Silence had its own sound.
Aeron discovered this one morning as he lay still in his cradle, the dawn light crawling slowly across the wooden ceiling. The house was quiet—his mother still asleep, his father off early to the village mill, and Lyra… humming in her sleep from across the room.
It was in these unguarded moments that he learned the most.
Here, in the stillness, he could hear it—the world breathing.
Mana.
Not the loud hum of a spell, or the sharp crackle from an elder's staff—no, not yet.
But the subtle rise and fall of energy around him. Like wind brushing leaves. Like the ocean kissing shorelines in slow rhythm.
He didn't try to control it anymore.
Now… he listened.
> Feel. Don't command. Understand first…
It moved within the floorboards beneath him—residual traces of warmth from the hearth.
It lingered on his blanket—woven threads that soaked in energy like old fabric soaked in stories.
It even stirred faintly around Lyra as she slept, curling like soft light near her heart.
> She's naturally attuned… he noted. Even if she doesn't realize it.
Some people were born with affinity. Others developed it.
Aeron had both. And more.
But the truth was… his past life had honed him for battle, not stillness.
Now, stillness was his weapon.
---
Later that day, Lyra insisted on taking him out to the edge of the woods behind their home.
A soft blanket laid on the grass, Aeron bundled in wool, head nestled in her lap.
"See the trees, Aeron?" she asked, pointing at the tall, swaying giants beyond the fence. "Mama says they're old. Older than grandpa. Maybe even older than the moon!"
He blinked up at the branches, sunlight slanting through the green.
And something stirred inside him.
Not memory. Not knowledge.
Instinct.
> Those trees… they breathe mana too.
He extended his awareness—not out, but down.
Into the roots.
The soil.
And there… a subtle hum.
A song.
Mana didn't just flow like rivers—it rested, waited, listened.
Aeron sat quietly as Lyra braided flowers near his feet. She hummed, not knowing her voice helped him trace the rhythm beneath the ground.
Then…
Something shifted.
A small bird landed nearby—no more than a fluttering speck of brown and white. It tilted its head toward him… and didn't move.
Its gaze was steady. Unblinking.
Lyra didn't notice.
But Aeron did.
> That's not an ordinary bird.
He didn't know how he knew. Just that he did.
It watched him for a long moment, then chirped once—soft and low—and flew away.
Not scared.
As if… acknowledging something.
> What did it see in me?
---
That evening, during supper, Aeron stayed unusually quiet—not babbling, not reaching for wooden toys.
He simply sat in his mother's lap, watching the fire flicker.
His eyes weren't on the flames.
They were on the threads dancing above them.
He could see them more clearly now.
Tiny wisps of gold and violet, barely visible unless you knew where to look. They swirled slowly, reacting to heat, emotion, even sound.
When his father laughed, the threads pulsed brighter.
When Lyra spilled her cup and pouted, they dimmed for a moment.
Mana was more than energy.
It was alive.
> Not conscious… but reactive.
> Sympathetic.
> Bound to will and emotion.
He reached out gently—not to grasp, but to greet.
Just a nudge of thought.
And in return, the threads curled slightly toward him… then dissipated.
Small. But a sign.
He was learning its language.
---
That night, a dream came.
Not of fire or battle.
But of stone halls, bathed in moonlight.
Of armor that breathed, and shadows with names long forgotten.
Aeron stood—not as a child, but as a man.
A king?
A tyrant?
He didn't know.
But he felt the crown of weightless flame upon his head, and the pulse of mana surging through every breath.
He raised his hand in the dream… and stars bowed.
And then—he awoke.
The moonlight shone on his crib.
Lyra lay asleep nearby, hand curled protectively in his direction.
He exhaled slowly.
> That wasn't memory.
> It was… promise.
---
By the end of the week, Aeron had changed.
To his family, he was still the adorable child with bright eyes and an unusual focus.
To himself… he had become a student of the unseen.
He began to notice more:
The way tools faintly buzzed after use, clinging to the mana of their wielder.
The way plants near the window leaned not just toward sunlight, but toward emotion—thriving more when laughter filled the room.
And the way his own breath stirred the air.
He didn't try to summon mana anymore.
Now… he aligned with it.
Breathed with it.
Waited.
And in that waiting, he grew stronger.
Not in muscle.
But in presence.