Five years had passed since the festival. A few days ago, Lindarion had celebrated his eleventh birthday.
"Ti is but a thread."
He murmured the old saying as he stared into the mirror. A striking young boy gazed back—tall, poised, and undeniably handso.
His height had already reached 178 centiters, and his silver-gold hair flowed freely down to the middle of his back.
His once-soft features had sharpened over ti, sculpted into sothing fit for a fairy tale prince.
Then again, he was a prince.
'But when will he arrive…?'
Lindarion's father had inford him days ago that Thalorin would be coming for him today, taking him to the place where he would train until the academy began.
His mother had opposed the idea at first, but after hours of pleading—and a well-tid use of his best doe-eyed expression—she finally relented.
He slid a golden bracelet onto his wrist, the tal cool against his skin. Its intricate design mirrored the one his mother always wore—a silent tether between them.
'It tracks my vital signs.'
The mont it fastened, a faint pulse of mana resonated against his skin, syncing with his body's natural flow.
He flexed his fingers, watching the tal shift seamlessly against his movents. It was a small price to pay.
Dressed in a sleek ensemble of silver and white, he stood ready, his belongings packed and waiting for Thalorin's arrival.
'I shouldn't keep the old man waiting.'
For five years, Thalorin hadn't contacted him once—except to inform his father that he would be coming soon.
"He was probably busy…"
Lindarion exhaled and opened his Status Window.
[STATUS WINDOW]
—[INFO]—
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