Steps of Four

I’ve finally turned four. I didn’t think it would matter, but it does.

The wind feels different when you’re old enough to notice it.

Not just the breeze brushing against your skin—but the way it carries sound. Soft things. Distant things. Whispers, maybe.

“I’m four now.”

I whisper it to myself as I step outside, barefoot, the morning dew cold beneath my feet.

There’s no party. No candles. Just my parents, watching me from the porch with quiet pride in their eyes.

“Maybe birthdays aren’t common in this world”

They didn’t say it, but I could tell—this year mattered more to them.

Father handed me a slightly longer wooden sword yesterday.

Mother didn’t guide my hand during magic practice. She only watched.

Both of them… letting go, just a little.

I walk toward the field where I train—where I always train. The familiar rhythm of my footsteps through grass feels heavier today.

Not because I’m tired.

Because something is shifting.

Inside me.

Like I’m starting to carry things I can’t name yet.

I reach the edge of the field.

I raise the wooden sword—Dawnbreak stance, just like he taught me.

And I breathe.

Slow. Steady.

The world quiets around me.

That’s when I feel it.

Magic.

A flicker. A pull. Gentle, but present.

It swirls near my fingertips—just like before. But this time, I don’t panic.

I let it flow.

Only a little.

A tiny spark dances just above my skin.

It fades in the wind.

But it listened to me.

And that’s enough for now.