The sun was just beginning to rise over the village, casting a soft, warm light through the windows of the Elarnia home. Luther sat cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, surrounded by small piles of carefully sorted parts: tiny gears, thin wooden dowels, and bits of metal his mother had saved from her workbench for him. His “workspace” was a neatly organized cluster of parts and tools, nestled right beside his latest project—his trusty little carriage.
Over the years, the tiny wooden carriage had been his favorite project, and he’d added a new piece or a small adjustment each time he learned something new. Now, it was taller, with lightweight wheels that could roll smoothly over uneven surfaces. He had reinforced the axle, making it more balanced, and carved small grooves in the wheels to give them better grip. And now, his most ambitious goal yet: trying to use a small gust of wind to push it along the floor.
He took a deep breath, focusing on the gentle pulse of energy in the air around him, just as Dada had taught him. He stretched his awareness out gently, inviting the air to join his little “dance.” Then, imagining a gentle nudge, he directed the faintest breeze toward the carriage, hoping it would glide forward.
For a second, nothing happened. Luther frowned, concentrating harder, but quickly remembered to soften his approach. He didn’t need to force it; he needed to invite the air to join him.
As he relaxed his focus, a faint breeze brushed the carriage, nudging it forward an inch, just enough to set the wheels turning. Luther’s face broke into a grin as he watched it roll along the floor for a short distance, almost as if it were moving of its own accord.
“Yes!” he whispered, barely able to contain his excitement. It wasn’t much, just a small push, but it felt like the carriage had listened, like he and the air had worked together, each giving a little to bring it to life.
The thrill of his small victory still fresh, he got to work on another tiny adjustment, carving out a small notch in the back to make the carriage even lighter. The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his concentration, and he looked up to see his mother, Maeve, stepping inside with a basket of fresh herbs and vegetables she’d picked from the village garden.
“Good morning, my little inventor,” she greeted him warmly, glancing at the carriage and his tools. “Already hard at work, I see.”
Luther smiled, his eyes gleaming. “I got it to move, Mama,” he said proudly, holding up the carriage for her to see. “Just with a tiny breeze. It’s like it knows when I want it to go.”
Maeve knelt down beside him, inspecting his work with admiration. “You’ve done beautifully, Luther,” she said, brushing a hand through his hair. “Every time I look at this carriage, it’s like it has a new surprise. One day, you’ll make something even grander, I just know it.”
Encouraged by her words, Luther set his carriage down carefully, giving her a shy but pleased grin. “Maybe one day it’ll move on its own,” he said, his tone half playful, half serious.
“Well, before you set it off on its own adventures,” Maeve replied with a smile, “how about helping me with the morning chores?” She gestured toward the basket. “I’ll need a hand washing these, and you’re getting tall enough to reach the jars on the high shelves.”
Luther nodded, eager to be helpful. He set his tools aside, dusting off his hands, and followed her to the kitchen, where he helped her clean the herbs and arrange them in neat bunches to dry. Each movement was careful, precise, like he was crafting one of his little inventions.
“Do you think I could make the herbs dry faster?” he asked thoughtfully, glancing at the small leaves he’d spread on a cloth. “Maybe with just a little bit of wind?”
Maeve chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re welcome to try, but don’t overdo it,” she said, giving him an affectionate look. “Remember, the plants have their own way of working with the air and sun. They’ll dry in their own time.”
Luther nodded, taking her words to heart. He closed his eyes, focusing on the faint hum of energy in the room, just as he’d practiced. He reached out, gently inviting the air to flow over the herbs, hoping to encourage them to dry just a bit faster. A soft breeze brushed past, carrying the scent of fresh herbs through the kitchen, and Maeve watched him with a smile.
After a few moments, Luther opened his eyes and saw the herbs, still fresh but now slightly drier at the edges. He looked up at Maeve, who gave him an approving nod.
“That was lovely,” she said softly. “It’s not about hurrying them, but about offering a little help. And sometimes, that’s all we need to do.”
Luther beamed, feeling the warmth of his mother’s words settle within him. For the rest of the morning, he went about his chores with newfound enthusiasm, feeling connected to the world in a way that was both gentle and powerful.
Once the herbs were set aside, Luther returned to his carriage, carefully adjusting a loose wheel and wondering what other small changes he could make. As he worked, he knew he was just beginning to understand how to shape the world around him. There was so much to learn, but he felt ready, eager to keep exploring, each new discovery a step toward the grand dreams he held in his heart.
~A few months later~
The air was crisp and cool as the village prepared for the monthly gathering in the square, an event where he was now old enough to show off his own inventions and cultivation progress. For Luther, these gatherings had always been a source of excitement—a chance to see what others were working on, to be inspired, and of course to play with the other kids after.
As the event began, he stood beside his mother and father, holding his carriage carefully in his hands, his face bright with anticipation. He’d upgraded it recently, making it lighter, and had even managed to use a gentle, consistent breeze to keep it moving forward in a steady line. It was his biggest achievement yet, and he felt a warm thrill of pride as the other villagers gathered around, admiring his work.
But as he was basking in the warmth of their admiration, he noticed another young face in the crowd—a boy named Finnian. Finnian was about ten, 2 years older than Luther, and already well-regarded for his budding skills in cultivation. Tall for his age, with a confident smile, Finnian walked over with a quiet intensity, glancing at Luther’s carriage with a flicker of interest.
“That’s nice,” Finnian said, crossing his arms as he looked over the carriage. “You’ve got it moving with wind energy?”
Luther nodded, his pride still evident. “Yes! I use a small breeze to push it along. I was trying to make it move without me touching it.”
Finnian raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Impressive,” he said, though his tone held an edge of challenge. “But I bet you couldn’t get it to lift. Moving is one thing, but if you were really good, you’d figure out how to make it float—like a real cultivator would.”
Luther’s eyes widened, both intrigued and unnerved. He hadn’t even thought about trying to lift his carriage—it seemed so advanced, something only older, more skilled cultivators could manage. But now that Finnian had mentioned it, the idea stuck in his mind, sparking a desire to try, to prove that he could do more.
Before he could answer, Finnian turned and gestured toward a small setup of his own: a collection of small stones he’d arranged in a rough pattern on the ground. With a smooth, practiced motion, he extended his hand, and one of the stones lifted slightly, hovering just above the others. He held it steady, his face focused but confident, then let it fall gently back to the ground.
The villagers watching let out quiet murmurs of approval, nodding to one another. It was a simple trick, but one that required skill and control. Luther felt a pang of both admiration and challenge, watching the way Finnian had controlled the stone with such ease.
“It’s all about focus,” Finnian said, looking back at Luther with a small, almost taunting smile. “You have to be strong enough to pull the energy around you and steady enough to hold it. But maybe you’re not there yet.”
Luther felt his cheeks flush slightly, his hands tightening around his carriage. He looked up at his parents, seeing a flicker of concern on his father’s face, but his mother gave him an encouraging nod. “Show him what you can do, Luther,” she said gently. “But remember—take your time.”
Taking a steadying breath, Luther set his carriage down on the ground, focusing on the familiar hum of energy in the air around him. He extended his senses outward, feeling the gentle connection he had practiced so many times, inviting the breeze to dance with him. He could feel it brushing against his carriage, pushing it forward, and he added a bit more intention, guiding it in a smooth, steady line.
It worked, and he felt a burst of satisfaction. But then, as he glanced at Finnian’s smug expression, the desire to do more—to impress, to prove himself—rose within him, pushing him to stretch beyond his limits.
Without thinking, he reached deeper, feeling the energy pool within him, and extended it outward, trying to lift the carriage, just as Finnian had done with the stone. His breathing grew shallower, his heart pounding with the effort, but the carriage only lifted a fraction, hovering just off the ground before dropping back down with a soft thud.
Frustrated, he tried again, this time pushing harder, summoning more energy. The carriage lifted once more, wobbly but aloft. It was small, but it was enough—a rush of triumph filled him, and he cast a quick glance at Finnian, who looked on with a flicker of surprise.
But as the carriage hovered, Luther suddenly felt a wave of fatigue wash over him, far stronger than he had anticipated. His vision blurred, his hands trembling as he struggled to maintain the connection. The world spun, his balance faltering as he felt his energy drain rapidly, the web slipping out of his control.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Jiro was at his side in an instant, his strong, steady hands resting on Luther’s shoulders, grounding him. “Luther,” he murmured, his voice low and calm. “Enough. Let it go.”
At his father’s words, Luther released the energy, letting the carriage drop softly to the ground. He slumped forward, breathing heavily, the world feeling dim and distant as he struggled to stay upright. He heard the quiet murmurs of the crowd, felt the concerned gaze of his mother, and saw Finnian looking on with a mixture of respect and surprise.
Jiro knelt beside him, steadying him with a gentle hand. “You did well,” he said quietly, his voice firm but kind. “But you pushed too far. Energy is something to share with, not something to force.”
Luther nodded, feeling a deep exhaustion settle over him, an ache in his bones from the strain of overextending himself. He had wanted so badly to prove himself, to show Finnian that he could be just as strong, just as skilled.
As his father helped him to his feet, Luther glanced once more at Finnian, seeing a look of recognition in the older boy’s eyes, perhaps even respect. But the rivalry between them had been ignited, and Luther knew this would not be the last time they challenged each other.
And as they walked back to their family’s spot, Luther felt the conflicting pull within him—the desire to prove himself, balanced against the knowledge that true strength would require patience, respect, and care.
The days following the village gathering were a flurry of excitement for Luther. His pride from lifting the carriage, even if briefly, filled him with new ideas and a desire to push his inventions further. He spent every spare moment tinkering with his carriage, making small adjustments, and imagining how he could take it to the next level.
One afternoon, as he sat on the porch surrounded by tools and scraps, he thought of a new idea: if he could attach a small piece of carved wood shaped like a propeller to the back, maybe he could use a steady breeze to make it move faster and even across uneven surfaces. Excited, he set to work carving, carefully shaping the propeller and attaching it to the rear of the carriage.
Once finished, he gave it a test run, releasing a gentle breath of air to set the propeller spinning. To his delight, the carriage moved quickly across the ground, rolling with surprising speed over the rough surface of the porch.
He couldn’t wait to show it to the other children.
The next day, he brought the carriage to the square, where a few of the village children were playing. He found Yara and Toma, both intrigued by his newest creation, and with their encouragement, he set the carriage down, demonstrating how he could use a small breath of air to make the propeller spin and propel it forward.
“It’s amazing, Luther!” Yara exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement as she crouched to watch the carriage zoom across the ground.
“Yeah!” Toma added, laughing as he ran beside it, trying to keep up. “It’s like a tiny wagon that moves on its own!”
Luther beamed, feeling a rush of pride as the other children gathered around, admiring his invention. Fueled by their interest, he decided to give it a bit more power. He focused, summoning a small breeze to increase the speed of the propeller.
The carriage zoomed forward with surprising force, moving so fast that Yara, caught off guard, reached out to try to stop it. But as her fingers touched the spinning propeller, a sharp yelp escaped her as it nicked her hand. She pulled back, her face crumpling in pain, a small bead of blood appearing where the propeller had cut her finger.
Luther’s heart dropped, and the world seemed to blur around him as he saw Yara cradling her hand, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Yara! I’m… I’m so sorry!” he stammered, reaching out toward her, but Toma stepped between them, his expression hardening.
“Be careful with that thing, Luther!” Toma snapped, his tone sharp. “You made it too strong—you could’ve really hurt her!”
Luther felt a wave of guilt crash over him, his pride from moments ago vanishing in an instant. He knelt beside Yara, his face filled with remorse. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think…” His words trailed off as he saw the pain on her face.
Yara gave him a small, forgiving smile, though her eyes were still teary. “It’s okay, Luther,” she said softly, though she winced as she looked at her finger. “I know you didn’t mean to.”
But the forgiveness in her eyes only made Luther’s guilt weigh heavier. He gathered up his carriage, the propeller that had once thrilled him now feeling like a symbol of his carelessness. The other children watched in silence as he stood, his hands trembling slightly.
Feeling a gentle hand on his shoulder, he turned to see his father, who had been watching from a short distance. Jiro’s expression was kind but serious as he led Luther away from the group, the other children’s gazes following them with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
They walked quietly to the edge of the village, where Jiro stopped, turning to face him. “Tell me what happened, Luther,” he said softly, his tone steady.
Luther swallowed hard, his voice small. “I… I didn’t think it would hurt her,” he admitted, shame twisting in his stomach. “I just wanted it to go faster. I thought… I thought it would be exciting.”
Jiro nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “I understand. But excitement can quickly turn dangerous when we don’t consider the effects of what we create.” He knelt to be at eye level with Luther, his gaze steady. “Every invention, every creation, has a purpose. And it’s the responsibility of inventors to ensure that that purpose doesn’t cause harm.”
Luther looked down, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I just… wanted it to be something amazing.”
Jiro placed a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean any harm, Luther,” he said softly. “But even the smallest inventions carry power. And the more powerful they become, the more responsibility we have to make sure they don’t hurt others. We have to think about how they can be used—and how they could go wrong.”
Luther nodded slowly, understanding dawning on him. He had been so focused on making the carriage go faster, on proving his skills, that he hadn’t stopped to think about the possible consequences. The pride he’d felt now felt hollow, replaced by a deep need to be more careful, to respect the power of what he created.
“What should I do, Dada?” he asked, looking up with a quiet determination. “How can I make it better?”
Jiro’s face softened with pride. “The first step is to learn from what happened,” he replied. “Take this as a lesson, a reminder that power must be tempered with care. And when you work on your inventions, think not only of how they might succeed, but of what could go wrong.”
Luther took a deep breath, letting his father’s words settle over him. He looked down at his carriage, now seeing it not just as a project but as something that held real responsibility. With a small nod, he picked up the carriage and turned it in his hands, examining it with a new perspective.
“Thank you, Dada,” he said quietly, his heart heavy but filled with a renewed sense of purpose. “I’ll be more careful. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anyone again.”
Jiro smiled, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “That’s all I could ask of you, Luther. Every great inventor has to learn this lesson at some point. And I’m proud of you for facing it with such courage.”
Together, they walked back to the village, Luther carrying his carriage with newfound respect, vowing to approach each future invention with the same care and caution. And as they neared the square, he glanced over at Yara, who waved with a small smile, her injury already bandaged.
In that moment, Luther felt a shift within him—a promise to himself that he would use his skills not only for wonder and excitement but with responsibility and care, knowing that true greatness would require both.
The village had long since settled into evening, the sky bathed in soft hues of purple and blue. Inside the Elarnia home, Luther sat quietly in his corner, his little carriage resting in his lap. He hadn’t touched it since the accident with Yara, the memory of her small cry and her teary eyes still fresh in his mind. Though he had apologized and Yara had forgiven him easily, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d failed somehow, that he’d misused the trust his parents had placed in him as a budding inventor.
Jiro noticed Luther’s quiet demeanor from across the room. Setting down his work, he crossed over to his son, kneeling beside him. “Would you like to take a walk with me, Luther?” he asked gently.
Luther glanced up, a bit of surprise in his eyes, but he nodded. Wordlessly, he followed his father out into the cool evening air. The village paths were calm, the faint chirping of crickets mingling with the distant murmur of the nearby stream. They walked in silence for a few minutes, side by side, until Jiro stopped at the edge of the village, where a small grove of trees stood like quiet sentinels against the night sky.
Jiro turned to Luther, his gaze calm and knowing. “You’ve been very quiet these past few days,” he said softly, resting a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”
Luther looked down, his fingers tracing the rough edges of the carriage he held tightly in his hands. “I keep thinking about what happened with Yara,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was my fault. I should’ve been more careful. She got hurt because of me.”
Jiro nodded, listening carefully. “I can see how much you care about what happened, Luther,” he said. “But tell me, what have you learned from it?”
Luther hesitated, taking a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. “I learned that… I need to think about what could go wrong,” he said slowly. “Not just what I want to happen. And that I have to be careful, because even something small can hurt someone.”
Jiro’s eyes softened, and he gave Luther an approving nod. “That’s a wise lesson,” he said. “And I’m proud of you for learning it. But there’s something else to understand, something just as important.”
Luther looked up at him, curious but uncertain. Jiro smiled gently, taking the carriage from Luther’s hands and holding it up, examining it in the dim light. “Mistakes are part of learning,” he said quietly. “When we try new things, there will always be times when things don’t go as planned, when we make choices that lead to pain or disappointment.”
He turned to look at Luther, his gaze steady. “But those moments don’t define who we are. What defines us is how we choose to learn from them—and how we choose to move forward.”
Luther listened, his father’s words settling over him like a gentle balm. He felt the weight of guilt pressing on his chest, the lingering doubt that he’d failed. But as he met his father’s eyes, he felt a glimmer of understanding, a small light piercing through the heaviness.
“But… how do I move forward, Dada?” he asked quietly, his voice filled with genuine uncertainty. “I feel like… like I shouldn’t build anything again, in case someone gets hurt.”
Jiro knelt down, placing a reassuring hand on Luther’s shoulder. “Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting what happened,” he said. “It means carrying the lesson with you but not letting it hold you back. You’ve learned to be more cautious, and that is a valuable gift. Now, you can take that knowledge and build something even better, something safer, because you know what it takes.”
He handed the carriage back to Luther, his voice soft and steady. “Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean you ignore the past. It means you honor it by doing better, by using what you’ve learned. And part of that is trusting yourself again.”
Luther looked down at the carriage in his hands, feeling the familiar weight of the little invention. Slowly, he traced the edges of the propeller, running his fingers over the small adjustments he’d made. He remembered the excitement he’d felt when he’d first built it, the joy of seeing it move with a breeze. And now, he saw it in a new light—an invention that was born of care and caution, not recklessness.
He took a deep breath, the weight of guilt easing slightly, leaving room for something else—a quiet determination, a promise to himself to be both careful and brave.
“Thank you, Dada,” he murmured, looking up with a small, grateful smile. “I… I think I understand. I can’t change what happened, but I can make sure I learn from it.”
Jiro nodded, pride in his gaze. “And that is all I could hope for,” he said warmly. “Mistakes are a part of the journey, but they don’t need to be chains. They can be stepping stones—guiding you toward the person you’re meant to become.”
They stood together for a moment, the quiet night wrapping around them. Luther held his carriage close, feeling a gentle warmth in his heart as he let go of his guilt, replacing it with a commitment to himself—a commitment to grow, to create with care, and to trust himself again.
As they walked back to their home, he felt lighter, ready to return to his work with a renewed sense of purpose. And though he knew he would make more mistakes along the way, he understood now that each one was a chance to learn, to grow, and to keep building the path that lay ahead.