A few years ago.
Alexander's hands were buried in the soil, tugging weeds from between the wheat stalks. His palms were already calloused, his nails dark with dirt, but the rhythm of work was second nature now. Dig, pull, toss. Dig, pull, toss. The soil clung to his skin, warm from the day's heat, and the smell of earth rose with every movement.
Wendy's voice cut through.
"You've been quiet all morning. That usually means you're hiding something."
Alexander exhaled through his nose and kept his eyes on the ground. Wendy was crouched a few rows away, her auburn hair tied back, her hands moving lazily over the weeds. She worked slower than him but she talked enough for the both of them.
"I'm not hiding anything," he muttered.
"Liar." She stood, brushing dirt from her skirt. "You turned sixteen last week. That's not small news, Alex. Everyone in the village is already whispering about what you'll do now. They think you're crazy enough to go to the capital."
He froze for a second, the weeds limp in his hand. Sixteen. The age of choice. For most, it meant nothing. farmers kept farming, merchants stayed merchants. But for those with dreams, sixteen was the doorway. It was the age where one could leave for the capital, take the examination, and awaken as a mage. A chance to rise beyond the dirt and routine.
Wendy walked closer, planting her hands on her hips. "So? What's your plan? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Alexander glanced up. Her eyes were sharp and she had always seen through him. He hesitated, then gave the answer that was expected of him.
"My father wants me to stay. Take over the farm. That's… probably what I'll do."
Wendy tilted her head. "Probably? That's not an answer."
He looked away, gripping the weeds until his knuckles whitened. "It's what he wants."
"But what do you want?"
The question lingered in the air for a moment. He swallowed.
"I want…" His voice faltered, then steadied. "I want to be a mage."
Wendy blinked at him. For a moment, the fields were silent except for the distant bleating of goats.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious." He forced a smile, though his chest felt tight. "You know me, I've read every book in the library. Every scrap of paper I could get my hands on here. There's more to life than just planting and harvesting."
Wendy frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You think you'll just walk into the Academy and become a mage? Alex, people train for years. They have tutors, money, connections. We're..." She stopped herself, sighing. "We're just villagers."
He knew she was right. They weren't nobles, or merchants with coffers of gold. But knowledge had to count for something, didn't it? He had devoured history, theory, and scraps of spellcraft like a starving man. He could recite the runes etched into the old chapel's altar, explain the basic forms of mana flow better than most adults in the village.
"Someone has to try," he said quietly. "And if no one from here ever tries, nothing changes."
Wendy's frown softened, though her eyes still carried doubt. "You're stubborn, you know that?"
"Always have been."
She sighed again, but this time there was a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Fine. Just don't expect me to bail you out if you fall flat on your face."
Alexander chuckled, but guilt gnawed at him. If only she knew. He wasn't just thinking about leaving. He had already decided.
The sun dipped lower as the day wore on. By late afternoon, the two of them had wandered away from the fields, heading toward the old oak tree that stood on the edge of the forest. Its massive roots jutted from the earth like the bones of a buried giant. They had spent countless afternoons here as children, climbing, carving initials into the bark, sharing secrets they swore never to repeat.
Wendy plopped down on one of the roots, her basket beside her. She kicked off her shoes, toes curling into the cool grass. "Remember when you swore you'd marry a princess from the capital?"
Alexander groaned, dropping onto the root beside her. "I was nine."
"You were dumb."
"You were dumber for believing me."
She laughed, tossing grass at him. The sound was light, genuine, but Alexander felt a weight pressing against his ribs. This place had always been their refuge. And now, he was planning to leave it behind. Leave her behind.
The guilt sharpened. He had saved money in secret for months, doing odd jobs around the village, hiding every copper piece in a small pouch under a loose floorboard in his room. Enough for a train ticket, maybe a few meals. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He would leave tonight.
Wendy leaned back, eyes closed. "Whatever you choose, Alex… I just hope you don't regret it."
He turned to look at her, but the words were stuck in his throat. If he told her, she would try to stop him. And he couldn't afford that. Not now.
"Yeah," he murmured instead. "Me too."
When the sky darkened, Alexander walked home. The small farmhouse glowed faintly from the light of a lantern inside. The smell of stew drifted out as he stepped through the door.
His father was at the table, pipe in hand, gaze steady. The man was broad-shouldered, with hair beginning to gray at the temples. He looked tired, but his eyes still held the quiet strength that had carried their family for years.
"Long day?" his father asked.
Alexander nodded, taking a seat across from him. The silence stretched before his father finally spoke again.
"You're sixteen now."
"I know."
"You've got choices to make. But I'll say this once, Alex. The farm needs you. This land is ours. It fed my father, and me, and now it feeds you. One day, it'll be yours."
Alexander's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to shout that he wanted more than soil and crops. But the words stayed buried. He only nodded.
His father seemed satisfied with that. He leaned back, pipe smoke curling upward. "Good. That's settled, then."
Settled.
Alexander forced himself to eat the stew, every spoonful heavy. When he finally lay in bed, the house was quiet. He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
It wasn't settled.
Not for him.
Tonight, he would leave.
The pouch of coins waited under the floorboard, and the train to the capital would leave at dawn. He had no farewell letter, no explanation. Just his choice.
If he stayed, he would never forgive himself.
And so, Alexander chose to run toward a future only he believed in.