Chapter 79
Written by Bayzo Albion
"And what's better?" She smiled, though pain laced the expression. "Let him learn to walk before he learns to fall."
Her words hung in the air like fragile glass, ready to shatter. I stood between them, fists clenched, feeling my thoughts fracture like cracks spreading across a frozen pane.
Then her hands touched me again. Not with the same intensity as before—softer, more tentative, as if afraid to crush my fragile spirit. My eyes began to close of their own accord.
Sleep came easily, a merciful escape. It swept away the confusion, the questions, the budding temptations that had no place in my young mind. In dreams, her beauty no longer frightened or enticed; it simply became light, like the dawn after an endless night.
I sank into that glow, the world dissolving around me, leaving only peace.
My father watched in silence, his expression a blend of defeat and quiet acceptance. He knew: this time, she had won. And perhaps that victory was what saved me.
Time passed in the timeless haze of Paradise. I grew accustomed to the mask. It became part of my reality, as if Mother had always been this way—gentle, warm, but not blindingly radiant. I convinced myself it was right, that I'd found a way to exist beside her without drowning in her allure, like sinking into a sweet mire.
I thought I'd mastered it. That I'd held firm. That I'd grown stronger.
But one day, in the eternal now of this realm, I turned too quickly. Just a careless glance. And for a split second, I saw her face—unveiled.
That primal beauty, almost otherworldly, struck me like a bolt. But not as lust. No. It pierced deeper—as longing. As a memory of something lost, forever out of reach.
Terror washed over me. Not from her visage, but from my own response.
I felt no desire, no horror. Instead... guilt.
As if I'd committed a sin just by looking.
As if I'd betrayed not her, but myself.
I'd hidden her face to protect me—to stay human, not descend into some beast driven by base pleasures. I'd shielded myself from temptation, justifying it as virtue.
But now I stood like a thief, gazing upon what I'd concealed.
The thought hammered into me: *Did I save myself... or betray everything?*
That moment stretched into eternity.
Then she smiled—familiar, serene, as if she'd noticed nothing.
And the mask returned.
Delicate, fleeting, yet unbreakable.
I exhaled in relief, but the breath carried more bitterness than calm.
– – –
In secret, I began to study magic. It came to me with surprising ease, as if I weren't learning something new but rediscovering a forgotten part of myself. Deep in my chest, a small core pulsed with energy. When I focused, I could sense mana radiating from it—warm, malleable, like the breath of the world itself. It flowed obediently through my veins, turning them into pathways of power.
When I tried to release it outward, a dense, nearly invisible stream appeared in the air—like mist or vapor, colorless and odorless. But that was as far as it went.
I craved more. I wanted the mana to take shape—fire, water, light, anything tangible. I painted vivid images in my mind, invented gestures, crafted incantations, whispering them into the night while everyone slept. Yet, once the mana left my body, it dissipated, mocking my efforts with its evanescence.
Days blurred into frustrating trials. I built mental constructs over and over, only for them to crumble, leaving me exhausted. After a week, I gave up.
With my head hung low, I approached Mother and demonstrated what little I'd achieved.
She watched intently, and her expression shifted. Surprise flickered in her eyes, widening into outright astonishment, as if I'd performed the impossible.
"You figured out how to wield mana just from glancing at a picture in a book?" she asked slowly, her voice laced with disbelief.
I faltered, my explanation tumbling out in a jumble of childish metaphors, wild gestures, and fragmented thoughts.
She listened patiently, then fell silent for a long moment before speaking softly.
"My son," she began, "I can't give you a textbook where magic is laid out with pretty illustrations, like a children's fairy tale. Magic isn't something you can confine to rigid rules and colorful diagrams. You can't sketch out how mana turns into flame or ice. It's not a drawing lesson—it's a dance of sensations, something you feel deep in your bones, but never truly see."
She ran her hand over my head, lingering as if tuning into some inner rhythm within me, and continued.
"But you know... I could find you a teacher. Not a grand master, of course. Not even a particularly skilled one. Just someone average, who can at least point out which way is up and which is down." She chuckled, but her brow furrowed soon after. "Though, honestly, isn't it a bit early for you to delve into magic when you can barely speak? All you manage is that one word, and the rest is babbling that even a cat wouldn't take seriously."
She leaned in closer, peering into my eyes as if expecting a sudden epiphany, a burst of eloquence.
"Do you even understand what I'm saying right now?"
I said nothing. No nod, no gesture, not even a spark of recognition. Just a steady, solemn stare—far too grave for a child.
She hesitated, then shook her head, murmuring to herself, "Clear as day... you haven't grasped a thing." She sighed, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Well, we'll figure something out. We always do..."
Her fingers brushed through my hair again, this time with even greater care, as if afraid to disturb something fragile budding inside me.
She kept talking, musing aloud, weighing options as if debating with an invisible counterpart, but my eyelids grew heavy. Her words blurred into a lullaby, soothing and distant. I nestled my face against her shoulder, and the world softened, enveloped in the warmth of her embrace.
Sleep enveloped me like a second skin, shielding me from the fears I dared not face—that her radiance shone too brightly, and I was already seeing her not just as a mother, but something more. In dreams, everything simplified: she was simply Mother, and no guilt could intrude.
She sensed my body go limp and let out a quiet sigh—part relief, part sorrow. Gently, she laid me on the pillows, tucking the blanket around me. For a while, she sat beside me, studying my face, then turned to the book nearby. The pages flipped on their own, halting at a diagram centered on a burst of light.
The elf paused, her fingers tightening involuntarily.
"You're still too young," she whispered, as if arguing with fate itself. "But you're already striding toward something beyond what I'm ready to let you chase."
I slept on, untroubled by fear or doubt. In that dream, there was only warm light and the promise of greatness awaiting me.
And with that, sleep sealed the chapter, leaving the future shrouded just beyond the horizon.
– – –
Days blurred into one another in the endless rhythm of Paradise—mornings bleeding into evenings, each one carrying the weight of anticipation. I waited, my young mind buzzing with impatience, for that fateful knock on the door, the arrival of the teacher who would unlock the secrets of magic within me.
In my vivid imagination, this mentor was a timeless figure straight out of ancient tales: an elderly man draped in a flowing robe, his long, snow-white beard cascading like a waterfall of wisdom. His face would be etched with deep wrinkles, each line a testament to forgotten spells and battles against the arcane. I pictured him as the embodiment of eternal magic—stern yet sage, perhaps even blind to the physical world but all-seeing in the realms of power. He would command respect with a single glance, his voice a gravelly whisper carrying the echoes of forgotten eras.
But when the door finally swung open, reality shattered my daydreams like fragile glass.
Standing there was a young woman, her presence as striking as a burst of dawn. She wore a robe of shimmering scarlet silk that caught the light like liquid fire, and her hair flowed in waves of golden sunlight. She exuded an intimidating beauty, the kind possessed by those who knew their worth all too well—sharp, unyielding, and laced with a subtle arrogance that made the air around her hum with tension. A ridiculous thought flitted through my mind: *Am I the only soul in this so-called Paradise who's here not to bask in eternal bliss, but to toil and learn?*
"Am I really supposed to teach *this* clueless child?" Her voice rang out, clear and icy, like the chime of crystal shattering on stone. She eyed me as if I were a discarded rag, soggy and insignificant at her feet.
"Yes," my mother replied evenly, her tone unyielding. "If you want the payment. No one's forcing you—you can walk away right now."