Riverford basked in spring’s gentle glow. Sunlight wove through the Greenwood Forest, dappling the village green where children scampered. Rylan, eight now, balanced chores and curiosity, his days a tapestry of lessons and fleeting freedoms. His world stretched with every task, every question—a boy on the cusp of something larger.

  Twice weekly, Lienea summoned Rylan and Isla to their home’s main room. A sturdy table held quills, parchment, and a worn ledger beneath a window streaming light. Isla, ten, perched primly, her auburn braid tight, scribbling notes with a scholar’s focus. Rylan fidgeted beside her, hazel eyes drifting to the green where Kael’s voice—lower now, steadier—called to friends.

  “Rylan, attend,” Lienea said, her tone soft yet insistent, pulling him back. She tapped the ledger, its pages a maze of goods—wheat, linen, salt. “Merchanting isn’t mere trade. It’s foresight, value. If Maeve’s store lacks salt, what follows?”

  Isla’s hand rose, her voice crisp. “Prices climb, or folk turn to the river.” She shot Rylan a look—half challenge, half smirk—her two years’ seniority a quiet crown.

  Rylan sighed, quill twirling. Isla’s sharp tongue kept him here—skipping meant her scolding, and he’d rather dodge that storm. “Villagers pay more,” he said, “or fish for salt themselves. But why doesn’t Maeve keep extra?”

  Lienea’s smile warmed. “Smartly asked. She could, but storage costs—barrels, space, dampness. Merchants weigh profit against risk.” She nudged the ledger his way. “Calculate salt for ten families, one month.”

  Rylan’s stomach sank—numbers weren’t swords—but he scratched out figures, Isla peering over with a huff to fix his sums. Lienea’s patience spurred him on. He didn’t crave this like Isla, but Rapid Learning wove threads through his reluctance—supply, cost, need. By lesson’s end, he’d pressed her further: “Why haggle? How spot fake coins? What if floods delay caravans?” Lienea answered, amused, while Isla muttered, “Always questions.”

  Thrice weekly, sharper lessons rang out. Bron led Rylan and Kael to a riverside clearing, the Clear River murmuring nearby. Two wooden swords leaned on a stump—Kael’s weathered, Rylan’s new. Bron, broad and calm, gripped a dulled steel blade, a memento of his soldiering past.

  “Stance firm, Rylan,” Bron directed, nudging his youngest’s feet apart. “Sword steady—don’t let it sag.” Kael, twelve and lanky, stood poised, his blade resting lightly in hand, a faint smile softening his once-wild grin.

  Rylan clutched the hilt, arms quivering. Swordplay lit him up—visions of knights danced in his head, fueled by Lienea’s tales. “This right?” he asked, copying Bron, though his grip wavered.

  “Near enough,” Bron said, nodding. “Kael, show him the high strike—slow.”

  Kael stepped forward, blade arcing down with measured grace. Rylan blocked, wood clashing, staggering back under the weight. Kael’s chuckle was quiet. “Steady up, Ry. Goblins won’t wait.”

  “Again,” Rylan said, teeth grit. Losing didn’t sting—he craved the learning. Rapid Learning traced Kael’s swing into his mind. Next try, he shifted aside, meeting the strike with a firm clack. Bron’s eyes crinkled. “Good. Practice builds it.”

  They drilled—Rylan swinging, parrying, faltering. Sweat stung his eyes, muscles groaned, but he pressed on, grinning when Kael offered a rare, “Solid hit,” after a glancing blow. Kael sparred him next, controlled now, pinning Rylan but praising his dodge. “You’re catching on,” he said, voice low, a big brother’s pride seeping through.

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  Between tasks, Rylan roamed. He raced village children—Alina from the inn, quick Tobin, timid Lira—across the green, breath ragged as Intuition sidestepped a root Tobin missed, tumbling with a laugh. With Isla and Kael, he built forts at the forest’s edge, hauling branches until his palms reddened. Isla barked orders, ten-year-old authority in full swing; Kael guided Rylan’s knots with a steady hand, his old boisterousness tempered. Alina tagged along, braid bouncing, tossing jibes—“You’re a mess, Rylan!”—but lingering near.

  One afternoon, a chore veered him off course. Lienea handed him bread for Elder Rowan, but a shimmer flickered near the forest—a haze, like summer’s breath. Intuition whispered: Look closer. Isla’d nag if he dawdled, but wonder won. Basket in tow, he slipped between oaks, finding a clearing.

  A man stood there, gray hair tangled, right sleeve pinned at the elbow. His left hand wove violet light into an orb, pulsing before bursting into sparks. Rylan froze, bread forgotten. Magic—raw, alive, beyond Isla’s games.

  The man wheeled, blue eyes piercing. “Staring, boy?” His voice rasped, edged with grit.

  Rylan swallowed. “Was that magic? Can you teach me?” His Status—Magic Power 4—flashed in mind, small but real.

  The man scoffed, turning. “Teach a whelp? I’m no tutor. Off with your loaves.”

  Rylan stood fast, awestruck. “I’ve got Magic Power! Please—just a bit?” His plea shook with hunger, not dread.

  “Magic Power?” The man glanced back, dubious. “You’re eight, maybe. Kids wreck, not wield. I was a battle mage—lost this—” he waved the stump “—in war. Go.”

  Rylan sagged but held ground. “I’ll come tomorrow,” he vowed, darting off before the man could growl.

  He returned daily—post-lessons, post-swordplay—bread or pleas ready. “Teach me now?” he’d prod, weathering glares. Day two: “Stubborn brat.” Day three: silence, a shield of light blooming as Rylan gaped. Day four, he tried, “I’ll sweep your floor for one spell!”

  The mage paused, orb dimming. “Sweep?” He barked a laugh. “Mad lad. Fine—clean my shack, one small spell. Two coppers weekly, too. Ask your kin—I’m not facing some sobbing dam.”

  Rylan bolted home, bursting in as Bron honed a blade by the fire. “Da! A mage—forest—he’ll teach me magic if I clean! One hand, makes light—real light!”

  Bron lowered the knife, thoughtful. “One hand? Gray, sour?” Rylan nodded. “Gavrin. Battle mage—served with me. Wyrm took his arm in the Wars. Crown paid him off, sent him here. Rough, but true. Won’t harm you.” He smiled faintly. “Cleaning’s honest, magic’s rare. Go—just keep up chores.”

  Lienea, stirring stew, added, “Small spells only—no risks.”

  Next dawn, Rylan lugged a broom to Gavrin’s sagging hut—wood grayed, floor filthy. “Here!” he called, broom aloft. Gavrin smirked from the doorway.

  “Sweep, runt,” he said, flipping two coppers Rylan snatched midair. “Then we’ll see.”

  Rylan tackled the dust, coughing but determined, mind alight—magic, his magic. An hour later, floor cleared, he faced Gavrin, panting. “Now?”

  Gavrin sighed, hand rising. “Watch.” Violet coiled into a berry-sized orb. “Glowspark—basic. Feel mana, push it out. Don’t burn yourself.” It fizzed away.

  Rylan focused, fists tight. Nothing. Again—nothing. Gavrin snorted. “See? Kids break.” But Rylan clenched harder. Rapid Learning replayed Gavrin’s move. Third try, a faint glow flickered—weak, fleeting.

  “Yes!” Rylan cheered. “See it?”

  Gavrin’s brow lifted. “Barely. Keep at it—won’t scare a mouse.” He turned, a smirk tugging his lips.

  That night, Rylan lay awake—sums, swings, sparks swirling. His Status shimmered:

  ===================== STATUS =====================

  Name: [Rylan]

  Level: [2]

  -------------------- ATTRIBUTES -------------------

  Strength: [6]

  Agility: [8]

  Dexterity: [6]

  Vitality: [6]

  Magic Power: [4]

  Intelligence: [8]

  Luck: [Fixed] (10)

  Willpower: [9]

  ----------------- ATTRIBUTE POINTS ----------------

  Available Points: [20]

  ===================== SKILLS =====================

  Innate Skills (Unique Rank):

  - Intuition (beginner)

  - Rapid Learning (beginner)

  Combat Skills:

  - Basic Swordplay (beginner)

  Magic Skills:

  - Glowspark (beginner)

  Social Skills:

  - None

  Utility Skills:

  - Basic Merchanting (beginner)

  ==================================================

  Level 2—earned through grit. Sleep took him, dreams aglow, his path deepening with every step.

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