Chapter 2
Onix discovered three important truths in rapid succession.
First: walking was optional.
Second: falling was not.
Third: gravity had absolutely no respect for reincarnated dignity.
He hit the floor with a soft thump, stared at the wooden boards beneath his face, and considered his options.
I could cry, he thought.
Or...
A faint spark popped near his palm.
Onix blinked.
The spark vanished.
"...Nope," he decided immediately. "Not doing that."
From across the room came a snort.
"You all right down there?" Lyra Stormborn asked.
Onix lifted his head just enough to see his older sister leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement. She was six years older, already tall for her age, with lightning-blue eyes that crackled faintly whenever she was annoyed—which, Onix had learned, was often.
"I meant to do that," he said.
Lyra raised a brow. "You fell face-first."
"Strategic," Onix replied. "Reconnaissance."
She laughed, sharp and unrepentant. "You're weird."
Correct, Onix thought, pushing himself up carefully. But you'll get used to it.
At three years old, his body still lagged behind his mind in deeply inconvenient ways. Balance came and went. Strength arrived inconsistently. Coordination... existed mostly as a rumor.
But awareness?
That was constant.
He could feel lightning now.
Not all the time. Not loudly. Just a quiet hum beneath everything, like a held breath waiting for permission.
Alaric noticed first.
"You're not moving like a child," his father said one evening, watching Onix cross the courtyard. "Your steps are too deliberate."
Onix paused mid-step. Abort mission.
"I'm... careful?" he offered.
Seraphine watched him over the rim of her teacup, eyes sharp. "Careful doesn't usually involve adjusting your center of balance before moving."
Onix sighed internally.
This family notices everything.
Lyra circled him, squinting. "Do it again."
"Do what?"
"Whatever that was."
Onix considered pretending ignorance.
Then he took a step.
This time, he felt the ground. Not magically—physically. Weight distribution. Pressure. A subtle adjustment through his legs that made the motion smoother, steadier.
Lightning stirred.
Not outward.
Inward.
His foot landed perfectly.
Lyra's eyes widened. "That was cool."
Alaric's expression turned thoughtful.
Seraphine's lips curved slightly. "That," she said, "was not lightning."
Onix froze. "...It wasn't?"
"No," she replied. "That was control."
He filed that away carefully.
The first intentional spark happened a month later.
Onix had been sitting in the courtyard, stacking stones into what he generously considered a tower. The structure collapsed for the fifth time, and frustration bubbled up despite his best efforts.
Okay, he thought. Just a little reinforcement.
He focused—not outward, not aggressively—just... gently.
The stone warmed beneath his fingers.
Not hot.
Warm.
Onix stared.
"...Huh."
The stone didn't crack. Didn't explode. Didn't do anything dramatic.
It stayed exactly where he put it.
The tower held.
Onix grinned.
That was when the air shifted.
Eldric stood nearby, hands folded behind his back, watching with a look Onix had learned meant interest disguised as indifference.
"You're feeding energy inward," Eldric said calmly. "Most lightning mages do the opposite."
Onix glanced up. "Is that bad?"
"No," Eldric replied. "It's efficient."
He stepped closer, crouching so they were eye level. "Where did you learn to do that?"
Onix hesitated.
I technically learned it by being hit by a truck in another life, didn't feel like the right answer.
"I just... tried not to break it," he said instead.
Eldric studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded. "Good instinct."
Lightning flickered faintly around Onix's fingers, responding to approval like a pleased animal.
Eldric's mouth twitched.
"Careful," he said. "If you listen too closely, it starts answering."
Onix looked down at his hand, then back up.
"...It already does."
Eldric went very still.
From the doorway, Lyra leaned out. "Hey! Dinner's ready! And if you're teaching him something weird again, Father says you're explaining it."
Eldric straightened smoothly. "I teach nothing," he said serenely. "I observe."
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Sure you do."
Onix gathered the stones carefully, the quiet hum inside him settling back into patience.
Walking. Balance. Control.
Step by step.
The storm wasn't rushing him.
And for the first time, neither was the world.
Onix learned very quickly that "training" did not always look like training.
Sometimes it looked like Lyra throwing a stick at his head.
"Duck!"
Onix ducked.
The stick sailed harmlessly overhead and clattered against the courtyard wall. He straightened, scowling.
"You didn't say when," he protested.
Lyra grinned. "You're supposed to react, not negotiate."
Alaric watched from the edge of the yard, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Eldric stood beside him, hands folded neatly behind his back, gaze following Onix's movements with quiet interest.
Seraphine observed from the veranda, tea in hand.
"I feel obligated to say this," she called out calmly, "but if either of you break the stonework again, you're fixing it."
Lyra saluted. "Yes, Mother."
Onix sighed.
This is my life now.
At four years old, his body still felt... small. Short strides. Short reach. Limited strength. But something else compensated for all of that.
Awareness.
Lyra threw another stick.
Onix felt it before it moved.
Not sight. Not sound.
Intent.
He stepped aside instinctively, feet shifting just enough for the stick to pass where his head had been a moment earlier.
Lyra froze.
"...Okay," she said slowly. "That one wasn't fair."
Onix blinked. "It wasn't?"
"You didn't even look," she said. "You just moved."
Onix considered this.
She was right.
He hadn't seen it.
He'd felt it.
Lightning stirred faintly inside him, pleased.
Alaric's voice cut through the moment. "Again."
Lyra scoffed. "Father—"
"Again," Alaric repeated, calm but firm.
She exhaled sharply and threw the stick harder this time.
Onix reacted.
He didn't dodge so much as slide.
His foot slipped across the stone, body rotating smoothly, center of balance shifting just enough to carry him out of harm's way. No stumble. No panic.
The stick missed him by inches.
Silence followed.
Eldric tilted his head. "Interesting."
Seraphine lowered her teacup. "Alaric."
Alaric nodded once, eyes still on his son. "That wasn't lightning," he said.
Onix looked down at his hands. "It wasn't?"
"No," Alaric replied. "Lightning enhances. That was... anticipation."
Lyra crossed her arms. "So he's cheating."
Onix bristled. "I am not."
"You didn't train for that," she insisted.
"I trained for falling," Onix shot back. "A lot."
Eldric chuckled softly.
That earned him a look from Seraphine.
"I said softly," Eldric replied mildly.
Training shifted after that.
Not abruptly. Not formally.
Just... differently.
Alaric began incorporating balance exercises into daily routines. Walking along low walls. Standing on uneven stones. Shifting weight deliberately.
Seraphine focused on control. Holding objects steady with minimal mana. Reinforcing without heating. Maintaining energy without discharge.
Lyra sparred with him — carefully, begrudgingly, and always with exaggerated complaints.
"You're not supposed to be faster than me," she said one afternoon as Onix slipped past her guard yet again.
"I'm not faster," Onix replied. "I just... move earlier."
"That's worse."
Eldric watched all of it.
He never interfered.
Until one evening, when the wind picked up unexpectedly.
Onix was practicing footwork in the courtyard, small arcs of lightning snapping faintly beneath his heels with each step. He wasn't trying to be flashy. He was focusing on flow — moving without forcing the energy to respond.
Eldric stepped into the yard without sound.
"Stop," he said.
Onix halted immediately.
"Walk toward me," Eldric instructed.
Onix did.
Eldric raised a hand.
The wind shifted.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
Just enough.
Onix stumbled, instinctively channeling lightning inward to stabilize—
—and froze.
The lightning met resistance.
Not rejection.
Guidance.
He adjusted without thinking, muscles tightening, balance correcting, motion continuing smoothly.
He reached Eldric without falling.
The man's eyes sharpened.
"That," Eldric said quietly, "was wind reinforcement."
Onix frowned. "You didn't hit me."
"No," Eldric agreed. "I changed the space you were moving through."
Alaric stepped closer. "Explain."
Eldric inclined his head. "Wind is motion," he said. "Not force. It doesn't push unless it wants to. It redirects."
Onix felt a strange click in his mind.
"Lightning is faster," he said slowly.
Eldric's gaze snapped back to him.
"Yes," he said.
"And it moves through things," Onix continued. "Not around them."
Eldric smiled.
Just a little.
"That's why I never taught you spells," Eldric said. "You don't need them."
Lyra blinked. "Wait. What?"
Eldric ignored her. "Try again," he said to Onix. "But don't push the lightning."
Onix swallowed.
Don't push.
He moved.
This time, he didn't force the energy.
He let it follow.
Lightning threaded through his legs, not as power, but as rhythm. His step landed lighter. His movement smoother.
He crossed the courtyard in half the time.
When he stopped, his heart was racing — not painfully, not dangerously. Just awake.
Eldric exhaled slowly.
Alaric stared.
Seraphine set her teacup down very carefully.
Lyra's mouth hung open.
"...Nope," Lyra said finally. "I don't like that."
Onix looked down at his hands, lightning fading into nothing.
"That felt," he searched for the word, "...easy."
Eldric nodded. "It should."
Alaric's voice was low. "Is it dangerous?"
"Yes," Eldric said honestly. "If forced."
Onix looked up. "What if it isn't?"
Eldric met his gaze.
"Then," he said, "you'll move faster than thought."
Silence fell.
Seraphine broke it first. "Dinner," she said briskly. "Before someone invents a new way to injure themselves."
Lyra immediately turned toward the house. "Called it."
Onix followed, thoughts racing faster than his feet.
Lightning inside the body.
Wind changes motion.
Speed without force.
Something new was forming.
Not a spell.
A method.
That night, Onix lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The storm inside him felt different now.
Not louder.
Sharper.
He moved one hand slowly, watching the faint glow trace beneath his skin, then fade.
Not yet, he thought.
The storm waited.
Patient.
Just like him.