One month had passed since Richard and Thomas departed for the academy, leaving the manor quieter than Leon had ever known it.
The absence of his brothers' constant banter and antics was a relief in some ways, but it also left Leon with more time to think—and experiment.
He stood in the storeroom, his secret workshop, with two small wooden pieces in his hands.
A faint glow surrounded them as he concentrated, sweat trickling down his temple. The edges of the wood blurred and melded together until they formed a single, seamless piece.
Leon let out a shaky breath and slumped against the wall. His fingers trembled, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him.
"That's the second one today," he muttered, wiping his forehead. "I guess that's my limit again."
The fused wooden stick looked perfectly ordinary, like all the others he'd made over the past month.
No magic, no enhancements—just two pieces of wood combined into one. He tossed it into a corner of the storeroom, where similar experiments were stacked in an untidy pile.
"Not much to show for it," Leon said, sighing.
---
The first few days after his brothers' departure, Leon had experimented cautiously. Now, after weeks of daily practice, he'd started to notice patterns.
He could fuse one or two simple objects each day before a strange, bone-deep fatigue set in.
Trying to push further only left him dizzy and weak. The process also seemed to depend on the item's complexity—wood, stone, and basic metals worked fine, but anything remotely magical or intricate was impossible.
Leon leaned back against a stack of crates, his mind turning over the possibilities. "Why can't I fuse magical items?" he wondered aloud. "And why does it take so much energy?"
The storeroom offered no answers.
---
Leon decided to try something new. He slipped out to the herb garden, careful to avoid his mother's watchful eyes, and plucked two small plants—silverwort and feverleaf, both common herbs used for healing remedies.
Back in the storeroom, he placed the herbs side by side and pressed his fingers to their stems. He closed his eyes, focusing as he always did, waiting for the familiar pull of energy.
Nothing.
Leon frowned and tried again, gripping the herbs tighter. Still, nothing. It was as if the plants didn't recognize his ability at all.
"Why won't this work?" he muttered, staring at the unaltered herbs. Frustration bubbled up inside him, and he slammed them down onto the wooden table.
The sound echoed in the quiet room, and Leon felt his face flush with anger. "Wood and rocks are fine, but plants? No. Magical items? Definitely not. What's the point of this ability if it's so useless?"
He threw himself into a chair, his anger giving way to exhaustion. The herbs lay untouched on the table, mocking him with their stubbornness.
---
The next day, Leon was sent on an errand to the manor's stables. A broken rake lay discarded near the barn, its wooden handle splintered in two.
Leon glanced around to make sure no one was watching before picking it up.
The pull between the two pieces was faint but unmistakable. Leon pressed the splintered ends together, focusing as the glow began to form. The pieces fused seamlessly in a matter of seconds.
"Good as new," he said quietly, placing the rake back where he'd found it.
This wasn't the first time Leon had secretly fixed things around the manor. Over the past month, he'd repaired tools, barrels, and even the wheel of an old cart.
The workers never seemed to notice—they likely assumed the items had been repaired by a servant—but Leon felt a quiet pride in his contributions.
Even if his ability wasn't as impressive as Thomas's magic, it was useful in its own way.
---
That evening, Leon sat in the manor's library, a thick book open in his lap. The flickering candlelight illuminated passages about magical energy and the channels within the human body.
Leon traced the words with his finger, rereading a section about "Mana reserves."
According to the text, all magic users had a finite amount of Mana they could expend each day, depending on their training and natural aptitude.
"Maybe that's why I can only fuse one or two things a day," he thought aloud. But the book didn't explain why his ability seemed limited to mundane objects—or why he had it at all.
He closed the book with a sigh, his thoughts drifting to the strange memories that haunted his dreams.
They weren't as vivid now as they had been a month ago, but they still lingered—images of machines, tools, and a life that didn't belong to this world.
"Did I bring this ability with me?" Leon wondered. "Or is it something this world gave me?"
He had no answers, only questions.
---
Leon returned to the storeroom that night, picking up the fused rake handle from earlier. It was smooth and sturdy, no different from how it had been before it broke.
"It's not much," he murmured, turning it over in his hands. "But it's a start."
He sat at the small wooden desk he'd claimed as his own, pulling out a scrap of parchment and a piece of charcoal.
In careful handwriting, he began to jot down notes about his findings:
Daily limit: 1-2 items before exhaustion.
Only works on basic materials (wood, stone, common metals).
No visible enhancements after fusion.
Cannot fuse living or magical objects.
When he finished, Leon leaned back in his chair, staring at the list. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning.
"I'll figure it out," he said quietly, his determination solidifying. "One step at a time."
The storeroom was silent except for the faint rustling of the wind outside. And as Leon set the parchment aside, he felt a small flicker of hope.
---