Fourteen Years Earlier
I was five years old, standing at the edge of the shore, my tiny, pale feet sinking into the cool, wet sand. The sun hung high in the sky, glinting off the waves that danced invitingly just beyond my reach. I could hear the call of the sea, a loud whisper that pulled at my very core, but my father stood beside me, his expression a mix of worry and determination.
"Mark, stay back!" he warned, his voice tight with urgency. "Don't go in the water."
"But, Dad, I want to play!" I protested, glancing longingly at the frothy waves that seemed to beckon me closer. They crashed against the shore, creating a melody that felt like home.
"Promise me you'll stay on the ground," he insisted, his eyes filled with a fear I couldn't understand. "The sea is dangerous. I don't want you to get hurt."
His words felt rehearsed, as if he had repeated them many times before, but they lacked the conviction I craved. There was something else beneath the surface—an unspoken dread that clung to him like sea mist.
I didn't know what he was afraid of, but I felt a surge of rebellion stir within me. So when a new, unknown feeling rose inside of me, with all of the strength inside of my puny body, I instinctively willed for the sea water to come to me.
Suddenly, the waves shifted, responding to my will. A small surge of water leapt toward the shore, rolling up the sand and splashing against my legs, eliciting a squeal of delight. "See, Dad? It likes me!" I laughed, my joy bubbling over as I danced along the water's edge.
But my father's face twisted in alarm. Before I could comprehend his fear, he lunged forward, scooping me up in his arms. My concentration shattered, and the water fell back to the sea.
"Mark, come on!" he urged, his grip tight around me as he hurried away from the beach. "We need to get out of here before anyone sees."
Around us, children who had been playing in the surf froze, their eyes wide with surprise. A girl with sun-kissed curls pointed, her mouth open. "Look! He was making the water move!"
Whispers rippled through the nearby beachgoers. "How can he control it? He's so young!" one man exclaimed, glancing at my father, confusion etched across his face.
My father's panic was palpable as he carried me away from the sand, the voices of the amazed children fading into the background.
I felt powerful, as if I had tapped into something magical, something that connected me to the very essence of the sea. But in that moment of glee, I also sensed my father's fear, a weight that bore down on me like a storm cloud.
Eleven Years Ago
Three years later, we lived in a modest house perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below was a constant presence, a lullaby that both comforted and taunted me. I had grown, but the connection to the water remained strong, an ever-present call that I fought to resist. However, my father had forbidden me from ever going near to, and especially, controlling water as I had done three years earlier.
One evening, I found myself staring through the window at the sea, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the water. My father entered the room, his footsteps heavy with the weight of unspoken words. "Mark, this is long overdue, there's something you need to understand," he said, his voice low and serious. "Your abilities are… different. You are not a mage. You see, your mother, she was a N-
A knock came at the door, interrupting my father's speech.
"Hold on a second, Mark," My father grumbled, as he walked over to the door, twisting the door handle open.
At the door stood an older gentlemen, a tall man in a crisp blue coat adorned with a symbol, the symbol of the Fronland Kingdom.
I barely gave any attention to the man at the door, my mind was stuck on the fact that my father had mentioned my mother for the first time, ever. I had never met my mother, not that I can remember and every time I had tried to even ask the smallest thing about my mother, my father would look at me, with an unnerving silence or in some cases, sulk off to another room or place.
This gentlemen at the door commanded an air of authority, but in-front of my father, this man had not a semblance of control.
"Good evening, Mr M- Maris, my name is Sir David Graeham" the older man paused, turning his gaze towards me, "Y- Your son has remarkable potential," the official said, his voice shaky. "With proper training, he could become one of the greatest water mages of our time. He would have this training if he came to my institution, the-
"No, we are not interested," my father muttered, before slamming the door shut. "Another one of them, when will they end," he muttered to himself, before sitting beside me to continue our conversation.
"Mark, your abilities are not similar to a normal mages, they are more similar, to… a monsters' abilities. You don't need to learn a spell, nor do you need to cast its name like a normal mage does. These spells are ingrained into your very being. But you must act as if you are a normal mage. Do you understand? If you ever control water, You must cast a spells name before you will it, you must act as if you laboured for weeks on end to learn a spell. You must do this to fit in, or you could be murdered for being… different. Please, Mark, remember this."