I am now five years old.
It has been a long, transformative two years. My world, once limited to the four walls of the cottage and the occasional trip to the bakery, has expanded. The fog of early childhood is completely gone, replaced by a sharp, burning curiosity to understand exactly where I have been dropped.
The first year of this period, age three to four, was defined by observation.
I started accompanying Roxas into the village more frequently. I wasn't just a mascot sitting on a stool anymore; I was a shadow. I watched him haggle with timber merchants, inspecting the grain of oak and pine with a critical eye. I watched him sketch designs on parchment, his rough hands moving with delicate precision. I absorbed the trade through osmosis, learning the difference between a cross-cut saw and a rip saw before most kids learned to tie their shoes.
But my real obsession was the language.
I realized early on that literacy was a luxury here. Books were not common items you found in every household; they were treasures, expensive and rare. Fortunately, the Wilder household owned two.
The first was a heavy, leather-bound manual on carpentry. It was dense, filled with technical diagrams of joinery, structural load calculations, and different finishing techniques. The margins were filled with scribbles in Roxas's handwriting, notes, corrections, and ideas he had jotted down over the years.
The second book was different. It was a large, worn anthology of folklore and history.
Sylvia started reading it to me at night. She would sit by my bed, the candlelight flickering against the yellowed pages, and read until her voice grew soft.
There were three stories that stuck with me.
The first was The Knight of the Cinder Peak. It was your standard fare: a brave knight climbs a volcano to slay a beast that was terrorizing the lowlands. It didn't go into detail about how the knight fought, mostly focusing on his bravery, but it confirmed that monsters were a known threat here.
The second was The Winged Sentinels. This one was more abstract. It spoke of a race of beings that resembled humans but possessed massive, feathered wings. They lived high in the cloud layer, isolated from the surface, acting as indifferent observers of history.
The third was the most fascinating. The Evreni. The book described a species of people who lived on the far eastern continent. They had skin the color of deep twilight blues and purples and thrived in a barren, rocky wasteland that other races found uninhabitable. The text described them not as savages, but as highly resourceful, peaceful nomads who held a deep, spiritual connection to the nature that survived in their homeland.
While Sylvia read, I studied the text over her shoulder. I memorized the shapes of the letters, the syntax, and the grammar.
When I wasn't reading, I was learning geography.
Sylvia explained the world to me using a rough map sketched in the back of the anthology. There were two massive continents: the Eastern Continent and the Western Continent. Separating them was a vast, terrifying body of water simply called "The Abyss."
We lived on the Western Continent, in the mid-western region, within the borders of the Kingdom of Erisia.
I absorbed it all. When my parents weren't looking, I would sneak the heavy book into my room, tracing the words with my finger, sounding them out until the language clicked in my brain.
But there was a hole in my life.
I had loving parents. I had books. I had a safe home. But I didn't have the one thing that defined my previous existence.
Baseball.
One afternoon, I decided to fix it.
I went into the workshop while Roxas was out. I found a piece of scrap ash wood, light but sturdy. I took a small carving knife and went to work.
It took me three days. I whittled the wood down, smoothing the handle, tapering the barrel. It wasn't a regulation bat, it was crude, slightly lumpy, and unbalanced but it was a bat. I carved a ball out of a knot of pine, sanding it until it was as round as I could get it.
I held the bat in my hands. It felt... right.
I walked out to the fields the next day. I needed someone to play catch with. I needed someone to understand.
I walked to my sanctuary.
A small, gentle hill rose out of the flat grassland. Cresting the top was a massive, solitary oak tree, and just beyond the slope sat a small, crystal-clear lake.
I climbed the hill, my homemade gear clutched in my hands.
I wasn't alone.
Sitting at the base of the oak tree was a girl. She looked around my age. Her hair caught my eye first. It was stark white, glowing in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. But as she shifted her head, I noticed something strange, strands of dull grey seemed to slip and swirl through the white, like smoke trapped in snow.
She was wearing a pristine white blouse with a high, stiff collar, adorned with a frilly jabot at her throat held in place by a silver brooch. Over it was a structured, deep navy blue vest with silver buttons. A knee-length skirt fanned out around her on the grass.
Resting on her lap was a book. It was large, leather-bound with silver embossing.
She looked focused. It's probably best not to interrupt her. I don't want to explain why a random sweaty kid is staring at her. I turned my heel, preparing to head back down the hill.
"You know, it is rude to stare."
Her voice stopped me. It was calm, soft, and melodic, but there was a sharp, observant edge to it.
I'd been caught.
I turned back fully, scratching the back of my head.
"I didn't mean to be rude," I said, keeping my voice smooth and steady. "I was just surprised. This is my first time seeing anyone out here besides me. What's that book you're reading anyway?"
She blinked, clearly surprised by the shift in my tone. She studied me for a second, re-evaluating the boy in the dusty boots standing in front of her.
A little chuckle escaped her mouth. "It's a book from my home. It's on basic magic."
My eyebrows shot up. I tried to keep my face neutral, but a look of genuine surprise cracked through. Someone this age is reading a technical book on her own? And not just any book one on magic?
She noticed my expression and tilted her head slightly, patting the patch of grass beside her. "Interested in reading with me?"
I blinked. This was a golden opportunity.
"Sure! That sounds like fun," I said, letting my enthusiasm bleed into my voice.
I walked over to the tree, my boots crunching softly on the dry grass. I sat down next to her in the shade, leaning back against the massive trunk. The air here was cooler, smelling of old bark and the lake water nearby.
I set the wooden bat and ball down on the grass between us.
She looked at them, her gemstone-green eyes narrowing in confusion.
"What are those?" she asked, pointing a slender finger at the rough carving. "Is that... a club?"
"No," I laughed. "It's for a game. It's called Baseball."
"Baseball?" She tested the word, wrinkling her nose. "I've never heard of it. How do you play?"
"Well, part of it is called Catch," I explained, picking up the ball. "You stand over there, and I throw the ball to you. You catch it, and throw it back."
She looked at me like I had just spoken a different language. "That sounds... incredibly repetitive. What is the objective?"
"The objective is to catch the ball," I said, feeling a little defensive.
"And then what?"
"And then you throw it back."
"Why?"
I paused. How do you explain the zen of playing catch? How do you explain the rhythm, the snap of the wrist, the non-verbal conversation between two people syncing up?
"It helps you think," I tried. "It helps you clear your mind. And it builds arm strength."
She sighed, clearly trying to be polite but failing to see the logic. She closed her book and stood up, brushing off her skirt. "Very well. Show me."
She walked about ten feet away and stood there, stiff as a board, hands at her sides.
"Okay," I said, standing up. "Get your hands ready. Like a basket."
She held her hands out, palms up, looking like she was holding an invisible tray.
I wound up. I didn't throw hard. She was a beginner but I put a little spin on it. I lobbed the ball gently toward her.
It was a perfect throw. It arched through the air, heading straight for her hands.
She didn't move. She stared at the ball as it approached, analyzing its trajectory. At the last second, she flinched, closing her eyes and turning her head away.
Thump.
The wooden ball hit her in the shoulder and fell to the grass.
"Ow!" she exclaimed, rubbing her arm. She looked at me with wide, accusatory eyes. "You hit me!"
"You were supposed to catch it!" I said, walking over to pick up the ball. "You closed your eyes!"
"It was a projectile!" she argued, her cheeks flushing pink. "It is human instinct to protect the face from incoming objects. Why would I keep my eyes open? That is illogical!"
"It's not a projectile, it's a ball!" I sighed, tossing the ball in the air and catching it myself. "You have to watch it all the way into your hands."
"I don't see the point," she huffed, crossing her arms. "It seems inefficient. Throwing things at each other. Where is the strategy? Where is the intellect?"
I looked at her. She was smart. She was wealthy. She was currently reading a book on magic. But she didn't get it.
I looked down at my rough wooden bat.
"It's about control," I muttered, more to myself than to her. "It's about making the ball do exactly what you want it to do."
"Well, I prefer magic," she said, sitting back down and picking up her book. "Magic is about control, too. But it yields actual results. Like fire. Or wind."
I sat down next to her, placing the bat and ball behind the tree.
It hurt a little. Just a dull ache in my chest. I realized then that I was truly alone in this. No one here knew what a slider was. No one knew the sound of a bat cracking a home run. That part of my life... it was just mine now. A ghost memory.
"Fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Tell me about magic then. What's in the book?"
Her demeanor changed instantly. The confusion regarding the ball vanished, replaced by a bright, intense focus. She opened the book, turning the pages with reverence.
"I'm currently learning the basic fundamentals of how magic works," she said.
"Fundamentals?" I asked, leaning in closer. "Like how to make fire?"
She shook her head, her white hair swaying. "No, simpler than that. How Mana works. See here?" She pointed to a diagram of a human silhouette with a glowing reservoir in the chest.
"My mother says everyone has a Mana. Think of it like a cup. When we are children, like us, the cup is soft. It's like wet clay." She looked at me with serious, gemstone-green eyes. "If you use up all your mana, drain the cup and dry your body. It stretches the clay to hold more mana for next time. But..."
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. "Once you become an adult, the clay hardens. The cup stops growing. That is why my mother makes me study and practice now. She says if I don't stretch my mana before I grow up, I'll be stuck with a small cup forever."
My mind raced. Hypertrophy. It's just like working out muscles. You break them down, and they grow back bigger and stronger. But there's a time limit? That explains why she's studying so hard at age five.
"So you have to exhaust yourself to get stronger?" I asked.
"Exactly," she nodded. "But you can't just push the mana out. That's dangerous. Mana is... wild. It's unstable, like water bursting from a dam."
She flipped the page to a list of scripts.
"That is why we use Incantations." She traced a line of text. "They are blueprints, the very foundation of magic."
"Blueprints?" I echoed, the carpenter's son in me perking up.
"Yes. Instructions. If you just shove mana out, it explodes. But the Incantation builds a structure and a mold for the mana to flow into. You speak the words to shape the energy into fire, or water, or wind. Without the blueprint, the house falls down."
"Without speaking the correct incantation you can't cast magic."
I stared at the book. It made perfect sense. Mana is the energy source like electricity or fuel. The Chant is the circuitry or the engine that gives it purpose.
"My mother was a former adventurer, you see," she continued. "A Mage. She stopped traveling after she met my father, but she is adamant that I learn this foundation early."
Suddenly, she frowned. She was staring at a paragraph about mana flow. Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lip.
"I don't understand this part," she muttered. "The 'Stabilization of Flow'... it doesn't make sense."
She re-read the line, her finger trembling slightly. "It says to push the mana, but then to hold it still before release. If I push it, it wants to move. If I hold it, the pressure builds up. Why would I hold it?"
She wasn't asking me. She was asking herself. And she was getting upset.
"Stupid," she hissed, slamming her hand onto the page. "Why can't I get it? Mother explained this yesterday."
She looked up, and I saw it. It wasn't fear. It was frustration. Pure, unadulterated perfectionism. She wanted to be the best, and she was mad that she wasn't understanding it instantly. She looked like she was about to tear the page out.
"Hey," I said softly.
She looked at me, her eyes glistening with angry tears. "I have to get this. I have to be a Great Mage. I can't be stuck on page ten."
I reached out and gently pulled her hand away from the book.
"You're overthinking it," I said.
"I'm not! It's logic! It has to make sense!"
"It will," I said. "But right now, you're gripping the bat too tight."
"The... what?"
"You're tensing up," I explained, slipping back into my coaching persona. "When you get frustrated, your brain locks up. You stop seeing the answer and start seeing the problem. You need to step back. Take a breath. Reset."
She stared at me. "Reset?"
"Yeah. Shake it off." I stood up and shook my arms out loosely. "Like this. Just let the tension go. Think of it like water pressure. If you block a hose, the pressure builds, right? That's the 'holding' part. It builds up the power so when you finally let go, it shoots further."
She looked at me, her mouth slightly open. She processed the analogy.
"Pressure..." she whispered. "So the hold isn't to stop it... it's to compress it."
"Exactly." I grinned. "You got it. You're smart. You just gotta get out of your own way sometimes."
She looked at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She wiped her eyes, regaining her composure.
"But where are my manners? We haven't been properly introduced." She offered a small, graceful curtsey, surprisingly elegant for a girl standing in the dirt. "My name is Maria. Maria Grimgrove."
"The name's Percival Wilder, but Percy is fine. It's nice to meet you."
I gestured vaguely in the direction of the village.
"Grimgrove... by any chance, are you the daughter of Soldat?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "Yes, that is my father. Do you know him?"
"Yeah, I've met him a couple of times over the years. My father is Roxas, the town's carpenter. Soldat comes by the shop pretty often."
Recognition dawned on her face. She looked back at the village, then nodded slowly.
"So he is the man behind all the beautiful furniture in my house? He is an exceptional craftsman. My mother absolutely adores the new vanity he built for her. She says the detailing on the mirror frame is exquisite."
"He takes a lot of pride in his work," I replied, feeling a small surge of vicarious satisfaction. "I'll be sure to tell him you said that. He'll be happy to hear it."
"Please do."
We chatted for a few more minutes, mostly small talk about the village and the quiet of the hill. It was an easy conversation. Despite her noble bearing and her intensity, she was still just a kid looking for a quiet place to read, just like I was looking for a place to think.
Eventually, the shadows of the oak tree stretched longer across the grass, signaling the late afternoon.
Maria closed the heavy leather book and carefully smoothed down her skirt. She picked up the book, clutching it to her chest like a shield.
She looked down at me, and for a moment, the practiced noble mask slipped. Her expression softened into a bright, genuine, childish smile.
"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Percy. We should definitely do this again."
She paused, looking at the wooden bat peeking out from behind the tree.
"And perhaps... you can explain the logic of your 'Catch' game to me again next time. I am sure there is a tactical advantage I am missing."
I laughed. "It's a deal."
I watched her go, her white hair catching the last golden rays of the sun before she disappeared onto the path.
I stayed there for a while longer, sitting in the cooling shade of the massive oak.
I picked up the wooden ball and tossed it into the air, catching it up and down thinking.
Looks like I've finally made a new friend.