The years that followed were anything but easy for Lucian and Laila.
Though their minds matured at a pace beyond their years, their bodies remained small and fragile, trapping them in a frustrating paradox. Their parents, siblings, and the villagers saw only toddlers. Curious, quiet, occasionally too bright for comfort—but toddlers all the same.
It wasn't until their second birthday that Elina and Apollo finally allowed them to ask questions freely. Even then, the twins quickly discovered that the answers they received were often limited, vague, or frustratingly simple.
They learned the name of their village first—Brigadoon—a sleepy farming hamlet nestled deep in the county of Lustria, itself one of the many regions under the sprawling rule of the Griffon Kingdom. But what that actually meant, no one could really tell them.
The kingdom's borders, its neighbors, its politics—these were distant things, discussed in passing or in drunken tales over mead and firelight. The villagers might have heard the names of foreign lands or kings, but they spoke of them the way city folk might speak of dragons—curious, yes, but ultimately irrelevant.
To their parents, the world beyond the village seemed more like a myth than a place. The king was little more than a legend, a crowned shadow who ruled from somewhere far away. Instead, all reverence and resentment alike were directed at Count Lark, the man who controlled Lustria. He was real, tangible—a figure of power who attended the Spring Festival in person each year, riding into Brigadoon like a knight from one of their mother's bedtime fables.
But there were no stories of wars or magic in Elina's voice, only soft tales of noble heroes, wicked witches, and beautiful princesses. The kind of stories meant to lull children to sleep, not awaken them to the dangers of the real world. Lucian and Laila listened politely, but their minds always raced ahead.
Magic was never discussed—not in any practical sense. No one explained why certain things happened, or why their parents could whisper to flames or move water without touching it. There were no formal lessons, no acknowledgement of what Lucian and Laila had already begun to sense within themselves. Magic was treated like another grown-up topic—taboo until they were "older."
Even the knowledge of their own family had to be pieced together like fragments of a riddle.
Their father, Apollo, was a proud man—quiet, stern, but hardworking. He had inherited the farm from his father, a plot of fertile land complete with a barn, henhouse, and several beasts of burden. Their mother, Elina, was the heart of the family, juggling chores, sickness, and six children with the grace of someone who'd known no other life.
They had married young—just sixteen—and started a family almost immediately. Now, at twenty-five, they already had a full house: the eight-year-old twins Rena and Hades; the six-year-old Trion; the fragile Tista, aged four; and finally Lucian and Laila, who were barely past two.
The twins gleaned most of this from listening to their older siblings. They were allowed to ask the occasional "What's this?" or "Why that?" but anything deeper drew suspicious glances or condescending smiles.
Still, as they spent more time with their family, they slowly uncovered the truth of their circumstances—and why, despite having a well-maintained farm, food was always scarce and tempers often thinner than broth.
The key to the mystery lay in Tista.
She had been born with a frail body and weaker lungs. Any physical exertion, even a brisk walk or an excited outburst, left her gasping for breath. She coughed constantly, but when her condition worsened, it became something violent—shaking her whole body and forcing blood to her lips.
Every time that happened, one of their parents had to run to the village healer, Nana. Her visits weren't cheap. Even though the checkups weren't overly expensive, the treatments—magical remedies to stabilize Tista—came at a steep price. And the healer charged extra if Apollo summoned her personally, since it meant she lost business making the round trip.
The cost of keeping Tista alive was bleeding the family dry.
Lucian and Laila felt an immense guilt about this, though no one had ever blamed them directly. Tista was loved by everyone. Even Hades, for all his resentment toward Lucian and Laila, treated Tista like a porcelain doll too precious to break. She didn't deserve this life of pain. She never complained. And that made it worse.
Lucian longed to help—to do something. But their light and dark magic remained elusive.
Light magic required a deep understanding of the body, patience, and discipline. It was far too risky to attempt, even with their growing power. They didn't dare hurt Tista in their desperation to heal her. Not without training.
Darkness magic… that was something else entirely. They had seen it once. A sliver of it. The way it felt—like a blade pressed against the soul. Dangerous. Hungry.
No one in their family used it. No one spoke of it. The one time they had witnessed it, the fear had etched itself into Lucian's memory.
So, they endured.
They lived carefully, navigating the unwritten rules of their chaotic home.
They were expected to be lively—but not too loud.
Curious—but not too probing.
Playful—but never far from the door.
If Lucian sat quietly in the corner, trying to meditate, he was scolded for being lazy. If he tried to help around the house, he was told he was getting in the way. The contradictions were endless. Even the minor "chore magic" their parents used for lighting candles, drying clothes, or scrubbing floors was strictly off-limits to them.
And of course, they were forbidden from going outside unsupervised.
The frustration built, day by day. It was like living in a house made of paper—fragile, flammable, and always one step from collapse.
Their feud with Hades never truly healed. Though he no longer openly bullied them, the tension lingered in every sidelong glance. Trion, the middle child, seemed to have inherited Hades' resentment. He helped them only when necessary, and always with a cold distance.
To Trion, Hades was a role model—strong, rebellious, outspoken. And if Hades hated the twins, so did Trion.
Lucian and Laila could feel the falseness of his actions like an icy wind behind a smile. They stopped seeking his help altogether.
Only Rena showed them consistent warmth, shielding them from their brothers and filling the gaps left by absent parents. But even she had her limits—torn between responsibility and the simple desire to be a child herself.
The days dragged on.
The twins waited—waited for the day they'd be "old enough" to learn magic, to be trusted, to leave the house, to make decisions of their own. Until then, they remained spectators in their own lives. Eager minds trapped in toddler bodies.
But their silence was not stillness.
They were learning, watching, remembering. One day, they promised themselves, they would no longer be kept in the dark.
One day, the world would see them—not as burdens, not as infants, but as what they truly were:
Storms waiting to break.