Drake's earliest memories were not of power.
They were of sound.
The steady rhythm of a hammer striking metal. The crackle of a small fire in the hearth. The murmur of voices beyond thin wooden walls, carrying worries about weather, crops, and coin.
He woke one morning to the smell of iron and oil and realized, vaguely, that he had been watching the ceiling for a long time.
Wooden beams. A faint crack running through one of them. Dust drifting slowly downward in a beam of morning light.
It was… imperfect.
And that made it fascinating.
He pushed himself upright and felt the weight of his body lag behind his intention. Muscles protested. Balance wavered. He fell back onto the bed with a dull thump and stared at the ceiling again.
So this is what growth feels like, he thought.
As a god, intention had been enough. As a human, intention required patience.
"Drake?"
His mother's voice came from outside the room, soft but alert. Footsteps followed, light and hurried. The door creaked open, and she peeked inside with a smile that immediately widened when she saw him awake.
"There you are," she said warmly. "You slept longer than usual today."
She crossed the room and brushed a hand through his hair. Her fingers were warm, rough in places from years of work, and utterly grounding.
Drake did not speak yet. Words came slowly in this body. Instead, he looked at her—really looked.
Her eyes were tired. There were faint lines at the corners. Her mana was weak, barely a flicker compared to even an average mage. And yet there was something steady about her presence that Drake found… comforting.
"Hungry?" she asked.
He nodded.
She laughed softly. "Of course you are."
She lifted him easily, despite his protests, and carried him into the main room. His father was already there, seated at a workbench near the window, shaping a piece of metal with careful precision.
The hammer rose and fell, steady and patient.
"Morning," his father said without looking up.
Drake watched the way the man's hands moved. There was no mana shaping the metal. No enhancement. Just muscle, experience, and attention.
A mistake would ruin the piece.
His father did not rush.
"You're late today," his mother teased.
"Metal doesn't care about time," his father replied. "Only pressure."
Drake absorbed that quietly.
Pressure shapes things.
That night, after he was put to bed, Drake lay awake again. He reached—not outward, but inward.
Mana responded instantly.
Too instantly.
It gathered around his chest, thick and eager, as if waiting for permission it had never been denied before.
Drake froze.
If he released it, even slightly, the house would feel it. The walls would creak. The air would tighten. His parents would notice.
He exhaled slowly and let the mana settle.
"Not yet," he reminded himself.
This life was fragile.
He would protect it by remaining small.