I was four and a half now, and my parents had long stopped trying to explain me.
They knew I could fix things.
They just assumed I was… clever.
Not "prodigy" clever. Not "magical" clever. Just "our boy's got a good head on his shoulders" clever.
And why wouldn't they?
My father, Garron, was a man of strong arms and simple thoughts. He worked the fields from sun-up to dusk, could lift a stone block with a rope and pulley without understanding how pulleys worked, and trusted tools like they were old friends. My mother, Elen, was sweet, kind, and clever with her hands, but she had no formal learning. She always said reading made her sleepy.
So when their son crawled under the stove and realigned the cooking grates without being told, or when a broken latch was mysteriously replaced with a better one overnight, they just smiled and called it luck.
"He's a sharp one," my father said once, tousling my hair. "Must've skipped a few steps in the womb."
"He sees things clearer than I ever could," my mother added, gently patting my cheek. "I bet he's one of those natural tinkerers. You know, like Old Merlan in the village over."
They didn't ask where I got the wood for repairs. They didn't ask how I learned to shape metal. They just trusted that I somehow knew.
And I loved them for that.
They never looked at me like I was strange.
I kept my real work quiet.
Not because I feared my parents—no, they would protect me from the world, no matter what.
I kept it quiet because of everyone else.
Serfs didn't get to be exceptional. The older I got the more I heard things.
The last serf boy who showed talent—real talent—was drafted into the Lord's militia. He died in his second winter. The one before that, a girl who could speak five languages by age ten, was taken by the Scribes' Guild. Her parents never saw her again.
So I kept to my shed. My hidden scrap heap. My mana-breathing contraptions made under candlelight and buried in dirt if footsteps ever came near.
Lisette had turned seven. Her brother had just left for the academy, and she was restless.
"He's going to be a great wizard," she said proudly. "They said his affinity is mind-type. That's rare."
I didn't know what that meant, but I nodded.
"Are you going to the academy?" she asked, squinting at me.
I shrugged. "Probably not."
She frowned. "But you're smart. Smarter than my brother, even."
That was nice, but it didn't mean much. In this world, you needed more than brains. Also I had a college education from Harford Institute of Technology God damnt! Don't disrespect my Alma Mater by comparing me with a 12 year old. Anyway
You needed birth. And proof. And noble blood.
"I heard they're testing the village kids next spring," she said. "You'll be six then, won't you?"
I nodded slowly.
Magic affinity testing happened at age six across the realm. It wasn't optional. If you were a sorcerer, they needed to know.
The test involved a conductor crystal—a rough, dull-looking stone that pulsed faintly with mana. You touched it, and it reacted to your inner flow. No reaction meant no potential. A glow, or worse, a flare, meant you had magic in your blood.
Still…
A little glow on the crystal.
A flicker.
Just enough to be noticed.
I had made progress in the last year.
My shed now had a hidden compartment under the floor. My tools were no longer stone and scrap, but custom-carved wood reinforced with mana-treated fibers. I had built a manual crank engine that could turn a grindstone with one hand. It had taken months of testing to get the torque and gear ratios right.
[Project Complete: Rotary Manual Mill - v2]
[Power Efficiency: 81%]
[Mana Augmentation: None Required]
[Materials: Wood, Hardened Sandstone, Hemp Cord]
It was mundane enough to pass as regular craftsmanship.
But I knew the truth.
I didn't just build. I infused. I guided mana, instinctively shaping it into structural logic. Where another sorcerer might throw fire or fly, I constructed.
A village child had once seen me take apart a rat trap and rebuild it to snap faster. He told his parents I was "magic." They laughed it off and told him not to lie.
Still, the rumor must've spread.
One afternoon, while walking back from the communal well, I saw a man I didn't recognize. He wore the dark blue sash of a wandering priest, with silver-threaded embroidery and a hood that shaded his eyes.
He was speaking with the village elder, pointing to several children playing in the dust.
I stopped and crouched beside a broken wagon wheel, pretending to examine it.
"Six this coming spring?" the priest asked.
The elder nodded. "Aye. Five or six who'll need testing. That one there," he pointed at a boy, "has strong lungs. I bet he'll be a knight."
The priest hummed thoughtfully. "And what of that one?"
He pointed—at me.
The elder laughed. "That's Kleo. Smart little fellow. Quiet. Good instincts, though. His parents say he fixes things like an old man."
The priest tilted his head. "Interesting. Is there magic in the family line?"
The elder scratched his chin. "Not that I know. They're serfs."
The priest said nothing more, but I felt his gaze settle on me like a stone.
I didn't like it.
That night, I worked harder than I ever had before.
I began a new project—my most ambitious yet.
A compression engine. A chambered system that would store rotational energy in a coiled tension spring, then release it through a series of pistons. With enough efficiency, it could drive a wheel for a full rotation cycle—something close to perpetual motion. Not quite, but close enough for a peasant world.
It was absurdly complex for someone with no proper tools.
But I had one advantage: I could use mana as both fuel and a tool..
[Project Start: Compression Drive Mk I]
[Primary Function: Stored Kinetic Motion]
[Estimated Build Time: 43 hours]
[Materials Needed: Wood (x12), Metal Scrap (x5), Flexible Coil Material (x3), Mana Conduit (Trace)]
It would take weeks.
But I would finish it.
I had to.
Lisette visited the next day and found me sketching diagrams in the dust again.
"What's this one do?" she asked, peering over my shoulder.
"It makes things spin," I said simply.
"Like a top?"
"No. Like a wheel. A big one. So someone doesn't have to push it all the time."
She tilted her head. "Why?"
I looked up at her. "Because my dad works too hard."
She blinked. Then smiled.
"I think you're better than a wizard," she said.
That stuck with me.
The priest returned two days later.
He stayed longer this time. I saw him walking among the homes, speaking to parents, observing children at play.
I kept to my shed.
I finished the tension core on the fifth day.
[Component Complete: Compression Chamber Core]
[Durability: Stable]
[Mana Draw: Moderate (Active Use Only)]
It worked. It worked. I felt like screaming.
But I didn't.
Because there were footsteps near the chicken coop.
Lisette stopped by again one morning, catching me burying something behind the shed.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Burying treasure," I lied.
She grinned. "Can I help?"
I hesitated, then nodded. We shoveled dirt for fun, laughing like idiots.
She didn't ask what the 'treasure' really was.
But before she left, she said, "You know, if your magic test goes well… you could go to the academy. With my brother."
I gave her a look.
"I'm a serf," I reminded her.
"So? If it glows strong, they have to take you."
That was the myth, wasn't it?
That the world cared more about power than birth.
Maybe it had a little truth in it.
Then came the night my father sat me down.
He looked uncomfortable, his thick hands resting awkwardly on his knees.
"That priest asked about you," he said.
I stayed quiet.
"Said you might be magic."
"…What did you tell him?"
He shrugged. "Told him you were clever. Said you fixed things like an old master craftsman. That you always knew when the windmill was gonna jam before it did."
He paused.
"And I told him you weren't magic. Just sharp."
I swallowed.
He looked me in the eyes and ruffled my hair. "If you are magic… I'll still love you, you know. But it's probably better if you're not."
"…Why?"
"Because magic folk get taken."
That was true.
Even serfs with rare gifts didn't stay in their villages for long. Sometimes they returned—changed. Sometimes they didn't return at all.
Still, I had to try.
A spark could mean everything.
Spring would come soon.
And with it, the test.
I didn't know what would happen when I touched that crystal.
But I knew one thing:
I would not be taken easily.