Life is full of mysteries, thought Renatus, with the seriousness of a philosopher trapped in the body of a five-year-old boy.

  He thought he was unique. He wasn’t.

  He thought he had understood the mechanism behind the so-called “Magic.” He hadn’t.

  There was something humiliating about how the world kept ignoring his magical existence. Six whole months, and not a single stone had heated up again. Not one. He had varied the size, the weight, the texture. He tried round stones, flat ones, even one shaped like a heart that his mother brought him with an awkward smile. Nothing.

  Frustration piled up in his room like the dust under his bed: inevitable and oppressive.

  His “laboratory” consisted of more than a hundred pebbles arranged with absurd meticulousness. Categorized by color, size, density. Some marked with plant ink. Others with symbols drawn in spit and stubbornness.

  And of course, the village quickly noticed the little boy with the sharp gaze and clenched fists who crouched in the middle of the market to examine a rock with the intensity of a priest inspecting a sacred relic.

  —There goes the pebble maniac —they’d say, laughing.

  Renatus didn’t hear them. And if he did, he pretended not to. He just responded with a raised finger—not the most diplomatic one—and carried on with his task.

  His theory, absurd but logical within his childish mind, was simple: if I repeat exactly all the conditions of the first success, it’ll happen again.

  That included the position of his fingers, the angle of the sun, and even whether he’d eaten soup or bread that morning. He began recording patterns in clumsy drawings and backward letters. He started to suspect the weather played a role. Or maybe he had to shout something at the stone before trying.

  He shouted. Nothing.

  He begged. Nothing.

  And yet, every time he found a pebble identical to the one from that first day—or one he swore was identical—his victory cry echoed all the way to the river:

  —This one, this one, THIS ONE!

  Followed, of course, by:

  —WHY WON’T YOU WORK, YOU TRAITOROUS PIECE OF—?!

  There was a mix of rage and euphoria in his quest. A need to understand the mechanism, to unravel the trick behind the magic. He didn’t want power. He wanted precision. Explanation.

  And though his parents watched him with a kind of quiet concern—especially once he started speaking to the stones like they were old enemies—they didn’t stop him.

  Maybe because they knew there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite belong to a child.

  Maybe because they knew that kind of stubbornness…

  would someday move mountains.

  [...]

  One day, fed up with so much failure, with so many idiotic pebbles and frustrated sighs, Renatus gave up... but only a little.

  He wasn’t going to stop searching, of course not, but he was going to aim higher. Maybe the problem wasn’t the technique, or the sun, or the lunar phase. Maybe the problem was that he’d been aiming too low.

  And then he saw it.

  On the dining table, surrounded by stale bread and a jug of sour milk, lay a stone unlike any other.

  It was blue. But not just any blue.

  A metallic, electric blue—almost painful to look at.

  A living stone, as if it had a pulse. As if it remembered things.

  —Should I...? —he muttered, with that inner voice that always sounds a lot like yourself when you’re about to do something stupid.

  —No, Mother would be angry. It’s her favorite stone. She calls it “her amulet”...

  Silence. A dramatic pause.

  Then another voice, also his, but more cynical, more Renatus:

  —Although, really, it’s a small price to pay for knowing the truth.

  Without further hesitation, and with the discretion of a seasoned thief just barely reaching the edge of the table, he seized the gleaming mineral and fled like a soul possessed by magic.

  To his laboratory.

  His fortress.

  His secret temple: his bedroom.

  He sealed the door with safety rituals (a chair wedged under the handle and a blanket to block any stray light).

  He waited.

  He measured the sun’s angle with a twig through the window.

  He counted to thirty-seven (because thirty-seven was scientifically mystical, he’d decided).

  And he began.

  He placed the stone with reverence on his makeshift altar (an upside-down box).

  Knelt before it.

  Positioned his hands just as he had the day the pebble heated.

  Nothing.

  He took a deep breath. Visualized.

  Thought with all his stubborn little soul:

  “Fire. Fire. FIRE.”

  And the stone—oh yes, the stone responded.

  Not with heat. Not with light.

  But with a completely disproportionate reaction.

  BOOM!

  An explosion engulfed the room in a burst of blue flames and freezing wind.

  The temperature went mad, as if summer and winter had decided to brawl to the death right then and there.

  Books flew.

  Blankets burned without burning.

  His shelf evaporated with a dramatic sigh.

  —HOW! BY THE GODS! FUNDAMENTAL-LEVEL MAGIC! —shouted Renatus, spinning in place, more excited than afraid.

  And then, through the chaos—through fire that didn’t consume and ice that didn’t freeze—a terrible voice thundered from beyond the threshold of maternal wrath:

  —I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH MY ARKHéON STONE, ELUR!

  Silence.

  —Oops.

  The cold crept in—not from the spell just cast, but the cold of death forewarning a grim fate.

  A living death, a being of pure destruction, entered through the door.

  Its silhouette was a furious shadow dressed as a mother.

  Eyes cold as permafrost, a glare that could detonate a boiler.

  She crossed the threshold like a storm barely contained, expecting to find her husband once again attempting magic like in the old days, like in the bad decisions.

  But no.

  She found only a small, trembling Renatus, wrapped in blue smoke and guilt, who—very bravely, or very stupidly—chose not to run.

  He stood among the wreckage of his room like a castaway among burned-out planks. Took a deep breath.

  He would face his second death like a man.

  Or at least like a reborn child with dignity.

  His mother stared. A long, heavy pause.

  The spectral fire crackled around them, casting the scene in a sinister beauty.

  The silence was so tense it could be sliced with a knife...

  —Do you have any idea, Renatus Novus, what you’ve just done?

  —Yes —he replied, voice trembling but steady—. Revolutionized modern magic.

  A blink.

  A silence.

  A creak from the floor beneath them.

  —You STOLE my Arkhéon stone! That thing’s more unstable than Aunt Helia with wine!

  Renatus said nothing. He had delivered his heroic line.

  Everything that came next was punishment and ashes.

  But deep down—way down—something vibrated.

  Not the stone.

  Not the magic.

  Him.

  He vibrated.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt something respond.

  Not just the stone.

  Reality.

  And amid the scolding, the shouting, the threats about making him eat nettle soup for a month, his gaze never left the blue mineral, now cold, inert, but… different.

  It had floated. It had exploded. It had obeyed.

  Or it had heard him.

  And that was worse.

  His mother, still with her face smudged with smoke, sighed.

  She knelt before him, took his little charred—but unharmed—hands (miracles of the Arkhéon), and spoke in a tired but gentle voice:

  —Listen to me, Renatus.

  Magic… magic isn’t like playing with mud or stacking stones.

  Magic is like an invisible river that runs through everything.

  Some people can see it. Others only feel it.

  And sometimes, if you’re stubborn enough—like you—you can dip your hands in and splash everyone around.

  He blinked, confused but fascinated.

  —The stone you used is called Arkhéon. It’s not a common stone. It’s not a toy.

  It’s like a seed… but one that won’t grow unless you speak to it kindly.

  And if you yell at it, it explodes.

  Renatus swallowed hard.

  —The Arkhéon hears what’s inside you.

  If you’re angry, it gets angry.

  If you’re scared, it stirs.

  If you’re happy… well, that hardly ever happens, so we don’t really know.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She winked with a crooked smile, and he made a face that could’ve been half a laugh or half embarrassment.

  —When a real mage uses magic, they don’t command reality. They persuade it.

  And you, my child, couldn’t convince a chicken not to steal its own egg.

  —So I’m not a mage? —Renatus asked, with a mix of disappointment and defiance.

  She looked at him, serious.

  —Not yet.

  But you’re something rarer: someone who’s already heard the river… and made it scream.

  She stood, picked up the scorched stone from the floor, and before leaving, tossed one last warning over her shoulder:

  —And if you ever touch my things without permission again, you’ll discover a kind of magic that’s not taught with words.

  The door creaked shut behind her.

  Renatus was left alone, smelling of smoke and wounded pride, but with a crooked smile.

  He wasn’t a mage. Yet.

  But he was dangerous.

  And that, he thought, was an excellent beginning.

  […]

  Convincing reality, thought Renatus, frowning.

  —That’s not scientific at all —he grumbled under his breath, arms crossed.

  It had been a month since the “incident”—if that word could even begin to describe an explosion of frozen fire that rewrote the laws of thermodynamics. His “room,” still marked with spectral traces on the walls, remained covered in those “ashes” that were not ashes. They were something else… something that defied matter.

  They were remnants of a fire that did not burn. Ice that did not freeze.

  Imperfect recreations of a physical state.

  —I wonder... —he murmured, inspecting one of the half-charred objects— could I replicate the physical state… and thus trigger a real reaction?

  He aimed higher than his hands could reach. Since the incident, he hadn’t achieved anything close. All he could do was heat up rocks—and not even very much. He was stuck.

  —Dry… like soup with no magic —he muttered dramatically.

  But then, something pulled him out of his obsessive loop.

  A voice. Small, soft. A girl, maybe his age, perhaps a little younger. Skin white as snow, hair mint-blue so pale it looked like it had stolen color from the sky, and eyes a shade of yellow so warm he couldn’t ignore them.

  She was talking to a plant.

  Renatus, like any miniature mad scientist, didn’t intervene. He watched. And watched.

  —Let’s see what you’re doing that I can’t, garden witch —he whispered to himself, frowning.

  The girl murmured something else—inaudible words that felt more like affection than spellwork. And then, the impossible happened.

  A stem, no longer than a thumb, rose from the soil with the strength and grace of an impatient flower.

  A rose, tiny and brave, as if answering a promise only it had heard.

  Renatus shouted, unable to contain himself.

  —THAT WAS INSANE!

  The girl jumped in fright.

  —Ah!

  —What was that? How did you do it? Can you teach me? Please, please, please! —Renatus begged, with the frantic desperation of a boy who’d just watched someone open a hole in reality… and not share the recipe.

  The girl stammered.

  —I… uh… I didn’t… do anything… I just… encouraged it. People need encouragement to feel motivated… so I thought maybe she needed it too…

  Renatus nodded solemnly.

  —I see. I completely understand —he said, having understood absolutely nothing.

  A short but comfortable silence followed. Then Renatus, remembering they were children and not scholars, smiled a little.

  —My name’s Renatus. I live in the house by the river, the one that smells weird inside but has great acoustics for yelling. What’s your name?

  The girl hesitated, hands clutching the edges of her dress with shyness.

  —I… uh… my name’s Lira.

  Renatus extended his hand, firm as if sealing a pact with destiny.

  —Pleasure to meet you, Lira. I think we’re going to change the world together. Or accidentally destroy it. Either way, it’ll be fun.

  Lira looked at him, unsure whether to laugh or run… then smiled.

  She remained standing, a little hunched, as if still afraid she’d done something wrong. But Renatus, eyes glowing like freshly lit embers, couldn’t stop asking questions.

  —So you didn’t say weird words? Didn’t draw symbols? Not even counted the petals beforehand?

  Lira shook her head.

  —I just thought I wanted it to grow. That it was alone, and… and maybe it needed a little push.

  —And that’s it? —Renatus arched a brow— Because that sounds more like emotional therapy than magic.

  Lira blinked.

  —Thera… what?

  —Emotional therapy. Like when an adult tells you talking about your feelings is good. But that’s not magic! —Renatus protested, crossing his arms— Magic should have rules. Equations. A replicable theoretical framework!

  She frowned, tilting her head slightly.

  —Frame… what? Repli… what?

  —Replicable. Meaning it can be done again. Like a recipe! If you do the same thing, the same thing should happen.

  —Ah… —Lira seemed to be thinking very hard, a serious wrinkle forming between her eyebrows— That sounds boring.

  Renatus’s mouth fell open in horror.

  —It’s the most exciting thing in the world! Imagine: understanding how everything works. Everything! Like reality is a riddle and you have the key.

  —I don’t understand anything you’re saying —she admitted with a giggle— But it sounds nice. Weird, but nice.

  Renatus crossed his arms again, as if evaluating a poorly formed hypothesis.

  —Maybe… maybe you’re convincing the plant that it’s worth growing. Like… like encouraging it to keep breathing, even if it hurts.

  Lira looked at him, surprised.

  —That sounded sad.

  —It is a little. But it’s also science. Emotional, I guess. Emotional science applied to reactive flora. Mmm… —he pulled a little stone from his pocket, scratching invisible notes onto it with his fingernail— I’m writing that on the wall of my lab.

  —What’s a lab? —Lira asked, confused.

  —It’s a… a very cool place where I do incredible things —Renatus replied, with a mix of pride and dirt on his face.

  She laughed. For a moment, the two children just stood there, sharing the kind of silence that isn’t awkward but full of new possibilities.

  But then came a dry, heavy step. A shadow stretched from behind the house. The laughter snapped like a taut thread.

  A large figure appeared—broad, stern-eyed, hands like granite claws. Renatus’s father.

  He said nothing. Walked straight to the boy and grabbed his arm roughly. Renatus let out a yelp, more from surprise than pain.

  —Dad?

  Silence.

  Lira stepped back, eyes wide as moons. The man didn’t even look at her.

  Renatus struggled, indignant.

  —Wait! We were talking about magic! I didn’t do anything wrong! Dad!!

  But his father was already dragging him away with determined steps, as if every word from the boy were useless air. No explanation. No glance back.

  Just a dry command that left the air cold:

  —Don’t talk to that girl again.

  The door slammed shut. Lira was left alone among newborn flowers.

  And Renatus, with his arm aching, his pride wounded, and his head boiling, understood something for the first time in his short life:

  There are secrets you don’t shout.

  And there are things adults fear more than fire.

  […]

  Later that night, a storm brewed over the Novus household in the form of a heated argument.

  —You really scolded him just for that? He’s a child, he doesn’t know what he’s doing! —the mother’s voice cracked like a whip of disbelief, low but firm, trembling between poorly sealed walls.

  —He shouldn’t be around that... thing —the father spat, his tone sharp but lacking strength. A learned disgust, not a felt one.

  —She’s not a thing, she’s a little girl! An innocent child. She’s not to blame for anything. She doesn’t know what her kind has done!

  —It’s because of her kind that we’re living… like this —he growled, making a vague gesture, as if poverty had a shape, as if it could be pointed at.

  —Like this? Like how? —the mother rose from the table, the dishes rattled— Isn’t our home enough for you? Our life? Our son?

  There was silence. A silence more painful than any word.

  The father looked away. The wood creaked under his chair.

  —You know I didn’t mean it that way… I just… I don’t trust them.

  —And what does that make us, then? —she asked, not with anger, but with dense, raw sorrow. A crack in her voice.

  He didn’t answer right away. He just ran a hand down his face, as if trying to wipe away the years, the exhaustion, the memories.

  —We didn’t… do what they did.

  —You didn’t see it. You heard it. Like everyone else. Stories. Convenient culprits. What if it was more complicated than that? What if you just repeat what you were told because it’s easier than facing the idea that you might be wrong?

  —And what if you’re wrong? What if tomorrow that girl drags him into something we can’t stop?

  —And what if you do, with your fear? —she replied without hesitation.

  A slammed door would have been gentler than the silence that followed.

  From his room, Renatus heard everything. Every word was an invisible nail driven into his chest. He didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough:

  That his father was afraid.

  That his mother had hope.

  And that he was caught in the middle of a war older than stone, disguised as late-night conversations.

  He gripped the bedsheet.

  Thought of Lira.

  Of how she spoke to plants.

  Of how she looked at him without fear.

  Of how she said things needed encouragement to grow.

  And he knew, with the brutal intuition of children, that it wasn’t just about flowers.

  […]

  At the end of the argument, there was nothing left to say.

  The words had been spoken, like used knives.

  The facts floated in the air like thorns—unseen, but impossible to forget.

  The house settled into silence, the kind that doesn’t soothe, only crushes.

  In the darkness, the door to Renatus’s room opened with a dry whisper.

  His father entered.

  —Son… can we talk? —his voice wasn’t firm, wasn’t rigid. It was pleading, like something inside him had broken, and he didn’t yet know how to gather the pieces.

  Renatus sat up on his cot, alert.

  —Sure. It’s okay —he replied, confused. He wasn’t used to that tone. His father usually spoke like a man issuing commands, never like someone asking for permission.

  The man walked slowly to the chair by the window. He didn’t sit. He remained standing, as though the weight of what he was about to say wouldn’t let him rest.

  —I know I haven’t been the best father —he began, staring at the floor, not the boy—. I know I haven’t been there for you like I should… that I’ve failed you in a lot of ways.

  He rubbed his face with a calloused hand.

  His eyes shone.

  But not from anger this time.

  —But I want you to know… that everything I’ve done, even what you don’t understand… I did because I love you, son.

  I love you.

  And I always will.

  A tear ran down his cheek.

  Renatus felt more uncomfortable than ever. What was he supposed to say? That he forgave him? That he understood?

  Understood what?

  —I… I know, Father —he murmured at last, and it was true. He knew. He didn’t understand, but he knew.

  His father nodded once. Breathed deeply, like someone about to dive into an icy lake.

  —And there’s something else I need you to know…

  Pause.

  —Have you ever wondered why no one leaves this village?

  Why we have to move in squads even when we’re just hunting rabbits or foraging for roots?

  Renatus swallowed.

  Yes, he had wondered.

  Many times.

  But never aloud.

  —Yeah… I have —he admitted.

  His father finally looked at him.

  And it was as if the years, the fear, and the guilt had turned into wrinkles.

  —In this world… there are bad people, son.

  People who’ll look at you and won’t see a person.

  Who’ll treat you like a tool, a threat…

  or a trophy.

  His voice dropped even lower.

  —People who’ll want you dead just for what you are. For your blood. For your eyes. For your name.

  Silence.

  —I… I know I won’t always be here to protect you.

  No one is.

  Renatus felt a knot in his throat. It hurt to hear him say it so plainly.

  —And that’s why I need you to promise me something —his father said, now crouching to his level, gripping his shoulders with steady hands.

  —What is it, Father?

  —If you see danger, run.

  Don’t be brave.

  Don’t be a hero.

  Don’t face it.

  Run.

  Run as fast as you can.

  Even if it’s shameful.

  Even if they call you a coward.

  Even if it hurts.

  —Why…? —Renatus started to ask, but his father was already standing again.

  —Because if you’re alive… there’s always a second chance.

  And with that, his father left the room.

  The door closed without a sound.

  But in Renatus’s heart, something did click.

  He didn’t yet understand what.

  But he didn’t sleep that night.

  And it wasn’t out of fear.

  It was because of a new, dull certainty that planted itself in his chest like a seed:

  There is something beyond the village.

  And not everything out there is asleep.