Despite what he had promised, Renatus couldn’t stay still.

  He wasn’t made for stillness.

  He wasn’t a helpless child.

  He was a survivor. A volcano of logic and fire, barely contained by the skin of a six-year-old boy.

  The days passed slowly, but not empty.

  While the village pretended normalcy with tense smiles and repeated greetings, Renatus and Lira slipped away each afternoon, like two kites with minds of their own.

  Beneath the old crooked oak that creaked with the winds from the east, they founded what he, with childish grandiloquence, called:

  —The Society for Elemental Awakening and Unofficial Experimental Research of Dangerous Magic.

  —That sounds like one of those weird things you say —muttered Lira, drawing circles in the dirt with a stick—. Is it contagious, talking like that?

  —It’s science. It’s precision —he replied, chin held high—. And no, it’s not contagious. Though maybe it should be.

  Lira laughed that short, sweet laugh that always seemed to hide a question.

  While Renatus tried to channel heat into a dry branch, she coaxed moss from the stones, tiny mushrooms like colored buttons, or simply fell silent, whispering to roots only she could understand.

  —How do you do it? —he asked one day, frustrated after only managing to warm a rock to the temperature of soup.

  —I don’t do it —she said, turning a leaf between her fingers—. I ask.

  —You ask?

  —Yes. I ask if they want to help me. Some say no. Others… they listen.

  Renatus blinked.

  —That’s completely illogical.

  —Thank you —said Lira, as if he’d given her a compliment.

  And so the days passed. And the afternoons.

  And things began to… change.

  First came the smoke.

  Small columns in the distance. Not from homes. Not from campfires.

  From the forest.

  Where no one goes.

  Then, the looks.

  The adults spoke more quietly, met more often.

  Sometimes his parents didn’t return home until deep night.

  There were fewer hunted animals.

  The silence of the forest grew heavier, like damp cloth pressed against the skin.

  And then came the shadows.

  Renatus saw them one afternoon, just after lighting a fire that smelled of mint and burned metal.

  They weren’t animals.

  Nor people.

  They moved among the trees like smudges in the air.

  No fixed shape.

  No sound.

  But they were there.

  Watching.

  —Did you see them? —he asked Lira.

  —Yes —she replied without looking up from the ground.

  —What are they?

  She shook her head.

  —I don’t know. But the plants… they’re afraid.

  Renatus swallowed.

  He said nothing.

  The next day, he started keeping a journal.

  He hid it beneath a hollow stone at the base of the crooked oak.

  He wrote everything down: temperature, time, spells, sensations, Lira’s words, changes in the trees, in the sky, in the sounds.

  Because if something was going to happen, he wanted to understand it.

  And if he couldn’t stop it…

  At least he’d be ready to run with his eyes open.

  […]

  A year passed like wind through dry branches.

  Renatus had grown. Not much in height, but in determination, in precision, in the way he furrowed his brow each time a spell failed.

  And he failed less.

  Much less.

  The clearing where they trained had become a second home: leaves crushed beneath their steps, stones scorched with circular burns, marks in the earth where magic had brushed against reality… and convinced it. Just a little. But enough.

  That afternoon, the air smelled of rain and challenge.

  —Are you ready? —said Renatus, holding a dull blue Arkhéon stone, one of the non-precious, “experimentable” ones, as he called them.

  Lira nodded from a high root, hugging her collection of leaves like a cat.

  Renatus took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. The mental mantra was simple:

  Air first. Air is movement. Air is dance.

  He opened his eyes.

  A few motes of dust rose. Then they spun.

  A small spiral, no bigger than a flower, danced between his fingers and dissipated.

  He smiled.

  Water. Water is listening. Water is surrender.

  Moisture gathered in his palms.

  One drop.

  Two.

  Five.

  A small, mercury-like puddle formed a floating sphere. He held it for a few seconds before it fell with a soft plop.

  —That’s it! —Lira shouted, clapping with her sleeves over her hands.

  Renatus barely nodded. The important part came now.

  Fire. Fire is order. Fire is structure.

  The stone began to heat.

  A thread of smoke rose from its center.

  And then, like a lit sigh, a small blue flame bloomed, held in the air by sheer will.Nothing exploded. Nothing spun out of control.

  —IT WORKED! —Renatus laughed like the earth had burst with joy beneath his feet—. FIRE! REAL! STABLE! I DESERVE A MAJOR AWARD!

  —Like a whole apple! —said Lira, laughing.—Or two! Or three if no adults are around!

  And then the forest stopped breathing.

  A crack. Not of branches. Not of leaves.

  A sound like fabric tearing… behind a tree that shouldn’t cast shadow at that hour.

  Renatus reacted first. He extinguished the flame immediately. Took a step forward.

  —Is someone there?

  Nothing.

  —Doesn’t seem like an animal —murmured Lira, climbing down from her root.

  And then they saw it.

  A figure. Human.

  Or at least human-shaped.

  But… too thin.

  Too tall.

  No clear face.

  Only silhouette.

  Only shadow.

  It stood still. Watching them.

  Renatus swallowed.

  Took a step forward.

  The figure didn’t move.

  —Who are you? —he asked.

  Nothing.

  —Answer me!

  Lira stepped to his side. Her hands trembled, but she didn’t back away.

  And then, without a word, the shadow unraveled.

  It didn’t flee.

  It didn’t vanish.

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  It broke apart like smoke pulled by the wind, leaving behind a void darker than night.

  Both children stayed silent.

  —Did you see it? —whispered Renatus.

  —Yes.

  —Do you know what it was?

  Lira shook her head.

  —But… the earth didn’t want it there.

  Renatus nodded slowly.

  —Then it’s not from here.

  —No.

  —Then… we have to get ready.

  The rain began to fall, soft.

  One drop at a time.

  And with each one, certainty grew in their chests like controlled fire.

  The unknown had looked at them.

  And now, they were looking back.

  […]

  Night spilled slowly over the valley, like black ink on a forgotten map.

  The crickets’ song was too regular, too measured, as if even the insects knew silence was best kept.

  In the center of the village, the old communal cabin glowed with dim light—torches lit at odd hours, figures moving inside with restrained urgency.

  Renatus was awake. Not by accident.

  —Lira? —he whispered, crouched behind the back wall—. Are you there?

  —Yes... What’s going on? Why are so many people awake?

  —Let’s find out.

  Like shadows aware of their own smallness, they crept through the underbrush, skirting bushes, the chicken coop, buckets still full of water.

  They reached a crack in the wooden wall. And listened.

  —…it’s not just any patrol. Someone saw the kingdom’s banners… silver on black. Shadows with silver emblems, the guard said.

  —And how did they know we were here? No one’s left the forest in months!

  —Maybe they don’t need to know. Maybe they’re just… cleansing.

  —Should we flee again?

  —And go where, Arven? Where? This is the third refuge in nine years. There are no more. Not if we bring the children, the elders… we won’t make it.

  —Then… we fight?

  —With what? Sticks? Prayers?

  Silence. But not like before.

  This one was thick. Chewable. Tragic.

  —If they come for us, they’ll come for everyone. They don’t see rebels and refugees. Only the useful and the dead.

  Renatus felt something shift in his chest, like a stone falling into a bottomless well.Lira, beside him, pressed her lips tight, as if trying to catch the words before they entered her world completely.

  —We have to tell someone… —she whispered.

  —And who would listen?

  They returned in silence, each with a different fear.

  Lira’s had roots; Renatus’s had teeth.

  That night, lying beneath his roof of wood and constellations, Renatus didn’t fall asleep right away.

  He watched the window, the branch brushing against the glass, the distant shimmer of the river.

  Something had broken inside him, something shaped like home.

  Before closing his eyes, he made himself a promise—

  If something happened, he would not be a fearful child.

  He would be a Novus.

  And then, at last, he slept.

  […]

  A scream.

  A noise and heat.

  That’s all it takes to scare even the bravest warrior.

  The sky didn’t bother to explain itself.

  The attack came without trumpets, without voices, without warning.

  Just an explosion: sharp, like laughter at a funeral.

  And then, fire.

  Renatus woke with his face drenched in sweat that wasn’t his.

  The wall shook.

  His window shattered into a thousand screaming shards.

  And the smell... the smell was of flesh and fear, of burning wood and dying home.

  —RENATUS! —his mother’s voice, sharp, slicing through the flames—. RUN, NOW!

  He didn’t think. Didn’t reason.

  He just ran.

  The village had become a throat of ash.

  Collapsed houses.

  People fleeing.

  Voices calling out names that would never answer.

  Men in dark armor, the King's emblem glowing on their chests like it burned from within.

  They weren’t hunting.

  They weren’t fighting.

  They were executing.

  —MAMA! —Renatus screamed, and saw her.The last thing he’d ever see of her.

  His mother, standing tall like a tower of will, her hair whipping like white flames.Before her, five soldiers.

  One already on the ground, turned to a crystal statue by her magic.

  But it wasn’t enough. It never was.

  Renatus took a step.

  And in that instant, the spear pierced his mother.

  The world blinked out for a second.

  A strangled howl clawed its way from his throat.

  His father, on the far side, fought with silent rage.

  Wounded. Limping. But standing.

  A spear.

  A sword.

  An end.

  A bit poetic, really.

  Two lovers who’d bound their lives with something stronger than distance, fiercer than war, more stubborn than death.

  Now separated by a stretch of burning earth,

  Fire, rubble, enemies.

  A stretch of burning earth between them, and a single look passing between them like nothing stood in the way.

  She was on her knees, the spear still lodged in her chest, yet upright—As if sheer love could defy steel.

  He, farther off, gasping, a sword embedded in his torso, his wounds not bleeding anymore but giving up.

  Her eyes searched for him through the chaos.

  He found her first.

  He always found her first.

  They said nothing.

  They couldn’t.

  But both thought the same thing:

  “At least I saw you one last time.”

  She smiled. Not with her lips.

  With her eyes.

  With her soul.

  And then, she fell.

  He let out a cry that had no name.

  It wasn’t a man’s cry.

  It wasn’t human.

  It was the echo of a broken promise.

  He tried to run to her.

  Not for vengeance.

  Not for rage.

  Just to hold her hand.

  But the arrows reached him first.

  He fell sideways, eyes still locked on her, fingers reaching for a love that no longer reached back.

  That was how Renatus’s parents died:

  Standing.

  Apart.

  But bound by an invisible thread, stronger than death.

  A thread no blade could cut.

  […]

  Renatus…

  Renatus didn’t believe it.

  He didn’t want to. He couldn’t.

  His legs trembled. His mind was a thick fog, and his chest, a broken drum that no longer knew how to beat.

  They may not have given him his first life, but they were the ones who taught him what it meant to have a second.

  They gave him shelter, bedtime stories, proud glances, and that awkward tenderness only parents know how to hide beneath scolding words.

  And now they were there.

  Two bodies.

  Two motionless forms.

  Two presences torn from the world.

  He stared at them, waiting for them to breathe. Waiting for them to say something. A joke. A scolding.

  —What are you doing so close to the fire, Renatus?

  —Get out of there before you singe your eyebrows!

  Nothing.

  Their lips were parted, as if they’d left in the middle of a final word.

  A sentence suspended, never spoken.

  A laugh that never had time to break free.

  Renatus knelt.

  He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. The pain was too sharp, like a knife carved from glass. It didn’t fit inside a human voice.

  And even as everything inside him shattered, there was a part of him that didn’t doubt.

  He knew.

  He knew they were gone. That their souls had left.

  Because he had been there.

  He had crossed that border.

  He had felt the impossible warmth of the universe hold him like a mother embracing a fallen child.

  He had been nothing, and everything, and part.

  He didn’t need to believe their souls were in a better place.

  He knew.

  And still…

  Still, with everything left in his heart, he wished they had found a corner of peace.

  A place without fear.

  Without chains.

  Without kings.

  A place where no one would ever force them to hide again.

  A place where they could still laugh together.

  It hurt.

  More than the smoke in his lungs.

  More than the fear.

  Because even if the soul can be reborn, the body is stubborn. And memory…

  Memory does not forget the warmth of arms, or the taste of poorly made soup, or the off-key songs under a stormy night.

  Renatus, the child.

  Renatus, the reborn.

  Renatus, the orphan once more.

  And in that moment, in that second of absolute pain, he chose to remember.

  Not to suffer.

  But to endure.

  […]

  A scream.

  One he had heard before.

  It was Lira.

  Renatus turned like a wounded flash.

  He saw her.

  Small. Fragile. Frozen in fear.

  And beside her, the shadow.

  A soldier of the kingdom, his armor clean of blood, his voice soaked in venom.—You’re not like them —he was saying—. You’re not like these beasts. You have noble blood, pure blood. Come with us. We’ll treat you well.

  His tone wasn’t cruel; it was worse: paternal.

  Like someone speaking to a flower he wanted to place in a golden vase before it grew wild.

  Lira didn’t understand.

  Her eyes trembled. Her voice was a plea between sobs.

  —Help! Please! Renatus!

  And the earth answered before he could.

  Roots burst from the ground—twisted, clumsy, but resolute. They wrapped around the soldier’s ankles like vegetal serpents, not to wound, but to hold, to scream with her.

  The man looked at the roots. Then at Lira.

  He sighed, disappointed, like a father let down by his daughter’s grades.

  —I thought you were better than this —he said, and raised his sword.And then—

  A blade. A scream. A stomach split open.

  Renatus.

  He had arrived. He had run with all his breath, with all his fire.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The blade cut him from side to side. Blood spilled as if his body had just released a secret.

  He dropped to his knees, but not in defeat.

  In his hands, a desperate attempt at magic: a sphere.

  Compressed air. Unstable. Bright. Trembling.

  He had tried to isolate oxygen. To create fire without fire.

  A focused explosion. Precise. Lethal.

  But magic is stubborn.

  And he was still just a boy playing at being a weapon.

  The sphere burst.

  Not with flame, but with force.

  A silent implosion that flung them both like dry leaves in a storm.

  Renatus felt the world spin. The sky turn to river. The ground vanish.

  Lira screamed his name, but it was already too late.

  They both fell.

  Down the slope. Over rocks. Past the edge.And then—

  The mouth of the river.

  The current swallowed them without ceremony.

  A liquid beast that doesn’t ask. That doesn’t forgive.

  Renatus, his wound gaping, feeling his blood dissolve into the water like red ink.Lira, unconscious, floating from the force of the blow, carried by the current to the other side.

  And he…

  He saw her drift and reach the shore.

  And he smiled, barely, with split lips.

  His body was sinking.

  His mind dimming.

  And in the depths of his chest, a spark.

  The broken promise of a boy who had once said he’d run if danger came.

  And who chose to fight, because he didn’t know how to be anything else.

  The river enveloped him.

  Not like an enemy, but like a return.

  The water was not cold. Nor warm. Nor tangible.

  It was… something else.

  A liquid cradle. A gentle forgetting.

  The wound in his belly burned, yes, but the pain grew distant—like a bell tolling from the far shore of the world.

  Renatus no longer knew if his eyelids were closed or if the world had simply gone dark.

  Water entered his mouth, his ears, his thoughts.

  There was no air. No up or down.

  Only the current.

  And the muffled echo of a name torn from his body like a leaf in the wind.

  His consciousness began to dissolve.

  Just like before.

  Just like the time he ceased being a man and became something else.

  A cosmic sigh.

  Stardust.

  An unanswered question.

  Now, there were no stars.

  Only mud.

  Water.

  And the rough lull of death.

  But Renatus recognized it.

  That soft rending. That invitation to let go of the self.

  To merge.

  To become the river.

  First his fingers.

  Then his arms.

  His chest.

  His thoughts.

  Memories slipped from his mind like scales.

  His parents’ voices.

  Lira’s laughter.

  The warmth of a poorly made fire.

  Magic as play.

  The broken promise.

  All of it dissolved.

  Not as punishment.

  As return.

  The water didn’t carry him away: it absorbed him.

  And for a moment, he was part of it.

  Of the current.

  Of the mud.

  Of the mineral whisper running beneath the surface.

  His body was river.

  His thoughts were foam.

  His soul… floated.

  And there, just at the edge of vanishing, a sharp note broke through the nothing.

  A spark in the center of his chest.

  Not fire. Not magic.

  Will.

  If you're reading this, first of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read what I’ve written—it truly means a lot to me.

  I’d really appreciate it if you could share your thoughts on how I can improve—whether my style needs refining, if something could be better developed, or any feedback you think might help.

  This is the final part of the first episode of the story, split into three individual chapters to make it easier to digest. It also marks the beginning of the larger tale I'm working on.

  Once again, I’d be very grateful for any advice or comments that can help me grow as a writer.

  Thank you for sticking with it, and I hope you have a great day.

  P.S. In case you didn’t notice, each chapter title is a song that, in my opinion, matches the mood of the chapter. Just in case you’d like something to listen to while reading.