The courtyard was alive with movement, the crisp morning air filled with the rhythmic clang of steel meeting steel. Fin sat cross-legged on the stone steps leading into the training yard, his small hands folded in his lap as he watched the warriors of House Aodh practice their drills. Despite his three-year-old body, his eyes tracked each movement with the calculating intensity of a much older soul.
At the center of the sparring circle stood Kilian Aodh, his older brother, firstborn son, and heir to their father’s martial legacy. At seventeen, he was already a full head taller than most of the seasoned knights, his broad shoulders and lean frame honed from years of rigorous training. More importantly, the air around him shimmered with heat, flickering like a mirage over desert sand.
Kilian had already reached Tier 2, matching their mother and closing in on their father’s Tier 4. Controlled combustion at its finest.
Fin narrowed his eyes as Kilian raised his sword, the steel glowing faintly with residual heat. Not enough to melt the metal, but enough to make his opponent hesitate before closing the distance. The blade's edge shimmered with an ethereal flame that seemed to dance hungrily along the steel, eager to be unleashed.
A practical application of thermal manipulation. Fin knew that wasn’t the case. It was one of the System Skills at work. Something he read about.
The knight opposing Kilian, a weathered veteran whose stance and grip spoke of years mastering defensive techniques, lunged forward with his shield braced. But before the knight's blade could make contact, Kilian twisted his wrist and released the stored heat in a concentrated burst. The sudden expansion of air forced his opponent back, staggering him just long enough for Kilian to step in and end the bout with a sharp strike to the ribs.
Fascinating, Fin thought. His brother's technique wasn't just about brute strength, it was calculated. He wasn't simply coating his blade in fire; he was altering air pressure, weaponizing thermal expansion. By superheating the air molecules in a controlled space, he created localized pressure differentials that physically pushed opponents away without the flashy waste of a full flame attack. The more he watched, the more Fin realized that Kilian wasn't just strong. He was intelligent in his approach.
And that made him dangerous.
Kilian's next opponent stepped forward, a woman with twin curved daggers who moved with preternatural speed, her footwork suggesting System-enhanced reflexes that allowed her to dart in and out of Kilian's guard. For a moment, it seemed she might overwhelm the young heir with sheer velocity.
Then something changed in Kilian's posture. His eyes seemed to sharpen, tracking the woman's movements with uncanny precision, anticipating rather than reacting. The woman feinted left, but Kilian was already countering, his blade trailing a cascade of sparks as heat channeled through the steel. The clash of their weapons released a shower of embers that seemed to hang suspended in the air before spiraling back toward Kilian's blade, drawn by some unseen magnetic pull.
"Well?"
Fin blinked. He'd been so focused on analyzing Kilian's technique that he hadn't noticed his brother approaching. The older boy loomed over him, smirking as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Don't tell me you've been sitting there in silence just watching," Kilian teased, sheathing his blade. "Not even a cheer for your big brother?"
Fin tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I was studying."
Kilian snorted, crossing his arms. "Studying what?"
"The way you manipulate heat." Fin's voice was calm, measured. "You don't just ignite your sword, you regulate the temperature, releasing bursts at precise moments to destabilize your opponent's footing. You increase oxygen density around your blade while maintaining a low-temperature flame that won't damage the steel's tempering. You also shift the air pressure slightly to create a momentary imbalance. It's efficient."
Kilian stared at him, brow furrowing in surprise.
Then, he threw back his head and laughed.
"What in the gods' name are you talking about?" Kilian crouched down, resting an elbow on his knee as he peered into Fin's too-serious blue eyes. "I just swing my sword and make it hot. The System handles the rest."
Fin frowned. "That's... not true. You're deliberately underselling your technique. The way you captured those embers mid-air requires precise timing and spatial awareness. And that feint against the dagger-wielder, you anticipated her movement before she even began."
Kilian's laughter died abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Fin with newfound intensity. "How do you know what I'm doing? I haven't even explained my skills to Father yet."
"I observe," Fin said simply, tapping the side of his head. "Just like I can see you're more exhausted than you're letting on. You pushed too hard in that last bout."
For a brief moment, Kilian's easy confidence faltered, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he masked it with another smile. "You've got quite the imagination, little brother." He ruffled Fin's already-messy hair, much to the younger boy's irritation. "Well, at least you know your limits." He stood, rolling his shoulders. "Father's been talking about getting you into proper training soon. You won't just be watching from the sidelines forever."
Fin said nothing, but his mind was already racing with calculations and possibilities. Unlike his brother, he hadn't yet awakened to the System's gifts, no skills, no status, nothing but his keen mind and the strange intuition he'd carried from a life he was slowly beginning to remember.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
He had no illusions, he wasn't Kilian. He wasn't built for brute force combat. His path would be different. Where Kilian commanded raw elemental power, Fin would master the intricate dance of energy transfer and conversion. While his brother painted with broad strokes of flame, Fin would write precise equations with lightning.
**
A week later, Fin found himself standing stiffly in his father’s study, hands clasped behind his back. It was an attempt at poise, though his three-year-old body still wobbled occasionally when he stood too long. The weight of expectation seemed to press down on his small shoulders as he waited, watching dust motes dance in the slanted morning light that streamed through the tall windows.
The study itself was less austere than one might expect for the head of House Aodh. While ancient tomes line dark oak shelves that reached toward vaulted ceiling, they shared space with curios trinkets from Donovan’s travels, a miniature mechanical bird, a crystal paperweight that cast rainbow patterns when sunlight hit it just right, and several whimsical carvings that seemed out of place among the serious maps and documents. On one wall hung the ceremonial blade that had been passed down through generations of the Aodh family, but beside it was a slightly crooked painting of a griffin that Donovan had once joked was “obviously drawn by someone who’d never seen a griffin, or possible any animal at all.”
Across from Fin, Donovan Aodh leaned against his massive desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, a lopsided grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Unlike the stern commander who led troops into battle, at home he carried himself with a relaxed confidence, his eyes twinkling with good humor. His piercing gaze swept over Fin with a warmth that belied the formal setting.
"You've demonstrated an uncommon level of awareness for your age," Donovan said, his voice carrying a playful lilt. "Your mother thinks you may be gifted. Your brother believes you're a genius." He winked conspiratorially. "Personally, I think you're just a very old soul in a very small package."
Fin didn't respond immediately. He had learned early on that his father's jovial nature often masked genuine insight, and hasty replies usually resulted in becoming the target of good-natured teasing.
"Regardless," Donovan continued, running a hand through his beard with a theatrical sigh, "potential means nothing without discipline. And discipline requires guidance." He straightened, absently spinning his signet ring as he spoke. "Raw talent without structure is like me after three cups of wine, entertaining but likely to knock over expensive furniture."
A small smile tugged at Fin's lips despite his best efforts.
There was a knock at the study door, three precise raps that echoed in the quiet room.
“Enter!” Donovan commanded.
The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a man of lean build, dressed in scholar's robes dyed in dark indigo. The garment was simple yet elegant, its edges adorned with intricate silver embroidery that caught the light as he moved. His silver-threaded sleeves marked him as an educated man, but it was the way he carried himself that caught Fin's attention, measured steps, a steady gaze, a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his otherwise impassive face.
He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with streaks of gray at his temples and lines around his eyes that spoke of years spent squinting at ancient texts. Yet there was a vitality to him, an alertness that suggested he wasn't merely a dusty academic.
“This is Marian Trilk,” Donovan said, gesturing toward the newcomer with a flourish worthy of a court performer. “He will be you tutor in history, arithmetic, and the elemental theories of Aetherys.” He clapped his hands together. “And hopefully he doesn’t dissolve into tears when asked difficult questions by my toddler.”
Fin met the man's gaze and, for a moment, they simply studied one another. Marian's eyes were a deep amber, keen and assessing, but not unkind. There was intelligence there, yes, but also something else, a hint of wonder, perhaps, or the spark of someone who had not yet lost their fascination with the world's mysteries.
"An honor, young master Aodh," Marian said, inclining his head just slightly. His voice was softer than Fin had expected, with the subtle accent of the eastern provinces. "Your father speaks highly of your intellect."
"Ha!" Donovan barked a laugh. "What I said was that he's frighteningly clever for someone who still can’t go four hours without a nap." He ruffled Fin's hair affectionately. "This little one has asked questions that have made grown scholars stammer. Be warned."
Fin bowed his head in return, a gesture that required more concentration than it should have with his still-developing coordination. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Trilk. I look forward to our lessons."
A flicker of amusement crossed the tutor's features. Most children his age would have spoken with uncertainty, their words half-formed and clumsy. Fin's confidence was that of someone much older, someone who understood the value of first impressions and the subtle dance of formal interactions.
"Well spoken," Marian replied, his gaze sharpening with interest. "Though I wonder if you truly understand what awaits you in our studies."
"I understand that knowledge is power," Fin replied, choosing his words carefully. "And that power, properly wielded, is the foundation of all great achievements."
The room fell silent. Donovan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, then he let out a low whistle.
"Those are not the words of a child," the tutor observed quietly.
"No," Donovan agreed, his tone momentarily serious before brightening again. "He's full of surprises, this one. Last week he explained to the cook why her bread wasn't rising properly using terms I'm not entirely sure are real words." He gave an exaggerated shrug. "You will have lessons five mornings a week. If I hear you are inattentive or disrespectful, we'll have to have a serious talk about..." he leaned down to Fin's level, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, "He’s intelligent enough for you."
Marian turned to Donovan with a wry smile. "I am more concerned with whether the young master will find my lessons engaging enough to warrant his attention." There was no challenge in his tone, merely a statement of fact. "Minds like his require constant stimulation."
Donovan's face broke into a wide grin. "Then you should hope your teachings are worth the coin I'm paying you.”
Marian chuckled, a warm sound that suggested he was well acquainted with Donovan's humor. "I have taught princes who believed themselves beyond instruction and street urchins who hungered for knowledge they were never meant to possess. Each presented their own challenges." He turned to Fin, his expression softening slightly. "Shall we begin our journey together, young master?"
Fin nodded, already calculating how much knowledge he could extract from this man before outpacing him entirely. Was Marian a steppingstone, or could he be a true guide? Either way, he represented access to information, the currency Fin valued above all else in this new world.
"I am ready," Fin said, and meant it.
As they left his father's study, Fin heard Donovan call after them, "Try not to outsmart him on the first day, son! At least wait until after lunch!" His father's laughter echoed down the corridor, warm and genuine, so different from the commanding presence he projected on the battlefield.
The true test had begun, not just of his intellect, but of his ability to navigate the complex web of expectations that surrounded him.