'This is hard.'
A boy, about eight years old, jogged along a tar path. His neck length raven-black hair waved along the wind while his bright emerald eyes looked ahead.
He was adorned in a tunic and shorts; the outfit wasn't too clean, but neither was it too dirty. He, however, didn't wear any footwear. Not because he couldn't, but rather, he shouldn't wear it for what he was doing.
"Aric! Wait for me!"
The shout came from behind him.
Aric sighed and glanced over his shoulder. A brown-haired boy—about seven years old—was sprinting after him, face red and lungs clearly on strike.
Tristan.
Aric slowed slightly as Tristan finally caught up, straining his steps beside him.
"How… are you… so fast?" Tristan wheezed between breaths.
Aric raised an eyebrow.
"…I just am?"
With that, he resumed jogging.
"HEY—!" Tristan yelped before scrambling after him again. "It's because you're older than me! That has to be it! I'm sure of it!"
Aric simply looked front.
Contrary to what he thought, magic wasn't some mystical force that he could simply feel immediately.
In this world, mana was present everywhere in the atmosphere; However, mana couldn't simply be absorbed into the body.
There was no way to store it either. Instead, a 'mage' was someone with a unique body constitution or mutation which results in a space formed for a unique organ called "the conduit".
Six years ago, when Aric read the book Elvis gave him, he learned about the "Conduit." Rather than storing mana and then releasing it, a conduit actively filters atmospheric mana and releases it back into the environment, temporarily making it "the user's" as they could mold it to whatever they may wish.
Atmospheric mana flowed through the organ, was briefly refined within the body, and then released again—temporarily becoming the user's to shape before returning to the environment.
Which meant magical strength wasn't determined by how much mana someone could hold.
It depended on how fast they could filter it.
Aric had also learned a harsh truth. Forming a conduit wasn't instant. In fact, there was no shortcut. While being gifted could partially hasten forming one, physical training to gradually open microscopic pores across the body was a must.
It allowed mana to circulate more freely into the body, making the process quicker depending on how much one worked out.
Over time, the conduit would slowly develop.
In other words:
It was endless exercise.
"Aric! I think I'm dying!"
Tristan's desperate cry echoed behind him.
Both of them had been pushing themselves relentlessly for months now.
Tristan, much like Aric, possessed the physiology needed to become a mage. Naturally, the boy was desperate to form his Conduit as early as possible.
At least… that's what Aric assumed.
Aric finally slowed, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Tristan staggered forward and promptly stepped off the path, collapsing onto the grass beside it.
"Is… is it over?" Tristan whimpered dramatically.
Aric straightened and looked toward the distant marketplace, where rows of stalls were beginning to glow under the fading evening light.
Tristan followed his gaze.
"Oh," he said, tilting his head. "Are we going there? To pick up Nessa?"
Aric thought about it for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"Sure. It's getting late anyway."
Nessa, the eldest of the three, had been working as a shoeshiner at the center of the market for a year now.
Durvarn was a fairly large thorp, but it lacked a proper job market of its own. Most of the villagers earned their living in the nearby town of Giawp, which meant people were constantly passing through the market on their way in or out of the village.
Where there was foot traffic, there were shoes to clean.
"I don't get it," Tristan said with a sigh as they walked.
Aric glanced at him. "Get what?"
"Why don't we just leave Durvarn and move somewhere nicer."
Aric slowed slightly, considering the question.
"Well…" he said, "there are a lot of factors."
Tristan tilted his head, waiting.
"It mostly comes down to two things," Aric continued. "Grit and religion."
Tristan frowned. "What does religion have to do with it?"
Aric exhaled slowly. "The Kingdom of Meiriith worships the Goddess of War, Meathea. Our Thorp worships Regia, the Goddess of Fate."
He paused.
"Do I really need to explain the rest?"
Tristan snorted. "It's not like different religions can't coexist."
Aric chuckled quietly. "You'd think so."
He kicked a pebble off the dirt path as they walked.
"But a thorp isn't exactly what most people imagine. It's less like a normal village and more like… a group of people who chose to live outside the kingdom's rule."
Tristan blinked. "Why?"
"Usually religion," Aric replied. "People who refuse to abandon their gods gather together and form independent settlements."
He shrugged.
"The kingdom still recognizes them as part of its territory, but politically and culturally they stay separate."
Tristan hummed thoughtfully.
"So basically… we're a bunch of stubborn weirdos."
"Pretty much."
Before Tristan could continue the argument, Aric raised a hand.
"And besides," he added, "do you really think Mom is the type to run away from problems?"
That ended the discussion.
Aric didn't know much about Lilia's past, but from what little he'd pieced together, she still carried the same stubborn pride she'd had when she was the chief's daughter.
Leaving Durvarn would never be that simple.
Tristan stayed quiet after that.
The two of them approached the market, the sounds of evening trade growing louder—voices haggling, wooden stalls creaking, the dull clatter of tools and carts.
Aric's brows slowly furrowed.
In the distance, he spotted Nessa.
She was kneeling beside a wooden shoeshine box, carefully polishing a pair of leather shoes.
But something was wrong.
Her face looked pale.
Aric's eyes lifted from the shoes to the person wearing them.
And his expression darkened.
The boy was older—around seventeen—and dressed far better than anyone else in the market. A fine broadcloth tunic hung neatly over linen braies, and his leather turnshoes rested arrogantly atop Nessa's polishing box.
Two imposing men behind him.
Aric recognized him immediately.
The village chief's grandson.
Nessa's cousin.
"Krod."
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[A/N: Finally Aric can do something!]