After a walk of several minutes through pines and rocks, they arrived home.
It wasn't a mansion, nor even a particularly large house. But it was theirs.
It was a single-story cabin, built with clean stones and solid wood, nestled in a forest clearing as if it had grown there itself. The stone walls, well-fitted, promised strength against the gales and winter cold. The roof, made of treated wood and layers of tar, had a stone chimney at its center that never stopped smoking when it was cold.
In front of the cabin, a small porch with two wooden chairs worn by use and weather. On one of them, a hand-woven blanket rested on the backrest, as if waiting for someone. To the sides, the ground was clean, swept, with a small path of flat stones leading to the door.
There were no luxuries. No unnecessary adornments. But there was order. There was care.
A few meters away, the murmur of the river could be heard, the same one where they sometimes bathed when the heat was intense or when the blood and sweat of training demanded a deeper clean than a simple damp cloth.
"Well, we're here," said the grandfather, breaking the comfortable silence that had accompanied them the entire way.
He set Samael down carefully, like one placing a treasure on the ground, and opened the wooden door.
The interior was as austere as the exterior, but just as welcoming.
The floor was stone, covered in some areas by thick wool rugs, hand-woven, in colors ranging from brown to gray. In the center of the main room, a stone fireplace occupied a large part of the wall, with a fire always ready to be lit when nights turned cold. In front of it, a couple of wooden armchairs with worn cushions, and a low table where an iron teapot and two ceramic cups rested.
To the left, a small kitchen: a wood-burning stove, some metal and wooden pots hanging from the walls, a wooden pantry against a corner. It smelled of dried herbs, of bread, of home.
To the right, a dark wooden bookshelf occupied almost the entire wall. It was no ordinary bookshelf. It was enormous, solid, built by hand decades ago, and on its shelves rested dozens of books. Some thin, others thick; some new, others so old the pages threatened to crumble at the touch. There were history treatises, spiritual energy grimoires, bestiaries, folded maps, notebooks filled with trembling handwriting.
Beyond, a short hallway led to two doors: the grandfather's room and Samael's. They couldn't be seen from where they stood, but they were implied.
There was nothing gilded. Nothing unnecessary. But every object had its place, its purpose, its story.
Little Samael, now inside, took a deep breath. The air in the cabin was different from outside. Quieter. Safer.
His spiritual energy, which outside had flowed wild and free, crashing against the world like a swollen river, now calmed. He contained it with a conscious control remarkable for his age. He couldn't afford a slip here; an errant spark could set the books on fire or send the fireplace stones flying. Or worse, break something of his grandfather's.
Concentrating, he extended a hand toward the bookshelf.
His fingers didn't point to any particular book, but his eyes did: toward a large, thick volume, bound in dark leather, resting on the highest shelf, nearly touching the wooden ceiling.
"Today I have to read the contents inside it," murmured little Samael, more to himself than anyone else. "Today is the day to see what you have for me."
A soft gust of wind, so precise it seemed like an invisible hand, materialized around the book. It wasn't a gale, nor even a strong breeze. It was a glove of air, an extension of his will, that slid carefully between the book and its neighbors on the shelf.
The book, enormous compared to the child's torso, slowly slid out from its place. It remained suspended in the air, wrapped in a faint grayish glow of spiritual energy.
His grandfather watched with arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.
You're improving a lot, boy, he thought mentally, watching his grandson's feat. It wasn't the first time he'd seen him do something like this, but each time it surprised him more. Keep it up. In this world, the weak get crushed. Only the strong survive.
But it wasn't the feat of a prodigy in battle that moved him at that moment. It wasn't the destructive power, nor the ability to create fireballs or earthen walls.
It was the everyday scene. The domestic one.
His three-year-old grandson, using masterful control of his spiritual energy for something as simple as reaching a book.
The bookshelf was several times taller than the child. If Samael had wanted, he could have knocked down the entire shelf with a breath of power. But he didn't. He used precision. Delicacy. He used his strength for something useful, not just something destructive.
The gesture spoke of a silent determination. Of a mind that no longer settled for what was within arm's reach. That wanted more. That wanted to know.
How strong will you become, little grandson? the old man thought, and in his chest, wonder mixed with a slight but constant worry. Like a secondary heartbeat.
And if I were a true mage, not just a swordsman with knowledge… he continued his thoughts, and his face, once proud, adopted a more serious expression. Could I guide you better? Could I protect you from what might come in the future?
He looked at the child, who was still focused on bringing the book down, and something inside him hardened.
But even so, I will strive to protect you. His jaw tensed. His fists, still resting on his crossed arms, tightened slightly. I swear it.
The book began to descend slowly, floating like a feather through the quiet air of the cabin. It descended in a perfect, controlled trajectory, as if an invisible thread held it.
It wasn't that his control failed; Samael had it completely mastered, guiding it toward himself with absolute concentration.
When it reached chest height, he extended his arms.
The air wrapping dissipated at the right moment, and the weight of the volume fell into his small arms. A final pulse of spiritual energy cushioned the impact, absorbing part of the weight, but still, the child sank slightly under the load.
"Uff! Finally got it," Samael sighed, panting slightly. The combined effort of the battle—the walls, the fireballs, the dodging—and this final act of fine control had left him breathless. His chest rose and fell rapidly. "You didn't want to come down, huh? You were that comfortable up there?"
And the child smiled.
Regardless of the dust covering his clothes, regardless of the weariness weighing on every muscle, regardless of the dried blood on his cheek, he let himself fall onto one of the rugs. The rough wool grazed his bare legs, but he didn't care.
He placed the heavy book in front of him, opened it with a reverence bordering on religious.
The pages, yellowed by time, unfolded before his hungry eyes.
They were filled with complex characters, some familiar, others less so. But what truly captured his gaze were the illustrations: beasts with enormous fangs, constellations connected by thin lines, diagrams of spiritual energy flowing through human bodies, maps of places he had never seen.
He turned a page. Another. Another still.
His eyes scanned every drawing, every symbol, trying to decipher the world through those images. Occasionally, his finger traced a line of text, moving his lips silently, trying to articulate the words his grandfather had taught him.
He didn't understand everything. Most of it eluded him. But it didn't matter. He was there, before that book, and that was enough.