Noah
I turned three today.
Not that anyone said the words out loud, birthdays aren't really celebrated the same way here as they were in my old life. But I could tell. Aria, my mother, braided ribbons of moon-silver into her hair, and Jonathan, my father, presented me with a carved wooden hawk that actually flapped its wings and glided across the room when thrown. The way they looked at me… full of love and pride. It didn't take a genius to realize this was a special day.
I should've felt nothing but joy.
But frustration burned hotter.
Three years. Three years trapped in a body too small to hold the ocean of thought inside me. I wanted to speak, to ask questions, endless questions,... about this world, about the magic I'd only glimpsed. About the pulse I felt in the air when Father brushed his fingers across the runes on the archway outside. About the way Mother hummed lullabies that made the moonlight flicker.
I wanted to learn. I needed to learn.
But all I could do was smile, coo, and babble a few broken words like any other toddler. And worse yet, I still had to pretend I was normal. That I didn't know what pain was. That I hadn't held someone I loved as she died.
It was exhausting.
Still, I made progress. My body grew steadier every day. I could walk confidently now, and I'd started practicing hand motions when no one was looking, mimicking the way Father gestured when controlling flames or shifting wind.
Magic wasn't just some vague idea here. It had rules. Structure. Language.
And I wanted to devour it.
When Aria took me to the garden, I noticed how the flowers leaned toward her, how their petals glowed faintly under her touch. "Mana," she once whispered, tracing a glowing line into the soil. "It listens when you love the world."
Mana. The life thread that ran through everything.
I didn't understand it completely yet, but I knew it was key. I could feel it. Sometimes, late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would lie there in my little bed and close my eyes, trying to sense it. Like tuning into a frequency just beyond hearing.
And sometimes, just sometimes... I did.
But the moment I reached, it slipped away, like fog through fingers. That's when the frustration hit hardest. I wanted to scream. To cry. To demand answers from the gods of this world. Why bring me here with all this knowledge locked inside, if I couldn't use any of it?
Still… I wasn't alone.
Aria noticed. She always did.
Even now, I sit on a woven mat while she hums to herself, grinding herbs in a stone bowl. The scent of lavender and crushed mint fills the air. I try to copy the movement of her fingers, circular, rhythmic. She pauses, looks at me, and smiles.
"You're always watching, little flame," she says softly. "Always wondering."
I giggle, more out of instinct than choice. Still stuck in the performance.
She sets the bowl down and walks over to me. Her silver eyes catch the light like crystal, and her moon tattoo shimmers faintly. She kneels and places a hand over my heart.
"Do you feel it?" she asks.
I blink.
"Mana," she whispers.
I nod, solemn as I can manage.
She laughs, warm and clear. "Of course you do."
I don't know if she realizes how serious I am. But part of me suspects she does. She always has.
Later that evening, after Father returns and lifts me into the air with one arm like I weigh nothing at all, we sit around the hearth. A small fire crackles in the pit, and I stare into it, mesmerized. Not just by the flames, but by the way Father talks to them.
Literally.
With low, steady breaths, he mutters words I don't know. Ancient syllables that taste like steel and wind. The fire responds, dancing in patterns that form shapes, a hawk, a blade, a blooming flower.
Aria watches me as I watch him.
"He sees it," she says. "The fire listens to him."
Jonathan chuckles. "He'll be ready sooner than we think."
"I hope not," Aria replies, her tone softening. "Let him be a child a little longer."
They speak as if I'm not already ancient inside. As if I didn't carry death with me into this new life.
Still, something in Aria's voice makes me pause. That longing. That quiet fear of time passing too quickly. It makes me… slow down.
I let myself lean into her embrace when she gathers me into her lap. Her warmth is real. Her love, too. Maybe this time… I could allow myself to feel it.
Not as a mask. Not as an act. But as Noah Reizei.
And for a few heartbeats, the frustration fades.
Aria
He's not like other children.
I knew it the moment he opened his eyes in my arms. There was too much in them, too much knowing. It frightened me at first, but I couldn't look away. And over the years, that strange wisdom has only grown deeper.
Jonathan calls him gifted. The elders whisper words like "old soul." But I think it's more than that.
He remembers something. Even if he doesn't say it.
He watches the world with the quiet intensity of someone who's lost it before.
Sometimes I catch him staring at the moon for hours, his expression unreadable. Other times he touches the trees in the garden like he's asking them questions. He doesn't speak much, but his silence speaks volumes.
Today, when I saw him pressing his palm against the soil and whispering under his breath, my heart clenched.
He doesn't know I'm watching.
He tries to mimic Jonathan's firecraft when he thinks no one sees. Or copies my rune tracing in the air, even though his fingers are still small and clumsy.
He's trying so hard. Too hard.
He gets frustrated, his little brow furrowed, his body trembling when something doesn't respond the way he wants it to. Like the world is wrong, not him.
And in those moments, I want to gather him up and say, "You have time. You don't need to rush."
But I don't. Because part of me knows he wouldn't believe it.
So instead, I give him small things.
I teach him the names of flowers. I hum songs from the old world that bend starlight. I show him how to calm the wind by singing to it.
And in return, he gives me everything. His smiles, rare but bright. His laughter, like bells on winter wind. His tiny hands, always reaching, always seeking.
He's still a child. But he's not just a child.
He's becoming.
And gods help the world when he does.
For now, I will protect his light.
Even from himself.
Even from the past that haunts his eyes.
I tuck him into his bed that night and kiss his forehead. "Sleep, little flame," I whisper. "The stars will guard your dreams."
And maybe, just maybe, they'll guard your heart too.
Noah
I fall asleep listening to her voice.
And for the first time in a long, long time… I dream without sorrow.
Just stars.
Just fire.
Just peace. I never want this end.
End of Chapter.