The traveler had been gone for three days, but his words had stayed. They clung to Hari's mind like burrs on a shepherd's cloak, refusing to be shaken off.
Orcs with storm-callers, elves with silver tongues, dwarves who could shape stone as if it were clay — and mages. Mages who could weave light, summon rain, or bend the wind with a gesture.
Hari had never given much thought to the wind before. Now, as he sat on the small wooden bench outside their home, he noticed the way it curled around the corner of the roof, lifting the ends of the drying straw mats in little waves. His eyes followed the motion, and he wondered if somewhere out there, a mage could choose to make the wind dance like that.
"Lost in thought again?" Ravi's voice pulled him back.
Hari blinked and turned. His father was carrying a bundle of farming tools over one shoulder, the wooden handles polished smooth from years of use. "We're going to the south field today. Help me bring the water skins."
Hari nodded and followed. The narrow dirt path to the south field cut between rows of millet, the stalks bending gently in the breeze. The air smelled of earth and young grain, a scent that always reminded Hari of home. But his mind wasn't on the fields. It was on the idea of invisible threads — magic — flowing through the world.
As they reached the field, Ravi stopped to check the irrigation channels, muttering to himself about the last rain. Hari crouched beside him and finally asked, "Father… have you ever seen magic?"
Ravi froze for a moment, his hand still hovering over the damp soil. He glanced sideways at Hari. "That's an unusual question for a boy who should be thinking about planting seasons."
Hari looked down. "The traveler spoke of mages. I just… wondered if it's real."
There was a long pause before Ravi answered. "It's real enough."
Hari's head snapped up. "You've seen it?"
Ravi straightened, resting the hoe against his shoulder. "Once. When I was younger than you are now. I'd gone to the river market in the lowlands. There was a man there — a quiet one, not dressed like the storytellers imagine. His robe was patched, and he carried no staff, no glittering jewels. But when the day grew unbearably hot, he lifted his hand, and a breeze rolled through the square. Not a gust — not the random wind you feel now — but something steady and cool, as though the sky itself had bent to his will."
Hari's eyes were wide. "Did you speak to him?"
Ravi shook his head. "People like him don't linger in one place. And not all magic is safe, Hari. Sometimes it draws trouble faster than it solves problems."
They worked in silence for a while after that, but Hari's thoughts only grew louder.
That evening, they returned home just as the last gold of daylight faded into blue. Mrudhula was at the hearth, turning flatbreads on the iron griddle. The scent of lentil stew filled the air.
As they sat to eat, Hari asked, "Mother, do you believe in magic?"
Her hands hesitated over the ladle. "Why?"
"I just… want to know if it's real."
Her eyes flicked to Ravi, who gave the faintest nod. She sighed. "It's real. And dangerous. Not everyone who wields it does so for good."
"But some do," Hari pressed.
"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Some do."
Ravi chuckled softly. "Your mother worries that curiosity will carry you further than your feet can manage."
Hari tried to smile, but his mind was already far away again.
That night, after the household had gone quiet, Hari lay awake staring at the wooden beams above his bed. He could still hear the traveler's voice describing storm-callers and flame-binders. He imagined himself standing in a wide hall of stone, watching a mage draw shapes of light in the air.
His eyes grew heavy.
The dream began as it often did — in a place that felt both strange and familiar. He stood on a wide plain under a sky the color of deep twilight, though no sun or moon hung overhead. The wind was warm, carrying the scent of something ancient, like smoke and rain mixed together.
In the distance, shapes moved — tall trees with leaves like silver flames, mountains that glowed faintly along their ridges. But this time, there was something else.
A presence.
He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. Like standing in a room and knowing someone else is there, just beyond the edge of sight. It didn't move closer, yet it watched. He could feel the weight of its gaze, steady and unblinking.
He turned, searching the empty plain. "Who's there?"
The wind shifted. Not words, but the faintest echo of a whisper touched his ear — too soft to understand, yet it stirred something deep inside his chest.
The plain rippled like water.
Hari woke with a start, the darkness of his small room pressing close around him. His heart thudded in his chest. For a long time, he lay still, listening to the quiet of the house, wondering if the dream had been just a dream… or something more.
As Hari lay in bed after waking from the dream, the moonlight spilled in through the small window, pale and cold against the wooden floorboards. The faint rustle of night insects came from outside, their rhythm steady, almost hypnotic.
He turned onto his side, watching the shifting patterns of shadows from the swaying branches outside. A lingering unease sat in his chest — not fear exactly, but the sense of having stood too close to something vast and unknowable.
Across the room, his small wooden shelf sat against the wall, lined with the few possessions he treasured — a smooth river stone his father had given him, a carved wooden horse from the last festival, and the worn leather strap he used to tie his hair. His eyes lingered on them, familiar anchors to the life he knew, but tonight they felt… smaller somehow.
Through the open window, a light breeze brushed his cheek, carrying with it the distant scent of smoke. He frowned, lifting his head slightly. There were no fires this far from the main square at night. Perhaps it was just someone burning dry grass after the festival's mess, he reasoned. But still…
Somewhere beyond the line of trees, in the direction of the dark hills, a faint glimmer winked in the shadows. He couldn't tell if it was the moon catching on stone, or something else entirely.
The thought came unbidden: Maybe the presence from the dream hadn't stayed in the dream at all.
Hari lay back again, forcing his eyes closed, willing himself to sleep. But long after his breathing slowed, part of him remained awake — listening — as though waiting for the whisper to return.