The Arcanist Reborn

The Kael household was quiet in the mornings, the kind of quiet that allowed even the faintest sound to carry. Eryon, bundled in a soft woolen blanket, lay in his crib near the open window. Outside, the cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, the remnants of last night's storm still lingering.

At first glance, Eryon appeared as any infant might—soft, small, and helpless. But behind his silver eyes, his mind churned. Every sensation felt sharper now, as though his awareness of this new world was deepening with each passing day.

It had been months since his reincarnation, and in that time, Eryon had made several quiet discoveries about magic. He didn't fully understand it yet, but he was beginning to notice patterns—subtle rules governing the invisible threads of energy that wove through the air around him.

He called it the hum.

It was faint, barely noticeable unless he focused. At first, he thought it was an innate trait of the world itself, but over time, he realized it was something deeper. The hum wasn't constant; it shifted and changed, ebbing and flowing like a tide. Sometimes it felt warm and gentle, like sunlight on his skin. Other times, it felt sharp and bracing, like the cold wind of a storm.

One morning, while lying in his crib, Eryon decided to experiment further. The sunlight streaming through the window danced across the floor, highlighting the fine dust in the air. Eryon fixated on the warm glow, imagining it as a thread he could reach out and pull.

His tiny hand lifted, and he focused, his mind narrowing in on the hum. He didn't try to force it—he had learned early on that magic wasn't about control, but about harmony. The hum responded to intention, not brute strength.

Slowly, the warmth of the sunlight shifted. The golden glow intensified, brightening a single spot on the wooden floor. It wasn't much—just a faint shimmer that faded as quickly as it appeared—but it was enough to make Eryon's heart race.

Light, he thought. I can feel it.

Eryon's early attempts with light magic became a daily ritual. When the sun rose, he practiced weaving the threads of warmth and brightness. Sometimes he succeeded; more often, he failed. But each small success brought him closer to understanding the nature of magic.

He began to notice differences in the hum depending on his surroundings. When the rain fell, the hum grew heavier, carrying a cool, soothing rhythm. When the wind howled through the manor, it became sharp and erratic, like a song played too fast. And when he touched the wooden frame of his crib, he felt a steady, grounding presence, as though the earth itself was speaking to him.

The elements, he realized. Fire, water, air, earth… and light. They're all connected to the hum.

Eryon's growing awareness of magic did not go unnoticed.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the manor in long shadows, Lord Hadrian Kael entered the nursery. The man was a stern figure, his sharp features etched with weariness and disappointment. He rarely visited his son, leaving the child's care to the servants. But tonight, something had brought him here.

He stood over the crib, his piercing gaze fixed on Eryon's small form. The infant lay still, pretending to sleep, though his mind was alert.

"You're different," Hadrian muttered, his voice low and contemplative. "I don't know what to make of you."

Eryon felt a flicker of unease. Hadrian's presence was imposing, a stark contrast to the warm, nurturing aura of his late mother. There was no affection in his father's tone—only a cold curiosity, as though he were studying a puzzle he couldn't solve.

After a moment, Hadrian turned and left, leaving Eryon alone with his thoughts.

The months rolled on, and Eryon continued his quiet exploration of magic. By now, he could sense the threads of all four elements, though manipulating them was still difficult. Fire was the hardest—it felt wild and chaotic, resisting his attempts to shape it. Water was gentler, flowing easily with his intent, while air and earth were somewhere in between.

One afternoon, while the servants were busy elsewhere, Eryon decided to test his limits. He lay in his crib, focusing on a small wooden block that had been left on the floor nearby. The hum of earth resonated faintly within the block, steady and unyielding.

Eryon reached out with his mind, imagining the block as an extension of himself. Slowly, it trembled, rocking back and forth before lifting a fraction of an inch off the ground.

The effort was immense, far greater than anything he had attempted before. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his tiny body trembled with the strain. But for a brief moment, the block hovered in the air, defying gravity.

Then, with a soft thud, it fell back to the floor.

Exhausted but exhilarated, Eryon closed his eyes, letting sleep take him.

Elsewhere…

In a hidden chamber deep within the Kael manor, an elderly steward knelt before a large, ornate mirror. The surface of the mirror rippled like water, reflecting not the room, but a dark, swirling void.

"He grows stronger," the steward murmured, his voice tinged with unease. "The child… he's not like the others."

A deep, resonant voice echoed from the void. "The blood of Kael is potent, but the silver-eyed one is something more. Watch him closely, and report any further… anomalies."

"Yes, my lord," the steward replied, bowing low.

As the mirror's surface returned to normal, the steward rose, his expression grim. "What are you, child?" he whispered to the empty room.

Back in the nursery, Eryon stirred in his sleep, unaware of the forces already beginning to take notice of him. But even as he dreamed, the hum of magic resonated softly around him, a constant reminder of the power he had only just begun to understand.