The days in the royal palace passed with a cadence marked by the sun and the seasons, but for little Aito Greymont, each dawn brought with it a new opportunity to grow, to learn, to surpass himself.
For as long as he could remember, his life followed a routine that he himself had embraced with a determination uncommon for a child his age. The mornings belonged to fencing. There, in the training hall bathed in the golden light of the sun, he would meet his master Zekin and his sister Calithia. The wooden swords clashed again and again, creating that metallic melody that had become so familiar to his ears.
Clang-clang… Clang-clang…
Every battle ended the same way. Every bout, every fight, every desperate attempt to touch Zekin with their wooden swords concluded with them on the ground, gasping, while the veteran knight stood unperturbed before them.
—Dead —Zekin would say, in that grave and serene voice that made defeat sound almost like a caress—. Both of you. Again.
Calithia sometimes grew frustrated. She would clench her teeth, pound the floor with her fist, mutter between her teeth that next time would be different. But not Aito.
Aito felt no frustration.
For him, every defeat was a lesson. That's how he saw it, with a clarity that surprised even Zekin. Where other children his age would cry, feel small, belittle themselves thinking they would never be good enough, Aito Greymont would simply get up, dust off his clothes, and assimilate what he had learned.
—Master —he would ask in that small voice of his, so serious for his age—, when you turned to dodge my attack, how did you know I was going to strike from the left?
Zekin would look at him, and for an instant, a spark of pride would shine in his eyes.
—I didn't know, little prince. I felt it. Your shoulders gave you away. Before your sword moved, your shoulders had already said where you would go.
And Aito would absorb that information, store it away in some corner of his mind, and the next day, when they trained again, his shoulders would be more relaxed, more controlled.
But he didn't stop only with Zekin's lessons. When the sun began to descend and the shadows lengthened in the castle courtyards, Aito would seek out his older brother.
Eliel, at eight years old, was already a promising mage. His affinity with mana was remarkable, and he spent hours in the west tower practicing spells, reading ancient grimoires, perfecting his control over the elements.
—Brother Eliel —Aito would say, appearing at the tower door with his golden eyes shining with expectation—. Can you teach me more about mana?
Eliel would look up from his book and smile. He liked teaching his little brother. It made him feel important, useful, and besides, Aito was an exceptional student: he listened attentively, didn't interrupt, and when he didn't understand something, he asked with a humility that disarmed.
—Come, sit down —Eliel would say, closing the book—. Today I'll teach you to feel the flow of mana without trying to control it. Just feel it. Like when you close your eyes and feel the breeze on your skin.
Aito would nod and close his eyes, concentrating. And there, in the silence of the tower, while the sunset painted the sky orange and purple, little Aito learned to connect more deeply with his natural element.
The wind.
It was curious, Eliel sometimes thought, how Aito's element was wind. So free, so untamable, so impossible to catch. Like Aito himself, deep down. A child who had come to them from nowhere, brought by circumstances, and who was now an inseparable part of the family.
—Do you feel anything? —Eliel would ask.
—Yes —Aito would reply, eyes still closed—. I feel... like a caress. Very soft. Around my hands.
—That's the wind, Aito. It's recognizing you. Caress it too.
And Aito would smile, and the wind seemed to smile with him.
---
But if there was one moment of the day Aito looked forward to more than any other, it was night.
When the castle sank into silence, when the guards changed their shift and the torches flickered in the hallways, his mother, Queen Cecilia, would arrive at his room.
—Are you ready, my little one? —she would ask, a book in her hands and a warm smile on her lips.
—Yes, Mother! —Aito would reply, settling between the sheets, his eyes wide open and his heart beating with excitement.
And then the magic would begin.
His mother read him adventure stories. Of powerful mages who had crossed infinite deserts, who had climbed mountains where the air was so thin ordinary men couldn't breathe. Of ancient heroes who had fought legendary beasts, who had saved entire kingdoms with their bravery and cunning.
But the ones Aito liked most, the ones that truly made his imagination soar, were the stories of mages.
He loved hearing how they traced symbols in the air with their fingers, how their lips whispered words in ancient tongues and reality bent to their will. He loved imagining the spells, the flashes of light, the elements dancing to the rhythm of their mana.
—And then what happened, Mother? —he would ask when she paused.
—Then —Cecilia would say, turning the page—, the mage summoned a storm of fire that lit up the sky as if it were day, and the monsters fled terrified before his power.
Aito's eyes would widen like saucers. A storm of fire. Summoning fire from the sky. How incredible that must be.
He never told his mother that, deep down, those stories also caused him a small pang of melancholy. Because he, although he had mana, although he could feel the wind and control it to some extent, was not a mage. Not in the traditional sense. He couldn't throw fireballs or create walls of ice or teleport from one place to another.
His gift was different. More subtle. And he still didn't quite understand what it consisted of.
But when his mother read him those stories, the melancholy would quickly fade, replaced by excitement and curiosity. Because if he couldn't be a mage like those in the tales, at least he could dream of them. He could imagine himself living those adventures, even if from a distance.
When the story ended, when the book closed and the last word floated in the air like a soap bubble, his mother would lean down and kiss him on the forehead.
—Good night, Aito. Dream of mages and heroes.
—Good night, Mother. Thank you for the story.
She would smile, blow out the candle, and withdraw in silence. And Aito would lie there staring at the ceiling, eyes open in the darkness, imagining all the adventures that awaited him when he grew up.
---
But that night was different.
Not because the story was special (though they all were), but because Aito made a decision.
He had been thinking about it for weeks. Since the last time he had seen the court mages practicing in the gardens, since he had heard the servants talk about the city, its bustling streets, its colorful people, its markets full of sights and smells.
He wanted to see it with his own eyes.
So when his mother finished reading and gave him his goodnight kiss, Aito already knew what he would do the next day.