After the guests finally departed, the house fell into a hushed silence. The warmth still lingered in the walls, but the ughter faded with the crunch of boots retreating down the snowy path. Everything felt still—like the world was holding its breath.

  Winter dragged on, slow and quiet. The days were cold, but I started noticing small changes. My parents and the maid moved differently—more deliberately. They weren’t preparing for another celebration. They were waiting. Not for visitors, but for the end of something.

  Dad spent more time outside, chopping wood or checking the basement. Mom reorganized the pantry and checked each jar like she was taking stock of our future. The maid mended winter clothes by the fire. And me? I wandered the house, soaking in every detail, every gnce they exchanged when they thought I wasn’t watching.

  Then one morning, I woke to the sound of dripping water. The icicles outside my window had started to melt.

  Spring was coming.

  And with it, change.

  I was three years old now. I could walk without stumbling, form simple sentences when no one was around, and understand far more than I let on. My body still felt small, but my thoughts never stopped racing. I had spent the long winter learning—memorizing the yout of the house, noting which floorboards creaked, which windows let in the best light, and when the adults would be too busy to notice me slipping away.

  And I kept practicing magic. Quietly. Secretly. Always alone.

  But what fascinated me most… was them.

  My parents had started training again.

  Every morning, when the frost still clung to the earth, I watched them from the upstairs window. Dad moved like lightning—swords fshing in the pale dawn light. Mom stood poised at the edge of the field, bow drawn, arrows glowing.

  They weren’t just parents anymore.

  They were warriors.

  Then came the morning that changed everything.

  Dad stood shirtless in the backyard, swords in hand. His breath came out in slow, steady puffs. A faint blue shimmer surrounded his body. I leaned forward, eyes wide.

  He moved.

  Faster than I could follow. His bde cleaved straight through a wooden dummy in one fwless motion. It didn’t break—it simply came apart. Like the air itself had been split.

  There had been no chant. No incantation. No fsh of light.

  It hit me like a spark to dry wood.

  He wasn’t casting a spell. He was channeling mana inward—into his muscles, his bones, his speed. He didn’t need words. He used will.

  Then Mom stepped forward.

  She stood still for a moment, bow in hand, eyes locked onto a new stone pilr in the yard. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I felt it—faint magic radiating from its surface.

  Her fingers glowed as she nocked an arrow. Her lips moved, whispering an incantation too soft for me to hear.

  She loosed it.

  The arrow ignited mid-flight. It struck the stone and exploded in a burst of fire and light. When the smoke cleared, the pilr had crumbled to dust.

  I pressed my hands to the window, stunned.

  This wasn’t just magic.

  This was battle magic. Refined. Controlled. Devastating.

  I had always seen them as my parents—kind, strong, loving.

  Now I saw them as something more.

  Adventurers. Warriors. Masters of a craft I barely understood.

  And someday… maybe mentors.

  A quiet fire lit in my chest.

  I wanted to learn.

  The days took on a new rhythm. I woke early and crept to the same window, eyes wide as I absorbed every move they made. Every chant. Every shift in stance. Every flicker of light.

  I began experimenting. In secret, of course.

  I tried channeling mana into my arms. My legs. Tried to replicate the aura Dad summoned so effortlessly.

  I failed. A lot.

  My limbs trembled. My focus scattered. The mana refused to obey.

  But I didn’t stop.

  Every day I pushed harder, coaxing my body to remember. To obey. The ache in my bones became familiar—proof that I was doing something real. Something worth chasing.

  Spring arrived in full bloom. The snow vanished. The air turned sweet. My parents trained longer, ughed more, moved with an urgency I couldn’t quite name.

  Then one day, everything changed again.

  A letter arrived.

  I was sitting by the hearth, stacking wooden blocks, when the knock came. Mom opened the door. Her face shifted the moment she saw the seal. Dad leaned in, reading over her shoulder. Their expressions grew tense, excited, focused.

  “They’re coming,” Mom whispered.

  “Three days,” Dad replied.

  I sat up straighter.

  The rest of their old party.

  Not for a visit.

  This time… it was for a quest.

  The house shifted with purpose. Weapons were checked, sharpened. Spells practiced. Meals grew heartier. Conversations turned serious.

  And I stayed quiet, soaking in every detail.

  Then came the morning they left.

  The sun barely touched the horizon, casting everything in gold. My parents stood at the door, dressed in armor I had never seen before. Sleek. Elegant. Etched with runes. Dad’s swords gleamed. Mom’s quiver shimmered.

  They looked like something out of legend.

  Mom knelt and kissed my forehead. “We’ll be back in a few days, sweetheart.”

  Dad ruffled my hair. “Be good, alright? Protect the house.”

  I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask them to stay.

  I just nodded.

  Then I watched them walk away—down the road, into the rising sun, with the maid standing beside me.

  And I knew, in that moment, this is what I wanted. Not just the strength. Not just the magic. I wanted the purpose behind it all. To protect, to explore, to stand tall like they did—unshaken by fear or doubt. I wasn’t ready yet. But someday, I would be. And when that day came, I’d walk the road they once walked… as their son, and as an adventurer in my own right.