The moment Gill's body slipped from the log, the quiet, crackling peace of the forest campsite was obliterated.
The silver plate in Rin Valencrest's hands clattered to the earth, spilling roasted venison into the dirt. "Gill!" Her scream sliced through the night air, sharp with a mother's primal terror. She was moving before the plate hit the ground, dropping to her knees beside her son's limp, unmoving form.
Art was already there, his massive frame casting a long, jagged shadow over the boy. He didn't hesitate, lifting Gill into his arms with a tenderness that contradicted his rugged exterior. For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, Gill did not respond. His head lolled back against Art's shoulder, his skin the color of parched parchment, his breathing so shallow it barely stirred the air.
"Doctor! Fetch the doctor now!" Art's bark was like a thunderclap.
A guard, startled out of his evening meal, dropped his spear and sprinted toward the line of supply wagons at the edge of the clearing. Within minutes, the caravan's traveling physician—a wiry man named Dr. Aris with silver-rimmed spectacles and a leather case that smelled of alcohol and dried sage—stumbled into the firelight.
The campsite fell into a suffocating silence. Even the horses in the distance seemed to stop their restless shifting. Rin's hands trembled violently as she gripped Gill's small, limp wrist, her eyes searching the doctor's face for any sign of hope or horror.
Dr. Aris worked with practiced, clinical speed. He checked the pulse, peeled back Gill's eyelids, and pressed a hand to the boy's sternum. Finally, after an eternity that lasted exactly sixty seconds, the doctor leaned back on his heels and let out a long, weary sigh.
"He's fine," the doctor murmured.
Art's grip on his son tightened. "Fine? He dropped like a stone, Aris. He's white as a ghost."
The doctor adjusted his spectacles. "Exhaustion, Lord Valencrest. Simple, total exhaustion. I've seen it in the children of the mountain tribes. They have so much energy that they don't know how to meter it. They run, they climb, they experience the thrill of a Duke's castle, and their little hearts simply run out of fuel. His body has forced a shutdown to preserve itself."
Rin exhaled a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the panic began to drain away.
"He just needs rest," Dr. Aris continued, packing his instruments. "He's healthy, but he's pushed himself to the absolute limit. Put him to bed. By morning, he'll be demanding breakfast as if nothing happened."
Art nodded once, his face still grim, and carried Gill back to the carriage himself, refusing to let any of the servants take the burden.
Gill woke the next morning in a world of soft, familiar comforts.
The ceiling above him wasn't the dark canopy of a forest or the ornate gold of a Duke's guest room. It was the familiar, dark-stained oak beams of the Valencrest manor. Sunlight, thick with dancing dust motes, spilled through the tall windows, warming the covers of his bed.
For a long time, Gill simply stared upward. He felt heavy—not the leaden weight of exhaustion from the night before, but a slow, sluggish ache in his muscles. Then, the memory hit him like a lightning strike.
The spark.
He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. He pressed a hand to his chest, searching for that flickering candle of warmth. It was gone. The physical sensation had vanished, leaving him feeling strangely hollow. But the knowledge remained. He had done it. He had bridged the gap between the physical and the metaphysical.
A soft knock sounded, and Rin stepped into the room. The dark circles under her eyes told him she hadn't slept, but the moment she saw him sitting up, her face transformed.
"Gill," she breathed, crossing the room in two strides to press her cool palm against his forehead. "You gave us a fright that will last a lifetime. Do you have any idea how close your father came to arresting the entire caravan staff on suspicion of poisoning?"
Gill scratched the back of his head, feeling a rare pang of guilt. "I'm fine, Mother. I think I just… forgot to breathe for a second."
"You will stay inside today," Rin commanded, her tone brooking no argument. "No books, no maps, no 'investigations.' You will rest."
Gill nodded with the exaggerated obedience of a child who is already planning a crime.
Ten minutes after Rin left the room to supervise the kitchen, Gill was out the window.
He didn't go far. He climbed the ancient, gnarled oak tree in the front courtyard, its branches providing a perfect, secluded canopy. He sat on a sturdy limb twenty feet above the ground, his back against the rough bark.
He closed his eyes. Mana.
The darkness behind his lids blossomed once more into a sea of amber dots. They were thicker here than they had been in the forest, likely drawn to the age of the manor and the life within it.
He didn't rush. He remembered the doctor's words: he pushed himself to the limit. He realized that his five-year-old "mana circuit"—if such a thing even existed yet—was like a thin glass tube. If he tried to force a river through it, he would shatter.
He focused on his breath. He visualized the "invitation" again, letting the wind of his will gently nudge the mana moats. He didn't try to grab. He waited.
"Gill Valencrest!"
The voice from below was like a physical blow. Gill opened one eye to see his mother standing on the gravel path, her hands on her hips, looking up at him with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.
"Research!" Gill shouted down, trying to sound innocent.
"Down! This instant!"
As Gill scrambled down the tree, he noticed the servants nearby hiding their grins behind their sleeves. The "Little Master" was back. The estate was loud again. Everything was as it should be.
That evening, the manor settled into a quiet hum. Gill sat cross-legged on the rug in the center of his room, the moon casting a silver sliver of light across the floor.
He closed his eyes. The dots appeared.
He moved with agonizing slowness. He inhaled, and a single dot drifted toward him. It touched his "skin," and he pulled it in. The warmth bloomed. It felt like a single drop of hot tea in a cold cup.
Then, he did something he hadn't dared to do before. He kept that spark held in his chest—balancing it like a spinning plate—and reached out for a second one.
The difficulty tripled instantly. Holding the first spark required a steady "pressure" of will; reaching for the second required him to split that focus. It was like trying to write two different sentences with both hands at the same time.
His brow furrowed. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip.
The second dot drifted closer. It resisted. He coaxed it, nudging it with the "wind" of his mind. It touched. He pulled.
Pulse.
A second spark joined the first. For a moment, they circled each other in the darkness of his chest, two tiny pinpricks of heat.
Gill slowly opened his eyes, his breath coming in short, controlled gasps.
"...Two," he whispered to the empty room.
He felt the drain immediately—a subtle tug on his stamina, like a slow leak in a tire. But he didn't faint. He didn't collapse. He sat there in the moonlight, a five-year-old boy with the soul of a man, holding two tiny fragments of the universe's power inside his ribs.