The morning sun had barely brushed the rooftops when Hari's eyes snapped open. The world outside was still quiet — no clatter of buckets, no voices in the fields — but inside his head, there was no stillness at all. Ever since the festival, and the traveler's words about mages, his thoughts had been a restless tide.
He could not shake the desire — no, the need — to know more.
Slipping out of bed before his parents stirred, Hari wandered the village paths barefoot, the cool dust soft against his feet. He stopped at the well, where an old woman was drawing water.
"Granny Varu," he began hesitantly, "do you know anything about magic? Or… about the other tribes?"
The woman frowned at him, wrinkled skin folding into deeper creases. "Hmph. Magic's for those born with it, boy. Ordinary folk like us have no use for it. As for the tribes — they stay where they belong, and we stay where we belong." She handed him a dipper of water as if that ended the conversation.
Hari thanked her, but her words only stirred more questions.
He moved from house to house, stopping at the potter's workshop, the weaver's courtyard, even the small shrine at the edge of the village. Some told him vague myths — that elves could speak to trees, dwarves could hear stone breathe, orcs could run for days without tiring — but none could tell him what he really wanted to know. Not one could explain how magic worked, or why it existed at all.
By the time the sun was halfway up, he felt both full of scraps of stories and empty of real answers.
"Hari!" Ravi's voice boomed across the lane. The man stood by the fields, hands on hips, a hoe resting against his shoulder. "You've been wandering since dawn. Come help your old man before the weeds take the place over!"
Hari gave a small, guilty smile and jogged over. Together they worked the fields, pulling weeds, guiding water into the furrows, and repairing the low stone wall that marked the boundary. Ravi hummed as he worked, but Hari was quiet, his mind still turning.
After the chores, Hari slipped away to his favorite thinking place — the wide banyan tree near the riverbank. The roots jutted out of the earth like sleeping serpents, and its shade made a cool refuge from the heat. He sat cross-legged on one of the thicker roots, elbows resting on his knees.
What is magic, really?
Was it just a tool to fight, like the orc warriors he'd read about? Or was it something deeper — the way elves seemed to understand the forest, or dwarves the mountains? Did mages see the world differently? Did they understand the very essence of life?
He closed his eyes, letting his breathing slow.
If magic is about understanding… then maybe I can try to understand something simple.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he imagined a star. Small at first, then brighter, sharper, like a spark hanging in the black. He focused on it, letting the image fill his mind.
And then…
Something stirred inside him. Not in his head, but in his chest — a flicker, like the first warmth of a fire on a winter morning. It pulsed outward, slow and steady, and suddenly he could feel everything. The wind brushing over the grass. The tiny feet of ants moving in the roots beneath him. The gentle ripple of the river as it curved around a stone.
It was as if the whole world was breathing, and for a moment, he was breathing with it.
A voice, distant but clear, broke through.
"Hari? Dinner's ready."
His mother's voice — warm, familiar — calling from the path. The flicker faded, the star dimming in his mind, but the feeling lingered.
He opened his eyes. The world looked… sharper somehow. The light was richer, the colors deeper, as if he were seeing everything for the first time.
But what caught him off guard was his mother's face. She had stopped mid-step, eyes widening, mouth parting as if to speak, then pressing into a thin line.
Her gaze was fixed on his eyes.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"Nothing," she said quickly, forcing a smile. "Come on, before the food gets cold."
But as he stood and walked beside her, he caught her stealing glances at him, her expression unreadable.
At home, as Ravi chatted about the day's work, Hari noticed Mrudhula was unusually quiet. Once, when Ravi turned to fetch more rice, she leaned in slightly and whispered, almost too softly to hear:
"Golden eyes…"
Hari blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," she said again, shaking her head. "Eat."
But in her heart, Mrudhula knew. She had seen such eyes before — not in this village, not even in this province, but in an old memory from her youth, when a mage had once passed through her hometown. A mage whose eyes caught the light like molten metal.
She didn't know why her son's eyes now held the same light. She didn't know what it meant. But she knew enough to understand one thing — this was no small matter. And if such a change had begun in him, the world outside their little village would not ignore it for long.
That night, after dinner, Hari lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. The moonlight filtering through the small window painted silver shapes on the wooden beams. Sleep didn't come easily — his mind kept returning to that moment under the banyan tree, when the world had opened to him in ways he couldn't explain.
He closed his eyes again, not to sleep but to remember. That flicker in his chest… it hadn't been just warmth. It had been alive. It felt like the river's murmur, the whisper of leaves, and something else — something vast, waiting just beyond reach.
In the next room, Ravi's soft snores mixed with the crackle of the dying hearth fire. But faintly, from the doorway, he could hear another sound — his mother humming. It was the same lullaby she used to sing to him when he was small, though she hadn't done so in years.
He turned his head to see her silhouette framed in the doorway. She thought he was asleep, and perhaps she was singing more for herself than for him. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, carrying the weight of memories she never spoke of.
For a moment, Hari felt a deep, wordless connection — as if she understood something about the path ahead, even if he didn't.
When the song ended, she stepped inside quietly and adjusted the thin blanket over him. Her hand lingered for a second on his hair. Then she left, closing the door softly.
Hari lay awake a little longer, staring at the moonlight. His chest ached in a strange, pleasant way — not from sadness exactly, but from the sense that life was much larger than this small village, and his place in it was still hidden, waiting to be found.