At five years old, not long after the aptitude test, Aleron retreats deep into the forest outside Whistlehollow—his sanctuary of bark, moss, and quiet. Towering trees bend with the wind, their leaves whispering secrets as he practices Fire Spark in secret. He trains in the dappled light, kneeling in a makeshift circle of stones marked by runes he etched into the dirt with a sharpened stick. Every gesture, every flick of his small wrist, is precise—calculated not by instinct, but memory.
Magic in this world behaves differently, richer in density than what he once knew. The fire clings to his fingertips longer. The mana here pulses like a heartbeat, deep and alive. Despite his vast knowledge from a previous life, Aleron struggles with limitation. His violet core allows him only the weakest of spells. Fire Spark, Heat Flow, and Ember Flicker—spells beneath his old level, but here, hard-earned.
He mutters incantations under his breath, careful not to let his mana flare too widely. Smoke spirals from a twig he uses as a focus, and a flash of orange blossoms against a dry leaf. He smiles, content with progress. That is, until the leaves behind him rustle too unnaturally.
"Aleron? What was that?" Corvin's voice is quiet, hesitant.
Eira steps out from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "We saw fire. Are you... doing magic?"
Aleron's heart jumps. He quickly stamps out the small embers, panic setting in. "No! It was just... just a trick of the light."
Corvin's eyes search his face. Aleron sees a flash of memory in them—years ago, when bandits attacked, Corvin had glimpsed something similar, but he dismissed it as imagination. Now, doubt creeps across his expression. "You used magic before. That night, with the bandits. I thought I imagined it, but... I wasn't wrong, was I?"
Eira's gaze sharpens. "You have to tell us what's going on, Aleron. We're your friends."
Aleron clenches his fists, the words sticking in his throat. "I—I can't tell you. It's too dangerous."
Corvin shakes his head softly, stepping closer. "But we're already involved. We've seen it. You can't hide forever."
Eira leans forward, her voice gentler but firm. "Trust us, please."
Aleron stares down at his trembling hands, the weight of his secret unbearable. Finally, he sighs, defeated. "I'm... I'm not normal. I have two cores. One wizard, one summoner. That's why I can use magic."
Corvin's eyes widen, but his expression softens in immediate understanding. "That's why your mana always felt different. Clearer, stronger."
Eira lets out a breath, clearly startled, then shrugs, forcing a teasing smile. "Still weird. But I guess that's nothing new."
Corvin smiles warmly, reassuringly. "We'll keep your secret. Always."
Later that night, by the dim fire of Rina's home, Aleron watches them laugh and bicker over who can throw a stone farther. He's quiet, scribbling notes into a bound leather journal—replicating spell formations, evolving old ideas. He marks the page with a finger, God's Whisper flickering in the corner of his vision:
[Skill Mastered: Fire Spark]
[New Spell Learned: Heat Flow]
[Core Capacity: 24% — Safe Zone]
[Emotional Trust Link Confirmed: Corvin, Eira]
Elsewhere in Whistlehollow, Rina tightens her shawl as she enters the town's meeting hall. Farmers and merchants argue over taxes and road repairs, but Rina speaks gently—offering solutions, proposing protections, positioning herself as someone reliable. Behind her quiet words is a hidden intent: shape the council, keep Whistlehollow safe... and unnoticed.
Back in the forest, Aleron leans against a tree trunk, eyes on the stars peeking between branches. His fire has gone out, but warmth lingers in the soil.
"They know now. It's dangerous. But it also feels... lighter."
A breeze dances past, rustling his hair. He closes his journal, placing a hand over his chest, where two types of mana pulse in rhythm.
"The mask won't last forever. But for now… it's enough."