Now that I was one year old, I could already walk and talk.
Not perfectly, of course—my tongue still tripped over certain words—but it was enough to recover something extremely valuable.
My dignity.
I could ask to go to the bathroom.
And believe me, that was a huge victory.
Because cleaning yourself with leaves… is awful.
Sometimes you only make things worse and end up needing a full bath anyway.
A humiliation no former adult should ever have to endure.
But back to what actually matters.
My parents also went through the body-purification process when they first learned to feel mana. But theirs was slower and far less intense than mine.
Maybe because they were adults.
Or maybe…
My core was different.
My magic heart—or core, as I decided to call it—was now about the size of an olive.
Small, but stable.
It pulsed gently in my navel like a second heart.
Silent.
Obedient.
And after a lot of trial and error…
And when I say a lot, I mean a lot…
I discovered a disappointing truth.
Imagination is useless.
You can imagine explosions, storms, destruction…
But mana doesn't respond to fantasies.
It responds to flow.
Control.
Balance.
When I stop forcing it…
When I simply let it flow…
That's when something happens.
I managed to create a small breeze.
Weak, but real.
I also managed to move a leaf on the ground.
Just a few centimeters—and that alone consumed almost all my mana.
Telekinesis, probably.
Nothing impressive.
Yet.
Another important discovery: the core grows with the body.
Using mana doesn't make it grow faster.
Natural development does.
My parents' cores are larger than mine.
But theirs are… stagnant.
Complete.
Mine, however, is still forming.
Which means only one thing.
I have potential.
A lot of potential.
While my parents celebrated every small improvement like I was some kind of miracle, my thoughts were already far ahead.
This was only the beginning.
I wouldn't just be someone who used mana.
I would be someone who mastered it.
It was an afternoon that promised to be just like all the others.
Quiet.
Simple.
Poor.
My father had gone to work, as usual.
Every other day.
He never stayed away for long. He always came back tired, wearing his simple clothes and carrying that same gentle look.
Judging by the condition of our house, it was obvious.
He probably earned very little.
But I didn't care.
They loved me.
And that was enough.
Then I heard knocking at the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My mother went to answer it, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Good afternoon, my queen."
…Queen?
My brain froze.
An elf stepped inside.
Tall.
Perfect posture.
Silver hair falling like silk over his shoulders.
His clothes were simple, but there was something impossible to hide.
Authority.
My mother didn't seem surprised.
"One moment. I'll call him."
She walked toward the bedroom.
And left me alone with him.
The elf then turned toward me.
His eyes studied me with respect.
Respect.
"Hello, Prince Erond."
Prince?
He had to be joking.
"Hello… sir," I replied hesitantly.
He gave a small smile, as if confirming something he already knew.
Moments later, I heard quick footsteps.
My father entered the room.
But not as the simple man I knew.
His posture had changed.
Straight.
Firm.
Heavy.
The elf immediately knelt and bowed deeply.
"My king."
My heart stopped.
My… king?
My father sighed, clearly uncomfortable.
"When we are alone, you can call me by my name, Drak. You are the Hand of the King."
"I would not dare, my king," the elf replied, still bowing his head.
"I bring a message from the Mountain Elves. Their king will arrive in one week… for the engagement."
Engagement?
Engagement of who?
"Very well, Drak. Thank you for the message."
"Always at your service, my king."
He stood up, bowed again…
And left.
The door closed.
Silence.
My father slowly turned around.
And saw me staring at him.
Not the way a son looks at his father.
But the way a stranger looks at a lie.
My mind was screaming.
Poor?
Work?
Simple clothes?
Small house?
All lies.
My father…
was not poor.
He was a king.