it. You'll be surrounded by people who can do what you can't."
What you'll never be able to do.
He didn't say it aloud. He didn't need to.
Rhyka looked away, his jaw clenched.
After a long silence, he said quietly, "Give it a couple of years. I'll figure it out."
"Two years is a long time to drift."
"I'm still you make it sound like I'm some young adult with nothing to do in life
Emmet looked at him for a long moment—measuring, maybe. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"Well. That's honest, at least."
They sat in silence again. Rhyka slowly picked up his fork and finished the last of the mashed potatoes.
Outside, the day went on. The world didn't slow down just because a boy didn't know where he belonged
But inside that quiet, stone-walled restaurant, the weight of what he wasn't sat heavier than the meal in his stomach.
The way back home wouldn't be long he thought about his two Classmates a sense of envy overtaking him both of them were decent Eto was the kind of girl everyone admired for her potent self confidence and an attitude to back every claim she would make Rinnte on the other hand was much like Rhyka himself both of them didn't really interact with anyone yet he was a diligent worker