The wild grass in the field stood almost half as tall as Razaq. Every time the wind blew, those green blades swayed gently, sometimes brushing against his still-chubby cheeks. It felt good. Refreshing.
Razaq stretched, cushioning his head with both hands. His eyes were fixed upward. The evening sky was the color of twilight—a blend of blue and shy orange, moments away from turning dark.
Occasionally, his gaze shifted toward the distance. To the north. Toward that tower.
The Archmage Tower.
Its height was nonsensical. From here, though it only appeared as a faint black silhouette on the edge of the horizon, Razaq knew it was the most magnificent building in the entire kingdom. Perhaps in the entire world. People said the tower was built with high-level earth magic by the first Archmage thousands of years ago. To this day, it remained sturdy. Still soaring. Still serving as a reminder to everyone—especially village kids like Razaq—that there was a world out there far larger than Lamping Village.
"Razaaaq!"
A shout came from behind. Razaq didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He had already memorized the voice.
"Ra— oh, you're already here!"
A boy with messy hair appeared beside Razaq. His right hand carried a banana leaf bundle, its contents obvious—boiled cassava. Faint steam was still rising from it.
"Have you been here long?" the boy asked as he sat bluntly next to Razaq. He didn't care that his pants were getting dirty from the soil.
"Yeah, Usaid."
Usaid—his best friend since the age of three, his neighbor, his playmate—immediately offered the bundle of cassava. "Eat. My mother sent this for you. She said you like it."
Razaq sat up slowly. He took one piece. It was still warm. It was true, he liked it. Usaid's mother was indeed the best at making boiled cassava. Not too mushy, not too hard. Just right.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Usaid was already chewing hungrily. His eyes looked at the sky, then at the tower in the distance, then back to the sky. It was as if he were counting the clouds.
"Ra, do you see that tower?"
"Yeah."
"It's cool, isn't it?"
Razaq only nodded. His mouth was still busy chewing.
Usaid suddenly stood up. Both hands were tucked at his waist. A pose like the heroes in the storybooks they had read together in the village library—which was actually just a worn-out bookshelf in the village chief's house, but they called it a library anyway.
"One day," Usaid said in a loud voice, his eyes still fixed on the tower, "I will become an Archmage."
Razaq stopped chewing.
He looked at Usaid. Looked at the sky. Looked at the tower. Then back to Usaid.
"Okay," Razaq finally replied. Short. There was no tone of belittling, no tone of mocking. He simply... accepted it.
Because it was a common occurrence.
Since he was little—perhaps since he first learned to speak—Usaid had said that often. Sometimes while playing marbles, he'd suddenly say, "When I'm an Archmage, I'll have marbles as big as a mountain." Sometimes while seeing someone on horseback, "When I'm an Archmage, I'll ride a dragon." Sometimes while watching his mother cook, "When I'm an Archmage, I'll have a personal chef."
Everything was always connected to "when I become an Archmage."
And Razaq? Razaq would just nod. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he ignored it. But in his heart...
In his heart, he wanted it too.
Yes. Razaq also wanted to become an Archmage.
But—
"Ra, do you think I can do it?" Usaid looked down again, sitting beside Razaq. His brown eyes were serious now. It was rare to see Usaid serious. Usually, he was always joking, always laughing, always causing trouble.
Razaq thought for a moment.
"You?" he finally answered. "You definitely can."
Usaid smiled broadly. "I'm sure of it too! Anyway, later we—I mean, I—will become the coolest Archmage!"
"Not just cool," Razaq added softly. "But great."
"YES! GREAT!" Usaid said while tensing his arm muscles, which were only as big as dry twigs. "Later, when I've become an Archmage, I will... I will..."
He thought hard. His forehead wrinkled.
"Make this village rich!" he finally concluded. "Build you a big house! Make all the roads out of stone! And... and... there will be meat every day!"
Razaq chuckled. "You can't buy meat every day. It's expensive."
"I'll be an Archmage! How can an Archmage be poor?"
"Archmages are usually from the nobility, Us—."
Usaid went silent. He looked down. He picked up some grass and plucked them one by one.
Razaq regretted it. Why did he say that?
"But—" Razaq searched for words, "—you're different. You're Usaid. You can definitely do it."
Usaid looked up. He smiled again. "Yeah! I'm Usaid! You too—hey, don't you want to be an Archmage?"
The question hovered between them. The evening breeze blew gently. The grass swayed. In the distance, several black dots crossed the sky—wizards on flying brooms, perhaps rushing home before dark.
Razaq looked down.
He wanted to. He wanted to very much.
But—
"Ah, as if," Razaq answered. His voice was quiet. "We're just children of farmers. Father is a farmer, Mother is a farmer. Our magic is also weak. What's the point of dreaming that high."
"So what? Just let it be!" Usaid wouldn't accept it. "We were born as farmers, but does that mean we have to die as farmers? I don't want that! I want to be an Archmage! You also have to dare to dream!"
Razaq went silent. He couldn't answer.
Usaid—with all his innocence, with all his sometimes excessive conviction—at a moment like this, he was more mature than Razaq.
"Enough of that!" Usaid stood up again. He pulled some wild grass and threw it at Razaq. "Let's just play! It's late! We can still play for a bit!"
Razaq laughed, brushing the grass from his hair. "Play what?"
"Tag! You're the monster, I'm the hero!"
"Why am I always the monster?"
"Because your face is scary!"
"My face is scary? Your face is like—"
The two of them were already running before Razaq could finish his sentence. Usaid had already dashed off. Razaq got up and chased. Their laughter broke out across the grassland, competing with the sound of crickets beginning to emerge from their hiding places.
Evening turned to twilight. Twilight turned to night.
Razaq walked home alone. His hands were empty—the cassava had been finished with Usaid earlier. His stomach was full. His heart... he didn't know.
Along the way, he saw neighbors busy with their own affairs. There was Mr. Tohir watering plants with water magic—small droplets of water floated from his fingertips, a small grimoire floating to his right, its pages turning on their own following his hand movements. There was Mrs. Inara cooking, a small magical fire burning under the pot, her grimoire floating behind her back. There were teenagers returning from the forest—perhaps after hunting—each with their own grimoire floating beside them.
Everyone had magic.
Everyone had a grimoire faithfully accompanying them.
Except Razaq.
Razaq looked at his own hands. Empty. No grimoire. No magic. Not yet.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself. "Eight years old. One more year."
But why hadn't Usaid manifested his magic either? Usaid was also only seven. Or maybe—maybe Usaid already had it, it just wasn't visible yet?
Razaq shook his head, stopping that strange thought.
Upon arriving home—a simple wooden house on the edge of the village, near the forest—Razaq saw his mother taking down the laundry. His mother's face looked weary, but she still smiled when she saw Razaq return.
"Razaq! Wash your hands, it's time to eat!"
Razaq nodded. But before entering, he stood for a moment in the yard. Looking at the sky. Toward the north.
The Archmage Tower was no longer visible. It was obscured by the night mist.
But Razaq knew it was there.
Dinner was simple. Mother cooked clear soup and hard bread. Father talked about the wheat fields needing more water—his wind magic could help move the windmill, but it still required manual labor.
Razaq remained silent while eating.
Until finally—
"Father, Mother."
Both of them looked at Razaq.
"I... I want to become an Archmage."
Silence.
Mother stopped chewing. So did Father. They looked at each other. Then—
A smile.
Father stroked Razaq's head. "That's good, son. I support you."
Mother added, "Me too. Razaq can definitely do it."
There were no questions of why. No questions of how. Only belief. The kind of parental trust that needed no reason.
Razaq gave a small smile. But in his heart, something felt unresolved.
He knew. He knew that becoming an Archmage wasn't for people like them. Archmages were from the nobility. Those who had access to rare grimoires. Those who had personal magic tutors. Those who had ancestral mana.
Them? Children of farmers.
But...
"Razaq?"
"Hmm?"
"Don't daydream while eating." His mother chided.
"Yes, Mother."
Razaq continued eating. But his mind was still at that tower.
That night, Razaq lay in his bed. A small room. Only enough space for a wooden cot and one shabby wardrobe. Above, there was a small window—but the tower couldn't be seen from it. Only darkness and the sounds of nature.
Crickets. Night birds. The wind.
Razaq rolled to the right. Rolled to the left.
"Archmage," he whispered in the dark.
He closed his eyes. But he couldn't sleep. Thoughts of the tower, of the confident Usaid, of his parents who believed unconditionally—everything was jumbled together.
He remembered Usaid's words from that afternoon. "You also have to dare to dream!"
A dream.
What was the use of dreaming if reality said otherwise?
But on the other hand... weren't all Archmages once small? Weren't they also once children who dreamed?
Perhaps some were born of nobility. But who knew... who knew if there were also those born from a village like Lamping?
Razaq opened his eyes, staring at the dark ceiling of his room.
"A dream as high as the sky," he murmured again. "But the sky is vast. Is there a place for a farmer's son?"
There was no answer. Only the crickets continued their song outside.
Slowly, his eyes began to feel heavy. It had been a long day. Running with Usaid, the talk about Archmages, the beautiful sunset, and dinner with his family.
Razaq closed his eyes. This time, he didn't fight the sleepiness.
On the verge of sleep, one last thought crossed his mind.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will dream again.
Outside, the night wind blew gently. Carrying the scent of the forest, the scent of the village, the scent of a simple life.
And in the distance—at the very end, behind the mist and the darkness—the tower stood still. Silent. Waiting.
Who knew if one day, a child from Lamping Village would come knocking on its door.