Cerena loved her children above all else, and her daughter's father cared for them so deeply that she hoped it would always be so.

  Over the months, everyone settled into a rhythm. Cerena and Owen had now been in the village for four years. She was a little over twenty-four; Owen’s growth had slowed considerably, and his sister would soon catch up.

  Elvira continued to grow at a remarkable pace, gaining a year for every three months, until she would reach ten. Despite her youth, villagers admired her pure beauty. Her long, wavy black hair framed aquamarine eyes and pale skin, giving her an almost angelic appearance. An aura seemed to radiate from her, warming hearts and soothing souls.

  Her abilities rivaled her brother’s, but the two children were not the only ones exploring and developing powers. The young father had, several times, sensed energy emanating from Cerena. After observing her, he concluded that she too possessed a latent power.

  When he mentioned it, Cerena was taken aback. She thought of the Emperor, who had described her as a magical conduit for his children. The young man suspected that claim was only partially true.

  She regularly brought water to her son as he trained, but the constant biting wind left it freezing, and to drink it, she had to warm it up first. One day, the young man suggested she channel her own magical energy through her hands—instead of lighting a fire—but she did not yet know how.

  Sitting opposite her, he placed his warm hands over hers, chilled by the cold.

  “Close your eyes, and focus on the warmth you feel. The warmth you want to send,” he instructed.

  Cerena followed his advice. Her hands trembling with cold, she tried to clear her mind. Little by little, sounds and sensations receded: the hiss of the sword and its impact against the wood, the wind brushing through her hair, the biting cold reddening her face, the young man’s gentle, warm hands—everything faded away.

  Everything, except the warmth flowing from her hands. All she could feel now was the weight of the jug between her fingers.

  The warmth gradually increased, spreading to her fingers. She thought it was the young man’s doing. Eyes still closed, she smiled at the pleasant sensation. The heat between her hands continued to build, again and again, until it seared her skin. Struck by sudden pain, she dropped the jug and opened her eyes: the young man had caught it just in time before it shattered.

  Cerena looked at her palms, red as embers. Pain and bewilderment made her wince, her breath short. The young man took her hands and healed the burn.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  “I thought it was you who…,” she murmured.

  He shook his head, a mixed smile on his lips.

  “I wasn’t wrong… But it may be more difficult to develop than expected. Perhaps… this story of a magical conduit isn’t entirely false.”

  He paused, then added:

  “Perhaps it can be worked differently… For now, forget the warmth, okay?”

  She nodded silently, staring at her hands, wondering if she had made a mistake or if her gift simply came at too high a cost.

  ???

  The following weeks were devoted to training. Elvira honed her healing skills while discovering new abilities: she could now create thin magical barriers, unstable but sufficient to deflect blows. Sword exercises with Owen became more dynamic, alternating between weapon attacks and magical defenses. Movements grew faster, flowing seamlessly between the two.

  Owen, in turn, let his mind glide into others’ thoughts. He stayed on the surface, avoiding their memories or dreams—the safest way he had found to practice his power without being intrusive. Keeping track of villagers’ immediate thoughts, he maintained a constant, broad awareness of the village, alert for any sign of change or danger. It required continuous focus and concentration.

  He made an exception for his mother, refusing to probe her mind in this way. A silent agreement had existed between them for years, even before their arrival in the village.

  Cerena continued experimenting with her power under the young man’s watchful guidance. She managed to partially heal a small wound and showed an affinity for multiple schools of magic, though she never mastered them fully.

  Owen and the young man also attempted to teach her basic self-defense with swords. During one sparring session, as Owen forced her to drop her weapon and she braced, kneeling in defeat, she closed her eyes and raised her hands to block a strike that never came.

  Silence fell. When she opened her eyes, she held a rusty, blunt, slightly heavy sword—enough to parry an attack. Wide-eyed, she dropped the unfamiliar weapon, which vanished instantly. After exchanging a knowing glance, Owen and the young man helped her back up, ensuring she was unharmed. Elvira, watching from afar, ran to her mother’s arms. Cerena never knew whether the weapon had been born from fear… or something else within her.

  Feeling supported, Cerena rose and quickly adapted. They continued training month after month, living this happy, peaceful life.

  Owen watched his mother carefully. Proud of her, he saw her progress and felt deep relief, despite the shadows of her past hovering above her like an indelible wound that would never fully close.

  Seeing her rebuild herself and smile again warmed his heart, confirming that his efforts had not been in vain.

  Yet he never forgot his father’s warning. Not a second passed without him recalling it. Their life was calm, almost too calm. How long would it last? Time passed, and he feared each new day more than the last.