I rise with the first rays of dawn, when the sun still timidly breaks through the leaves of the old oak tree outside the window. The cold floor bites at my heels, yanking me from the last, sweetest embrace of sleep. The tree was unusual—its branches whispered to the wind in the language of ancient magic, and its leaves glowed with a faint greenish light, as if they had absorbed the very magic of the earth. The bed creaks under the weight of awakening—the old boards groan like a grandfather displeased with his early rise.
Straight to the exercises, without bargaining with myself like "just five more minutes." A habit ingrained in my blood since the knights' camp—that purgatory and forge of the spirit all rolled into one. Before, I was just a lazy boy, capable of lying in bed until noon. But the enemy won't wait. Life in the camp taught me: discipline begins with small things.
There, you rise at the first sound of the bugle—not because you want to, but because you have to. You make your bed so you can beat a coin on it. You do exercises until your muscles ache from the effort. You brush your teeth with the bark of the Gig tree—bitter as wormwood, but magical. At first, your gums bled, but they say: "The wood not only whitens your teeth, but also strengthens your spirit, making you hard—like the trunk of that same Gig tree."
Training was unforgiving of weakness. Sparring with wooden swords, humming with weak spells, taught them not only to withstand blows but also to sense the wave of magic emanating from the blade, how it could be deflected with a flick of the wrist. They swung until their arms went numb, and ran—always through the forest, where tree roots clung to their legs, and sparks flickered in the air—whether from fatigue or from the spirits watching over the novices.
After the workout, ice-cold water from the well, which woke me up better than any potion, making my teeth chatter from the cold. Then a simple but filling meal, giving me strength for the whole day.
Then came classes. Mathematics in our world was the art of calculating mana flows, spell angles, and the power of rituals. Languages taught how to read runes, capable of whispering to the wind which way to blow or making water freeze. Literature revealed sagas of heroes who battled gods and of gods who fell for mortals. History told of wars where magic tore the earth apart, and peace was sealed by oaths sealed in blood. Geography was a map not only of rivers and mountains, but also of places where the fabric of reality thinned, allowing miracles or nightmares to pass through.
The most anticipated lesson was magic. "Magic isn't just a wave of a hand and a flash of light," said the instructor, an old man with eyes like coals. "It's the threads that bind all living things. There are dark colors: necromancy, blood bonds. They are difficult to master, requiring special energy to connect with evil forces. Choose your colors wisely—you are the canvas." In elementary school, magic seemed simple—you wanted it, and it worked. How wrong I was.
Then came the games. Football in our world wasn't just a sport. The ball, enchanted by either a joker or a madman, could suddenly dart off as if alive. The field came alive: the grass clung to their feet, the wind blew against those running toward the goal. He loved playing forward most of all—that's where he could show his aggression. He excelled in midfield, as if his very being told: "Stop the shot, then go for it. Don't attack first—let the opponent show their hand."
Strangely, during the attack, it was as if the strength was disappearing—not physical, but something deeper, as if the soul were protesting its role as the aggressor. In the middle of the field, I saw everything: "as the ball bounced between the players, so allies and enemies weaved their moves." It was like magic—anticipating, directing, maintaining rhythm. A curious observation for a twelve-year-old boy, but the truth reveals itself at the most unexpected moments.