The village breathed its usual rhythm—a mix of familiarity and purpose, each sound and scent layered with life. Dogs barked as children ran through the narrow paths, their laughter threading through the morning air. A blacksmith's hammer rang out as he forged a glowing horseshoe on the anvil, and the faint smell of baking bread mingled with the crisp tang of the fjord.
The boy wandered aimlessly, his bare feet cool against the rocky ground. His wooden sword tapped softly against his hip, a reassuring weight as he moved. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular; his sister had vanished with her collection of shells, and his mother had sent him off with a smile and the vague instruction to "stay out of trouble."
As he rounded a corner near the communal fire pit, something unusual caught his eye.
A cart stood in the open square, its wheels braced unevenly against the cobbled earth. It was unlike the plain wagons of the villagers, its dark wood polished to a sheen, its frame reinforced with iron bands. Goods were piled high—brightly colored fabrics, tools gleaming like silver in the sunlight, jars of powders and liquids that caught the light as though they held pieces of the sun.
And then there was the man.
He was older, his white hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat that cast shadows over his sharp, weathered face. His beard was neat but short, flecked with silver, and his dark eyes darted quickly between his wares and the small group of villagers hesitantly milling around him. His clothing was just as strange—layers of deep, earthy tones, trimmed with faded embroidery that hinted at long-forgotten grandeur. A patched cloak hung from his shoulders, its edges frayed, though it somehow added to the air of mystery surrounding him.
The man straightened, his voice booming across the square. "Come closer! Don't be shy!" he said, gesturing to the crowd with hands as expressive as his voice. "Marvels from distant lands, treasures for the curious! A little spice to warm your winter, a tool to lighten your labor, or a trinket to catch your lover's eye!"
The boy lingered at the edge of the square, watching. Travelers passed through the village from time to time, but none quite like this one. The villagers, wary but intrigued, browsed the cart's contents, their voices a low hum of curiosity.
The man's eyes landed briefly on the boy, but he turned back to an older woman inspecting a swatch of fabric. His voice dipped into an accent the boy couldn't place, rolling and lilting like the words themselves were alive.
"Don't look too closely, madam," the man said, leaning slightly toward her, "or you'll fall in love with it. And once that happens, I'm afraid I'll have to charge extra!"
The woman chuckled, shaking her head, and moved on.
The boy edged closer.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a row of small glass vials at the cart's edge.
The man's gaze flicked to him briefly, his smile polite but dismissive. "Medicine," he said, turning back to rearrange a stack of fabrics. "Not for boys with wooden swords and too many questions."
The boy frowned but didn't back away. "Where are you from?"
The man paused, one hand hovering over a length of silk. He turned slowly, fixing the boy with a sharp, appraising look. "From far away," he said finally, his accent thickening as the words rolled off his tongue. "Farther than you've ever traveled, I'd wager."
"How far?"
The man tilted his head, his smile widening as if the boy's persistence amused him. "Farther than the edges of your maps, little one. Across mountains, over endless fields, through forests where the trees whisper secrets to one another." He swept his arm dramatically, as though sketching the journey in the air. "I am Matteo," he added with a slight bow, "from a land called Italia."
"Italia?" the boy repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. "What's that?"
Matteo chuckled, leaning against his cart. "Not a what, my curious friend, but a where. Italia is warm, with rolling hills and rivers that run as smooth as silk. The air is rich with the smell of olive trees and vineyards, and our gods," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "are not your gods."
The boy's brow furrowed. "Not Odin? Or Thor?"
Matteo laughed, the sound like a low rumble. "No, not Odin. Long ago, my people worshipped gods of love and war, of the harvest and the sea. Now most believe in only one god." He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "But there are some—like me—who follow the ways of Elementum."
The boy blinked. "Elementum? What's that?"
Matteo straightened, his expression turning serious. "It is the practice of harnessing the energy that flows through the world," he said, his voice quiet but weighted. "It is not magic—not tricks or illusions—but an art. A discipline. Those who are attuned to the elements can shape them: fire, water, earth, and air."
The boy frowned. "That's not real."
Matteo smiled faintly, his eyes narrowing. "Ah, but seeing is believing, no?"
He extended his hand, palm up, and the boy leaned in, his breath caught. Matteo's voice dropped, the words low and deliberate: "Ignis, surge et luce." The Latin words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, sharp and commanding.
The air seemed to shift, growing heavier, and for a moment the boy felt as though the world itself had paused. Then, with a flick of Matteo's fingers, a small flame burst to life in his palm.
The boy stumbled back, his eyes wide with awe. The flame danced and flickered, impossibly steady despite the breeze. It cast a warm, golden glow on Matteo's lined face, making him look both ancient and powerful.
"How… how did you do that?" the boy stammered.
Matteo closed his hand, snuffing out the flame as though it had never existed. "Years of practice," he said simply. "And even then, this"—he opened his empty palm—"is the extent of my art."
"That's it?" the boy asked, incredulous. "Just a flame? But you made it sound like Elementum is so powerful!"
Matteo chuckled, shaking his head. "And it is. There are those—true masters—who can reshape landscapes, summon storms, or calm seas. But I am not one of them. It takes a lifetime to reach such heights, and even then, only a few succeed." He spread his hands, his smile wry. "I am just an old man with a cart, little one. This flame is all I can manage, and it cost me years to learn."
The boy's curiosity burned brighter. "Can you teach me?"
"It's not as simple as you think," Matteo said, his tone softening. "To practice Elementum, you must have an affinity—a connection to the elements. Not everyone has it, and even those who do must train for years before they can light a single spark."
"How do you know if someone has it?"
Matteo studied the boy for a long moment, his sharp eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "There are ways to test," he said finally. "But it is no game. Elementum demands discipline and respect, and power can be dangerous in the wrong hands."
"I want to try," the boy said, his voice rising with excitement. "Please!"
Matteo sighed, glancing at the sun, which was already beginning its descent. "Tomorrow," he said at last. "Come back here in the morning, and I will test you. But for now, off with you! Daylight's wasting, and I've got goods to sell."
The boy nodded eagerly, his excitement barely contained. "I'll be here," he promised.
Matteo watched him run off, his wooden sword bouncing at his hip. Shaking his head, the old man muttered to himself in his native tongue as he turned back to his cart. "Curiosity," he said softly, "is the first step to power—and the most dangerous."