The boy stood by the cart as dawn broke over the village, the first rays of light glinting off the polished brass fixtures and the worn wooden wheels. Matteo's belongings were packed neatly, and the merchant himself busied himself with securing the straps. The boy's chest ached, a knot of emotion tightening with every clink of metal and every gentle creak of the cart's frame.
"You don't have to leave," the boy said, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound firm. "Not yet. There's still so much I need to learn."
Matteo paused, his hands resting on a strap, his back to the boy. For a long moment, he didn't move, and the boy's words hung heavy in the crisp morning air. Finally, Matteo turned, his dark eyes softened by an expression the boy couldn't quite place—regret, perhaps, or something deeper.
"Come," Matteo said gently, gesturing toward a nearby bench beneath the sprawling branches of an old pine tree. "Sit with me for a moment."
The boy hesitated, his feet rooted in place, but then he obeyed, following Matteo to the bench. The wood was cool beneath him, and the faint scent of pine sap mingled with the breeze. Matteo leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and for the first time, the boy noticed the weight in the man's posture, the kind of burden that bowed shoulders and dimmed spirits.
"I've traveled far in my life," Matteo began, his voice low and steady, though it carried an undercurrent of something raw and unspoken. "Farther than most men, and for reasons I wish I could forget. Do you know why I left Italia?"
The boy shook his head, his throat tight as he waited for Matteo to continue.
Matteo's gaze drifted to the horizon, his eyes distant, as if he were seeing a memory too painful to keep but too vivid to forget. "I had a son once. He was about your age, maybe a little older. Bright, curious, full of life. He had a way of asking questions that made me feel both proud and completely unprepared." Matteo's lips curved faintly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
The boy blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Matteo had rarely spoken of his past, and never with such weight.
"He was everything to me," Matteo said, his voice growing quieter. "But one day, he was taken from me." His hands curled into fists on his knees, his knuckles white against his tanned skin. "Not by chance, not by sickness, but by a man. A powerful wind Elementus, an Archon in Elementum—the kind of man whose strength makes him untouchable. "He killed my son—not with malice, but with carelessness. My boy was caught in the indiscriminate devastation of a battle that ravaged everything in its path, leaving the land scarred and its people broken. The destruction was thoughtless, sweeping away lives as though they were nothing. So many died that day, their fates sealed by reckless violence. And there was nothing I could do."
The boy's chest tightened, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
"The Archon was beyond me," Matteo continued, his voice steady but hollow. "Beyond any law, beyond any vengeance I could muster. Even the highest courts in Italia wouldn't touch him. His power was absolute, and I…" Matteo faltered, exhaling a shuddering breath. "I was just a father. A father who loved his son but couldn't protect him. A father who failed."
"It's not your fault," the boy said quietly, his voice trembling.
Matteo turned to him, a faint, bittersweet smile flickering across his face. "Perhaps. But the feeling doesn't go away. It lives here." He tapped his chest, just above his heart. "And here." He touched his temple. "It festers, growing heavier every day. I couldn't stay in Italia, not with every street, every corner, every face reminding me of what I'd lost. So, I did the only thing I could. I left. I packed up everything and traveled as far as I could, to a place where no one knew my name and no one whispered about my failure."
The boy swallowed hard, his hands gripping the bench beneath him. He wanted to speak, to argue, but the words wouldn't come.
"That's why I came north," Matteo said. "Not to find peace, because peace isn't something I'll ever truly have. But to escape—to keep moving, so I don't drown in it."
The boy looked up at him, his voice cracking as he said, "Then why did you stay here so long?"
Matteo's gaze softened. "Because of you," he said simply. "You reminded me of him. That's why I stayed. That's why I taught you. It felt like… like I was doing something right again. Like I had a purpose, even if just for a little while."
"Then stay," the boy pleaded, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You don't have to leave. We could keep training. I could… I could help you."
Matteo chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You've already helped me more than you realize. But my path isn't here. I've learned that standing still only makes the weight heavier." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, his grip firm but warm. "You have something I lost a long time ago—potential, a future. Don't waste it."
The boy bit his lip, tears threatening to spill. "But I'm not ready. I still can't communicate with the fire mana."
Matteo smiled, a flicker of mischief returning to his eyes. "You will. Keep practicing. One day, you'll conjure flames like I do. And when that day comes, then you'll truly be my progeny." He winked, the familiar gesture softening the ache in the boy's chest. "Until then, don't let me down."
The boy nodded, his voice breaking as he whispered, "I won't."
Matteo rose slowly, as though each step carried the weight of the past. He climbed onto the cart, took hold of the reins, and turned back one last time.
"Fate has a way of bringing paths together," he said. "If it allows, we'll meet again."
The boy stood frozen as Matteo clicked his tongue, urging the horse forward. The cart creaked into motion, the wheels crunching softly over the dirt road. The boy watched as Matteo's figure grew smaller, his silhouette shrinking against the pale morning light. The cart rolled steadily away, growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared entirely, swallowed by the horizon.
The boy stayed there for a long time, staring at the empty road. His chest felt hollow, the weight of loss pressing down on him. At last, he turned and ran, his legs carrying him blindly through the village.
His mother called out as he burst through the door, but he didn't stop. He ran past her, up the ladder to his room, and collapsed onto his bed. The tears came then, hot and bitter, spilling freely as he buried his face in the coarse fabric of his pillow.
For what felt like hours, he cried—not just for Matteo's departure, but for the weight of the man's sorrow, for the story he had carried in silence.
Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving him drained and hollow. He sat up, his eyes red and swollen, and glanced toward the oil lamp on his desk. Slowly, he relit the flame and sat cross-legged in front of it, blindfolding himself with a strip of cloth.
He steadied his breathing, letting the flickering light guide him. Matteo's words echoed in his mind, quiet but firm: Keep practicing.
And so he did.