The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Luck was awakened by the soft chirping of birds. The warmth of the first rays danced across the wooden windowsill, and for a moment, he almost felt like everything was normal. But it wasn't.
"A new day in this absurd life," he muttered as he peeled himself out of bed. His body felt heavy, as if weighed down by the resistance of his own thoughts. The reflection in the wardrobe mirror was the same as yesterday: snow-white hair, jet-black eyes. Even though he had grown used to it, it still didn't feel like his face.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted down the hall as he got dressed and wandered into the kitchen. His "mother" – he'd given up reminding himself she wasn't really his mother – turned around as he entered the room.
"Good morning, Luck!" Her voice was as warm and cheerful as ever, as if nothing in the world was wrong. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, well enough," he lied, sitting down at the table.
A plate of thick slices of bread, butter, and jam awaited him. He began to eat while she tidied the breakfast table. The man he was supposed to call "father" entered shortly after, a large axe slung over his shoulder.
"Morning, Luck," he rumbled, grabbing a cup of coffee. "I'm heading out to chop some wood. Want to join me?"
Luck blinked, caught off guard by the question. Until now, he had managed to keep a low profile, avoiding drawing too much attention to himself. Yet, something inside him urged him to say yes. Maybe this was a way to learn more about the world around him.
"Sure," he replied at last. "Why not."
His father grinned, seemingly pleased. "Good. Come outside when you're ready."
The morning mist had not yet fully lifted as Luck followed his father to the edge of a small grove behind their house. The axe his father carried looked massive, and Luck wondered how anyone could swing it so effortlessly.
"All right, it's pretty simple," his father began as they stopped. "I'll show you how to hold the axe properly, and you can try it out on one of the smaller logs, okay?"
Luck nodded, and his father handed him the axe. It was heavier than he'd expected, and he needed both hands just to hold it upright.
"Now, stand like this," his father instructed, adjusting Luck's stance. "Feet apart, knees slightly bent. And then swing down."
Luck tried to mimic the movements his father demonstrated, but his first swing missed entirely. The blade glanced off the wood and sank into the ground.
"Don't worry," his father said with a laugh. "That's normal at first. Try again."
Taking a deep breath, Luck focused and swung again. This time, the axe struck the wood with a satisfying crack.
"See? Not bad for a first attempt," his father praised.
A faint sense of pride stirred in Luck, but the work was harder than he'd anticipated. After a few more swings, his hands grew sweaty on the handle, and his breathing grew labored.
"Take a break," his father said at last. "I'll take over."
Relieved, Luck set the axe down and stepped back as his father picked it up with an ease that seemed almost unnatural. It was as if the weight didn't affect him at all.
"You know, son," his father began, casually twirling the axe in his hand, "there's an easier way to do this. But I wanted to see if you could handle the hard way first."
Luck frowned. "An easier way?"
His father grinned, and in that moment, Luck sensed something shift. The air around them seemed to grow warmer, charged with a strange energy.
"Watch closely," his father said, raising a hand. For a brief moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then – a hiss, a crack. Flames suddenly danced in his father's palm as if conjured from thin air.
Luck instinctively stepped back. "What… what is that?"
"Fire," his father said, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He waved his hand, and the flames obeyed, forming into a long, shimmering blade that sliced through the air.
With a fluid motion, he directed the fiery blade at one of the logs, cleaving it cleanly in two. No resistance, no effort.
"How… how did you do that?" Luck stammered, his eyes fixed on the burning remnants of the log.
His father chuckled. "What do you think? Everyone in this village can do it. Well, almost everyone."
"That… that's magic?" Luck finally managed to ask.
"Of course," his father replied, as if it were obvious. "Did you really think we chop everything by hand here? That'd be far too much work."
Luck didn't know how to respond. Magic. Something he had only ever seen in stories and games was real here, a mundane part of life.
"Why… why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked, the words heavy on his tongue.
His father rested a hand on his shoulder. "You've always kept to yourself, son. We thought you needed more time to remember."
"Remember?" Luck shook his head. "Remember what?"
His father hesitated, a shadow passing over his face. Then he smiled again, as if he'd come to a decision. "We'll talk about it later. Come on, let's finish up. There's still work to do."
Luck nodded slowly, though his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Magic was real. And apparently… he was supposed to remember something. Something he didn't know—or had forgotten.
As they walked back to the house, Luck glanced over his shoulder at the charred remains of the logs. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, and a strange mix of fear and fascination stirred within him.
Magic was real. But what did that mean for him?