The dining hall of the manor buzzed with the gentle hum of morning routines.
Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, casting golden streaks across the long wooden table.
The air was filled with the rich scent of fresh bread, roasted ham, and a hint of lavender from Lady Lillian Darnell's enchanted candles that floated above the table.
Eight-year-old Leon Darnell sat quietly near the end of the table, nibbling on a slice of bread while his two brothers argued loudly, as they always did.
"I'm telling you," said Thomas Darnell, jabbing his fork at their elder brother, "when I join the academy next year, I'm going to exceed everyone's expectations."
"Blow something up, more like," retorted Richard Darnell, without looking up from his plate. "Didn't you almost set your own bed on fire trying to light a candle last week?"
"That was... a practice accident!" Thomas protested, his cheeks reddening. "And at least I'm not boring. You're so perfect all the time it's like you're trying to be a statue. Do you even have fun?"
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Fun doesn't get you to the top of your class. You might want to try it—assuming you can sit still long enough to study."
"Boys," their mother Lillian interrupted with a light laugh as she set down a platter of fresh fruit.
"Your father has enough on his plate without you two adding to it before breakfast is even over."
Their father, Baron Gareth Darnell, looked up from the ledger he had been reviewing.
A man of stern features and sharp eyes, he was someone who rarely wasted words, but when he spoke, everyone listened.
"Thomas," Gareth said, his tone calm but pointed,
"if you intend to join the academy, you'll need to prove you're ready. It's not all duels and bravado—there's discipline involved, and plenty of it."
Thomas slouched in his chair but mumbled, "Yes, Father."
Leon tore off another piece of bread, trying to remain invisible amid the lively back-and-forth.
His brothers thrived on attention, whether it came from their parents or each other.
He preferred the quiet, watching and listening. It gave him time to think—about his family, their barony, and most often, the strange memories that lingered at the edge of his thoughts like distant shadows.
They weren't memories of this life. He was sure of it.
They came in vivid flashes during sleep, visions of a world without magic.
Buildings taller than castles, strange glowing devices, and... what had they been called? Cars? It had taken him years to understand they weren't dreams—they were pieces of another life, one he had lived before waking up in this world as an infant.
"Leon," his mother said, breaking his reverie, "you've hardly touched your porridge. Are you feeling alright?"
He looked up, startled, and quickly spooned some porridge into his mouth. "I'm fine, Mother," he replied, though his voice sounded small in the lively room.
Richard gave him a sidelong glance. "You've been quiet today. Don't tell me you're nervous about the academy already. You've still got two years before you have to worry about that."
"I'm not worried," Leon replied quickly.
Thomas grinned. "Oh, don't worry. When it's your turn, I'll be there to show you the ropes. You know, once I've mastered everything."
Richard snorted. "Mastered what? Setting things on fire?"
The table erupted into laughter, but Leon barely heard it. His mind drifted again, this time to his ability. He wasn't like his brothers, nor like anyone else he knew.
From a young age, he had known he was different. He could feel it in his bones—a strange pull when he held certain objects.
If he concentrated, he sometimes imagined the pieces fitting together, melding into one.
But he had never dared to tell anyone—not his family, not his closest friend (if he even had one).
It was his secret, one he intended to keep to himself for as long as necessary.
"Leon!"
He jolted at his father's sharp voice.
"You're daydreaming again,"
Baron Gareth said. "If you have time for that, you can help your mother in the garden after breakfast. The new herbs need tending, and the gardeners could use an extra hand."
"Yes, Father," he said quickly, bowing his head.
His mother smiled warmly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as she passed by. "You'll do just fine, dear. You've always been such a thoughtful child."
The rest of breakfast passed uneventfully, with his brothers continuing their loud, competitive banter and his father returning to his ledger.
By the time the plates were cleared and the room began to empty, Leon found himself once again alone with his thoughts.
He glanced at his hands. They looked ordinary enough, small and unremarkable for an eight-year-old.
But he knew better. Somewhere within them lay the power to change things, to create something entirely new. He just didn't know how to control it—or if he even wanted to.
The dreams were one thing. The ability was another. Both were secrets he couldn't afford to let slip—not now, not ever.