Kael Duskveil was six years old, and already the manor whispered about him. The servants spoke softly when they thought he could not hear, their voices carrying through corridors and kitchens. They remembered the strange flicker of flame that had bent toward him as an infant, the way his eyes seemed to follow the invisible threads of mana before he could even walk. They remembered the way his mother had murmured too early… far too early. Now, six years later, those whispers had not faded. They had only grown quieter, more cautious, as if naming his strangeness too loudly might draw something down upon them all.
Kael understood why. He had understood since the moment he first heard the word mana whispered by a maid. Power drew envy. Envy drew knives. He had lived that truth once already, in a world of corporations and contracts. Here, the weapons were different, but the game was the same. So he hid.
When Elira, his young tutor, placed a wooden block before him and said, "Try to lift it, Kael," he obeyed with the wide-eyed earnestness of a child. He traced the rune she had shown him, but deliberately left the lines long, the angles wasteful. The block rose, wobbled, and fell with a clatter.
Elira clapped her hands anyway. "Excellent! At your age, even a flicker of movement is a triumph."
Kael lowered his head, feigning embarrassment. "It didn't stay up."
"That will come with practice," she assured him, her smile warm.
But later that night, alone in his chamber, Kael redrew the rune on his slate. He shortened the lines, compressed the flow, and whispered the word. The block rose again—smooth, steady, without a tremor. It hovered for nearly a full minute before he let it fall. He studied the fading glow of the chalk lines, his lips curving faintly. They think I am learning. In truth, I am refining. Every spell is a formula, every rune a circuit. And circuits can always be improved.
The next day, Elira demonstrated the Ignite spell. A small flame flickered above her palm, wavering before it steadied. "This is one of the simplest spells," she explained. "Useful for light, for warmth. Try it."
Kael copied her rune, but again he saw the flaws. He adjusted instinctively, compressing the flow. A flame bloomed above his palm, steady and bright, burning without flicker.
Elira gasped. "That's… impossible. It shouldn't be that stable."
Kael quickly waved his hand, extinguishing the flame. He widened his eyes, feigning confusion. "I don't know what happened. It just… worked."
Elira stared at him for a long moment, then forced a smile. "You're extraordinary, Kael. But remember—extraordinary things draw attention. Be careful."
He nodded, but his thoughts burned. Attention is dangerous. I must hide. Show them enough to believe I am gifted, but never enough to fear me.
That evening, at supper, his father asked, "What did you learn today?"
Kael hesitated, then answered softly, "I lit a flame. Only for a moment."
Lord Duskveil grunted approvingly. "Good. Strength comes from persistence. Fail a hundred times, succeed once, and you are still stronger than the man who never tried."
His mother's eyes lingered on him, sharper than her husband's. "And how did it feel?"
Kael looked up at her, choosing his words carefully. "Like pulling on a thread. If I pull too hard, it snaps. If I pull too soft, nothing moves."
Her lips curved faintly. "A thoughtful answer."
He returned to his meal, but inside his mind the analogy continued. Not threads. Circuits. Energy flows. And if I can design the circuit properly, there will be no snapping, no waste. Only precision.
Later that week, Elira brought him to the library. She set a candle on the table and said, "Try again. This time, focus on control. Don't just light it—hold it steady."
Kael nodded, his small fingers tracing the rune. He let the flame sputter, flicker, and nearly die before catching. He frowned, biting his lip, pretending to struggle.
Elira smiled encouragingly. "Good. You're learning."
But when she left the room to fetch another book, Kael leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He redrew the rune, sharper this time, and whispered the word. The flame leapt to life, tall and steady, burning without a flicker. He held it there, adjusting the flow, watching how the mana curved and bent. He whispered to himself, "If I shorten this line, the flame sharpens. If I widen it, the flame spreads. It's like adjusting a valve."
He extinguished it quickly when he heard footsteps returning. Elira entered, carrying a tome. She glanced at the candle, now dark, and smiled. "Don't worry. It will come with time."
Kael nodded, hiding his satisfaction. It has already come. But you must never know.
One evening, his mother found him in the solar, chalk dust on his fingers, runes scrawled across the slate before him. "What are you doing, Kael?" she asked gently.
He looked up, feigning innocence. "I'm drawing. Like Elira showed me."
She studied the lines, her eyes narrowing slightly. "These are not the runes she teaches children."
Kael tilted his head. "I just… changed them. To see what happens."
Her lips pressed together, but she said nothing more. She only brushed his hair back and murmured, "Be careful, my son. Curiosity is a gift, but it can also be a danger."
Kael smiled faintly. "I'll be careful."
But inside, he thought, Careful enough to hide. Careful enough to wait. Careful enough to build in silence until the time is right.
The days turned into a rhythm. Lessons in etiquette from his mother, breathing drills from his father, and stolen hours in the library where he sketched crude diagrams of mana circuits. He began to notice patterns. A spell was like a program—an array of instructions written in runes. Most mages cast them instinctively, pouring mana into shapes they memorized. But Kael saw the inefficiencies. Loops that wasted energy. Lines that could be shortened.
One afternoon, Elira praised him for holding a flame steady for three seconds. He smiled shyly, pretending to be proud. But that night, alone, he held the same flame for nearly an hour, adjusting the flow until it burned like a perfect, silent torch. He watched it without blinking, memorizing every curve of mana, every shift of heat. When he finally extinguished it, he whispered, "Three seconds for them. One hour for me. That is the mask I will wear."
His genius was a fire he could not extinguish, but he could smother it beneath layers of pretense. He laughed when Elira praised him, but his eyes always lingered on the runes, dissecting them in silence. He stumbled deliberately, let blocks fall, let flames sputter, all while refining his circuits in secret.
Still, there were moments when his control slipped. Once, during a lesson, he accidentally stabilized a flame so perfectly that it burned without flicker for nearly an hour. Elira had stared at it, her mouth slightly open, before Kael quickly waved his hand and let it gutter out. "I don't know what happened," he said, forcing his voice into the high, uncertain tone of a child. She had believed him—or at least pretended to.
At night, when the manor was quiet, Kael would lie awake and trace invisible diagrams in the air. He imagined circuits of mana woven into machines, spells layered like gears in a clock. He dreamed of furnaces that never cooled, lights that never dimmed, weapons that never dulled. He dreamed of building a system so perfect it could not be broken, not by politics, not by envy, not by betrayal.
But dreams were dangerous. He remembered the flames of his old life, the way ambition had drawn knives to his back. So he hid his brilliance behind the mask of a child, waiting, watching, preparing.
The world saw a boy of six, clever but harmless. Only Kael knew the truth—that every day, every experiment, every whispered word was another step toward rewriting the very laws of magic. And though the path was slow, though the struggle to restrain himself was constant, he endured. For he had learned the lesson of both lives: genius unguarded is a beacon, and beacons draw predators. So he would remain a shadow, until the day came when shadows could no longer contain him.