They left before anyone came looking.
The decision was not dramatic. There was no final walk through the halls, no lingering farewell to the estate that had once housed a noble family. Orien moved with quiet efficiency, as though he had been preparing for this moment long before Cael's awakening made it necessary.
Perhaps he had.
The sale of the Ardyn estate happened quickly and without ceremony. The house had little value beyond its land, and even that was diminished by neglect and distance from mana-rich regions. A minor merchant consortium acquired it for a sum that would have once been insulting—but now was enough.
Enough to disappear.
Cael watched from the carriage window as stone walls and familiar silhouettes faded into the distance. He felt no grief.
The house had been empty long before they left it.
Their destination lay far from major cities, tucked along the outer reaches of Sapin where roads thinned and villages grew smaller and farther apart. The land was uneven and rocky, ill-suited for large estates or military installations—but quiet.
That was the point.
The cottage Orien secured was modest: stone foundation, wooden frame, a single floor with a loft. No mana formations. No defenses worth noting. Just enough land for training and enough isolation to avoid attention.
Orien wasted no time.
"Mana first," he said on the morning after they arrived. "Before weapons. Before strength. Everything starts there."
Cael nodded.
He had expected nothing less.
Orien's knowledge was not scholarly, but it was extensive. Years spent serving minor mages and administrators had taught him the fundamentals—circulation paths, efficiency, discipline. He did not push Cael to expand his core recklessly.
Stability over growth.
Always.
They began with circulation exercises: slow, deliberate movement of mana through established pathways. Cael followed instructions carefully, adjusting instinctively when something felt inefficient—though he never spoke of it.
Some things were better kept quiet.
His core responded well. It did not surge or resist. It simply worked.
By the end of the first month, Orien frowned more often than not.
"You're… unusually consistent," he muttered one evening. "No fluctuations. No wasted output."
Cael shrugged, feigning ignorance.
"Is that bad?"
Orien studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. Just rare."
Physical training came next.
Mornings were spent running uneven trails, climbing rocky inclines, and carrying weights that grew heavier by the week. Orien was unforgiving, but not cruel. He corrected posture, enforced rest when necessary, and never pushed Cael past collapse.
Afternoons were devoted to combat fundamentals.
Not flashy techniques. Not noble fencing styles.
Survival.
"How to fall without breaking bones."
"How to break a grip."
"How to strike without overcommitting."
Hand-to-hand combat was grueling. Cael's smaller frame worked against him, but Orien taught him to compensate with balance and timing rather than strength.
"You won't always have mana," Orien said flatly after knocking him to the ground for the third time in a row. "And you won't always have a weapon."
Cael took the lesson to heart.
His body adapted faster than Orien expected.
Not stronger—cleaner.
Movements wasted less effort. Adjustments happened subconsciously. Cael learned to read motion before it completed, responding to shifts in balance and intent with unnerving accuracy.
Orien noticed.
He said nothing.
The spear came last.
It was a simple weapon—wooden shaft, dull metal head. Balanced, practical, unremarkable. Orien placed it in Cael's hands with surprising reverence.
"This," he said, "is for someone who knows distance."
The training was slow. Painfully slow.
Grip. Stance. Footwork.
Again and again.
Cael practiced thrusts until his arms burned, learning to let the weapon move with him rather than against him. Orien emphasized reach and restraint—never overextending, never chasing a strike.
"A spear punishes impatience," he warned.
Cael understood immediately.
It suited him.
By the end of the first year, he could spar competently against Orien—not winning, but holding his ground. By the second, Orien began to sweat during their sessions.
That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Throughout it all, Cael trained his mana quietly.
Just refinement.
And something else.
His perception changed.
Not outwardly. Not visibly.
But internally, patterns began to emerge.
Mana circulation revealed inefficiencies before they manifested. Movements resolved themselves into clean lines of cause and effect. During sparring, Orien's intent became apparent moments before action followed.
It was overwhelming at first.
Cael learned to limit it.
To dull the edge of awareness when it threatened to consume him. Headaches followed prolonged focus, a dull pressure that warned him when he'd gone too far.
He listened.
He adapted.
And he told no one.
Some advantages were only advantages if they remained unseen.
Two years passed like this.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the hills in gold, Orien watched Cael complete his training forms alone in the clearing behind the cottage.
The boy moved smoothly, spear tracing precise arcs through the air. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Not a child's movements.
Not even a young noble's.
Orien folded his arms, expression unreadable.
He's growing too fast, he thought.
Not in rank.
In awareness.
Orien had seen talented children before. Even geniuses.
This was different.
There was restraint there. Deliberate restraint.
As Cael finished and turned toward the cottage, their eyes met briefly. Cael smiled faintly—polite, unassuming.
Just a boy.
Orien looked away first.
Whatever Cael was becoming, it was something he had chosen to guide rather than expose. And if that meant living quietly on the edge of Sapin, so be it.
Better obscurity than a shallow grave.
That night, Cael lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the loft.
He felt the steady pulse of his mana core. The familiar pressure behind his eyes, held carefully in check.
His core progressed steadily—solid red giving way to, denser hue that borded on light red. There were no explosive breakthroughs, no dramatic leaps.
Two years wasn't long.
But it was enough.
Enough to lay foundations.
Enough to stay ahead of what he knew was coming.