The gate creaks behind me as I join Zack. He's already leaning against the fence, his satchel slung over his shoulder and that ever-present grin on his face.
"You always take your time, Frost. One day, I really will leave without you."
"You say that every time, but you always wait anyway," I reply, pulling my jacket tighter.
He laughs and straightens up. Together, we take the cobbled path that winds down toward the heart of the village. Morning mist still lingers above the slate rooftops, and the old wooden beams groan softly as the wind slips through. The village has its own ancient charm: nothing is perfectly straight, the walls carry the marks of time, yet everything feels sturdy, as if each stone has found its rightful place for generations.
The first scent that greets us is warm bread. Patrick's bakery is already open, and the heat spilling out drives away the chill of the morning. The shop window is fogged, golden loaves stacked high on the shelves, and the smell is enough to make anyone's mouth water.
Patrick himself appears behind the counter. A broad-shouldered man, always dusted in flour, his mastery of fire magic is legendary in the village: no wood is needed to heat his ovens. A snap of his fingers, and flames roar to life.
"Morning, Frost! Morning, Zack! Off to school already?"
"Yes, Patrick," I answer with a smile. "It smells even better than usual today."
Zack takes a deep, exaggerated sniff, just to prove my point.
"We should stop here every morning, just for this."
Patrick chuckles, sparks dancing at his fingertips as he makes a loaf of bread float over toward us.
"Here, but share it fairly this time."
"Promise!" Zack replies, though I know he'll end up eating most of it.
We continue down the road, tearing into the warm loaf. The crust crackles, and the inside melts on the tongue.
A little further on, we spot Wendy, the bird trainer. She's always draped in colorful scarves, her basket full of seeds. Above her, a dozen sparrows and pigeons circle in the air, guided by gentle gusts she weaves with her hands. Her wind magic is delicate, almost artistic.
"Good morning, Frost! Good morning, Zack!" she calls cheerfully.
"Morning, Wendy! You've got even more birds today," Zack points out.
"Yes, they sensed the sun would break through quickly. Animals always understand the weather better than we do."
She tosses a handful of seeds into the air, and a small breeze lifts them higher, sending her flock into a playful frenzy. Watching her work has always fascinated me: each movement is soft, measured, like a dance with her feathered companions.
Zack leans toward me with a smirk.
"Think she'll end up with a cloud of birds following her everywhere one day?"
We laugh, moving on.
Not long after, we pass the shop of Rian, the herbalist. His storefront is tangled with climbing plants, and floating bubbles of water hover near the display, keeping the hanging herbs fresh. Thin, bespectacled, Rian carefully shifts the bubbles with precise hand movements. His water magic fills the air with strange, refreshing aromas.
"Good morning, boys," he says without looking up, too focused on his concoctions.
"Good morning, Master Rian," we reply in unison.
"Study hard—the future of this village depends on young minds like yours."
Once out of earshot, Zack whispers:
"Do you think he ever sleeps? I swear he's here day and night."
I shrug. With Rian, nothing would surprise me.
We soon arrive in front of Rich's manor, the local notable. His massive house, its walls freshly whitewashed, stands in sharp contrast to the weathered facades around it. Black shutters cover every window, and a tall gate cuts it off from the street. Rich is wealthy, and he makes sure everyone knows it: lands, shops, influence… everything seems to run through him.
"This place gives me the creeps," Zack mutters. "Looks more like a fortress."
I nod. Rich has never cared to be liked. To him, the villagers are just debtors.
That's when Elton, his son, appears. His uniform is spotless, his hair neatly combed, his smile smug. He's our age, but already acts like he's above everyone else.
"Well, well, Frost and Zack," he drawls. "Still glued together like two lost puppies?"
My fists clench, but Zack puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Forget it," he murmurs.
I walk past Elton without a word. His mocking laugh trails behind us, the same blend of arrogance and disdain that makes my blood boil. Like father, like son—Elton grew up believing the world owes him everything.
At last, we reach the market square. Merchants are setting up their stalls: fruits, vegetables, cloth, small enchanted trinkets. Voices overlap, children weave through the stands, and horses' hooves clatter against the stones. The air is thick with mingled scents, both familiar and inviting. The village architecture shows its age—patched walls, mismatched tiles, hand-carved wooden signs. It may not be perfect, but it's alive.
A distant rumble makes everyone glance upward. Beyond the hills, a train passes. Its shrill whistle cuts through the air, its metallic wagons glinting in the morning light.
Zack watches it intently.
"You think we'll get a station here one day?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure I'd like it, though."
"I would. Imagine—reaching the capital in a single day, seeing great cities, meeting other mages…"
I can't help but smile. Zack has always craved adventure. Me, I'm more tied to these streets, to the merchants who greet us by name. Still, I can feel the world moving forward, with or without me.
We continue on toward school. Every house we pass, every familiar face we meet reminds me that this village is more than just a backdrop. It's home. And no matter what happens, a part of me will always remain here.