The wooden sword hit the ground with a soft clank, causing Dorian to freeze. It wasn’t just the sound—dull and lifeless—that gripped him. It was the way the world felt in that moment. The air around him pressed down like a weight, thick with mana, but in no way comforting. It suffocated him, made it hard to breathe.
The sword lay forgotten, but his hands still trembled, fingers twitching as though they didn’t know what to do without it. His heart pounded violently, each beat drowning out the world. The mana around him was thick, buzzing, but it didn’t flow into him the way his father had described. It resisted him—mocked him.
Something was wrong. It had been wrong for days now—no, longer. The flashes of memory, the strange sense of dislocation that gnawed at him. He was only a few months past his second birthday, but inside his mind, there was something else. Something older. Something broken.
His breath came hard, the mana coiling back from his grasp like something alive, rejecting him. I don’t belong here. The thought struck him like a punch to the gut, and he staggered backward. The world blurred, the lines of the courtyard bending, distorting as though they, too, were unsure of their place.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories were waiting. Cold metal. The recoil of a rifle. The hum of machines. His hands—older, stronger— gripping something real. Something that belonged to a life without magic, without mana. A life that more real and tangible than something from his imagination.
But the boy standing here didn’t make sense. Who am I?
The thought echoed, ripping through him like a blade. His small hands curled into fists, his breath ragged, chest tightening as though the air itself was pressing harder, trying to crush him. I don’t know who I am.
The mana buzzed louder. He reached for it, but it slipped through his grasp like water. It wasn’t his. It refused to be a part of him, despite surrounding him.
The sword lay forgotten at his feet. The world, too, felt like it was slipping away, along with his ever-decreasing sense of self. He was the boy, but he was also the man from his visions. But how can I be both? How can I be either?
And then, it hit him. What if I’m neither?
The thought was small at first, a whisper. But as it settled inside him, like a seed taking root, expanding, shifting everything. What if I’m not the boy or the man? What if I’m something else? Something new?
His breath stilled. The mana didn’t fight him anymore. It didn’t pull back. It waited. His heart slowed, the suffocating pressure easing, and the world sharpened. He could see the lines of the courtyard again, the stones beneath his feet. The weight inside him didn’t vanish, but it shifted. It no longer pressed down on him. It was part of him.
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He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt of the sword. The mana came, slow, like a stream finally finding its path. It flowed—not wildly, not chaotically—but with purpose. It filled him, filling the cracks in his soul, the places torn by memories and uncertainty. They were mended now, with seams of mana flowing through him like gold in Kintsugi.
But this time, it was different. Dorian could feel the mana moving into his body, coiling through his muscles, not as wild energy but as something that strengthened him. It wasn’t magic being cast outward. It was internal—a force that made his limbs lighter, his senses sharper and his swings heavier.
His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, the world burned. A soft light filled his vision, but it wasn’t blinding. It was warm, alive. His skin hummed with energy, no longer foreign. It was his.
The wooden sword pulsed in his hand, glowing faintly with mana. He could feel it now, coiling into the wood, making the weapon feel like an extension of himself. Warriors could channel mana into their weapons, his father had said. He had watched them do it in the courtyard. Now he was doing it.
Dorian stood, his body lighter, his breath steady. The weight of the memories still lingered, but they didn’t crush him anymore. They were part of him, but they weren’t everything.
I’m neither the boy nor the man in my visions. I am Dorian, master of my own destiny.
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TESSA AND ARLA’S PERSPECTIVE:
Tessa and Arla stood at the courtyard’s edge, eyes locked on Dorian, watching as the sword slipped from his hand.
“He dropped it,” Tessa said, blinking.
“Yup.” Arla nodded, not moving. “He did.”
“That’s… new.”
“New? Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
“You think he’s, like, okay?”
“Define ‘okay,’” Arla said, her gaze fixed on Dorian. “Because if by ‘okay,’ you mean ‘glowing like a jack-o’-lantern,’ then yeah, he’s just peachy.”
Tessa raised an eyebrow. “Glowing?”
“Uh-huh. Check it out.”
Tessa squinted. “Oh, yeah. That’s… definitely glowing.”
“Yup. You wanna deal with that?”
“Nope.” Tessa paused, watching Dorian pick up the sword, slower, like he knew something they didn’t. “But it’s our job, so we probably should.”
“Yeah. Tell me how that conversation’s gonna go,” Arla said. “‘Hey, your two-year-old’s basically a magical nightlight now.’”
“Or,” Tessa said with a grin, “we just let them figure it out when he sets the curtains on fire.”
Arla smirked. “I like that plan.”
“Gotta admit, though, the kid’s got style.”
“Style?” Arla scoffed. “He’s got mana pouring out of his eyeballs.”
“Yeah, well, still cooler than when I was two.”
“Sure. You just drooled a lot.”
“Exactly.”
Arla took a step forward, eyeing Dorian with a mix of caution and curiosity. “You think he knows what he’s doing?”
Tessa shrugged. “Not a clue. But it looks like he’s got the warrior thing down. Maybe he’s figured out that whole mana-weapon thing.”
Arla crossed her arms. “At two? Really?”
“Well, you try telling him he’s not allowed. I’m not gonna be the one to ruin his moment.”
They both watched in silence as Dorian swung the sword again, this time with calculated precision, the mana flowing through the wooden blade, making it shimmer faintly in the twilight.