The first light of dawn painted the garden in soft gold as Tris moved through his forms. Sweat trickled down his temples, his muscles burning with familiar strain.
"Too slow."
He adjusted his stance, his small hands gripping the wooden stick like it was something more—something deadly. In his mind's eye, he wasn't a child in this peaceful world. He was Lieutenant Troy , once the youngest battlemage of the Nes Empire Legion. A prodigy with the spear. A soldier who had died with his magic still singing in his veins.
A rustle in the bushes snapped him back to reality. A stray cat darted past, eyeing him with feline disdain before disappearing into the morning mist. Tris exhaled sharply, forcing his tense shoulders to relax.
"This body is still weak."
But it wouldn't stay that way. The ceremony was coming—he could feel it in his bones—and he needed to be ready.
--- Memory Fragment ---
"Again."
His father's voice cut through the humid air of the training yard like a blade. He is Twelve-year-old Troy—not Tris, not yet—gritted his teeth and raised his practice spear. His arms trembled from exhaustion, the midday sun beating down mercilessly.
"You rely too much on magic," his father barked, circling him like a wolf. "What happens when your mana runs dry? When your enemy closes the distance? A spear is your lifeline—treat it as one."
Troy lunged, instinctively channeling wind magic into his thrust. The air whistled around the wooden blade only for his father to sidestep effortlessly and slam the blunt end of his own spear into Troy's ribs.
"Predictable."
The breath left Troy's lungs in a pained gasp as he hit the dirt. His father loomed over him, disappointment etched into every line of his scarred face.
"A true battlemage doesn't just cast spells— he fights."
--- Present Day ---
"Tris! If you train any harder, you'll dig a hole straight to the Underworld!"
The sharp voice yanked Tris from the memory. His uncle stood at the garden's edge, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on his lips. A stained apron covered his broad chest, the scent of freshly baked bread clinging to him.
"I'm just making sure I'm strong enough," Tris muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"For what? Uprooting weeds?" His uncle chuckled and tossed him a bright red apple. "You're ten. Save the soldier act for when you're taller than a wheat stalk."
Tris caught the fruit with a scowl. If only you knew.
His uncle's amber eyes softened as he took in Tris's flushed face. "Your father's pulling another double shift at the harbor, isn't he?"
Tris nodded, biting into the apple. The sweetness was a stark contrast to the phantom iron taste of blood in his memories.
"He is overworking again," his uncle sighed, ruffling Tris's already messy hair. "Like father, like son."
A pause. Then, with a knowing look: "Come inside—I made honey cakes—just how you like 'em."
Tris hesitated, his gaze drifting back to the training stick lying in the grass.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon, I'll be ready.
But for now—honey cakes.
A.N. (Author's Notes):
Eren — Tris's uncle (technically, the younger brother of Tris's dad) and the proud owner of The Blue Moon, a cozy little dockside restaurant that's more heart than hype. When their father's off pulling long shifts at the harbor, Eren steps in as the reluctant-but-reliable caretaker for Tris and his sister—though he'd never admit he kinda enjoys it.