Chapter 4: A Hero's Potential

So there I was, stuck in this standoff with Amelia, her perched in the grass like some curious cat, me trying to play it cool after she'd busted me glowing or buzzing or whatever she thought I was doing. Her green eyes were drilling into me, big and bright, like she could see straight through this kid disguise to the Demon King I used to be. For a hot second, I panicked—thought she'd clocked me, game over. But nah, she was just staring, all innocent and kid-like, same as I was supposed to be.

Time stretched out, her gaze locked on mine, and I could feel the weight of it—those eyes, unblinking, peeling me apart. Finally, she caved, breaking first. Her cheeks flared up red, like she'd been caught doing something embarrassing, and she dropped her head, fiddling with her hands in her lap. Defeat, I guess. I smirked—score one for me—but my brain was already racing somewhere else, spinning a plan so fast it nearly tripped over itself.

Back in the day, I ran the show solo. Trusted nobody, leaned on nobody. That's how you claw your way to the top, right? Kept me sharp, got me to the pinnacle—Demon King, big shot, all that jazz. But it was a lonely gig. No one to share the view, no one to catch you when some hero jams a sword in your chest and leaves you bleeding out, your old buddy sobbing over your corpse. Real poetic end, huh? Point is, I'd done it all alone, and it sucked.

Now, here's Amelia—little 'Melia, pigtails all crooked, staring at me like I'm some kind of wizard. And I'm looking at her, really looking, and I see it: potential. Not just the hero she's destined to be, all shiny and saint-approved, but something bigger, wilder, locked up tight in this scrappy kid who doesn't even know what she's got. She's already strong—stronger than Bram, that loudmouth bully who terrorizes the village. One good swing, and she'd flatten him, no sweat. But it's more than muscle. There's magic in her, raw and buzzing, just waiting for someone to crack it open. The saints'll find her eventually, scoop her up, turn her into their golden girl. But why let them have her? Why not me?

Yeah, I get it—crazy talk. Me, ex-Demon King, mentoring the future hero? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But if I take her under my wing, guide that power—not to the dark side, not to the light, just to something smart—she could be unstoppable. And me? I'd have someone in my corner, someone to watch my back when the world catches up to who I really am. Maybe this time, I don't have to go it alone.

Here's the catch: she barely knows me. We just met—like, officially met, not counting all the times I've watched her from the shadows of my past life. Can I get her to trust me? It's a long shot, like chucking a dart into pitch black and hoping it sticks. But I've hit worse marks. I sucked in a breath, let it out slow, and dropped my voice, all serious-like, trying to sound deep instead of desperate.

"Amelia," I said, low and gravelly, like I was about to lay some heavy truth on her. Her head snapped up, eyes locking on mine again, wide and waiting. "Do you want to be with me and get stron…."

"Yes!" she shouted, cutting me off before I could even finish. She launched herself at me, arms flapping like she was gonna tackle me into the dirt. "Yes, yes, I want to be with you!" Her face went beet-red, and she shrank back a little, mumbling, "I mean, um, strong sounds good too."

I froze, mouth hanging open, brain scrambling to catch up. What the hell? That was too easy—way too easy. I'd barely got the question out, and she's already jumping in, no hesitation, no "what's your deal, Aron?" Just pure, blind trust. Shit, was she always this quick to sign up? No wonder the saints nabbed her later.

"Uh, okay," I managed, rubbing the back of my neck, still reeling. "So… you wanna train, then? Get stronger?"

She nodded hard, bouncing on her knees, all lit up like I'd just promised her the moon. "Yeah! You were doing something cool, right? Teach me! I wanna be cool too!"

I snorted—couldn't stop it. "It's not 'cool,' 'Melia. It's meditation. For magic and stuff."

"Magic?" she gasped, scooting closer 'til her knees bumped mine. "Like wizards and dragons?"

"Sorta," I said, wiggling my fingers like some dumb stage magician. "More like making stuff happen—boom, no matches needed."

Her grin stretched ear to ear. "Teach me, Aron! Please? I'll be good, I swear!"

I swallowed, throat tight. This was it—Amelia, future hero, begging me, the guy who'd one day be her enemy, to show her the ropes. Everything could go wrong. Probably would. But screw it—I was already in too deep. Might as well see where this ride takes us.

"Deal," I said, sticking out my hand. "But it's our secret, got it? No blabbing to your pa or anyone."

She grabbed my hand, squeezing tight, her palm warm and kinda sticky. "Secret," she whispered, all serious, then flashed that grin again—the one that made my chest feel funny. "You're the best, Aron."

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, rolling my eyes but smiling back.

.

.

.

The river slid past us, lazy and unbothered, sunlight splintering off its surface like broken glass. We'd been at it all morning—Amelia swinging that stick like it was part of her now, me barking corrections until my throat scratched raw. Months of this, days bleeding into weeks, weeks into months, and she'd soaked it all up, a sponge greedy for every word I threw her way. I'd only had to show her that one move—the sidestep, the twist—once, and she'd had it, quick as a blink. Now, we were slumped under the oak tree, its gnarled roots poking up like they were trying to trip us even sitting down. The shade was cool, but the heat stuck to us anyway, heavy and damp.

She was too close again. Always was. Her shoulder bumped mine, her knee brushing my leg as she shifted to pluck at the grass. I'd told her once, months back, "Don't get too close, 'Melia," voice sharp like a blade. She'd just laughed, that bright, warm sound, and stayed put. I stopped saying it after a while. Stopped caring, maybe. She was humming now, some nonsense tune, tossing grass into the wind like it was a game. Her hair was a tangle, sweat sticking it to her forehead, and there was this smudge of dirt on her cheek that made her look half-feral. She grinned at me, all teeth and light, the kind of smile I hadn't seen since before—before the dark, before I burned everything down. Back when we were just kids. Seeing it now twisted something in me, sharp and sweet.

"You're getting good," I said, voice gravelly from shouting. "Too good."

Her grin widened. "Yeah? You think?"

"Mm. Sponge-brain. Suckin' it all up."

She laughed, loud and sudden, like a bell ringing out over the quiet. "Guess I've got a good teacher, huh?"

I snorted, ripping up a fistful of grass and letting it sift through my fingers. "Nah. You're just… you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She tilted her head, eyes squinting like she could peel me open and look inside.

"Dunno. You're quick. Always were."

Her smile softened, edges going gentle, and she leaned in closer. Her shoulder pressed harder against mine, warm through my shirt. I stiffened—old instincts kicking in—but didn't pull away. Couldn't. Not when she was looking at me like that, all open and soft, like I was someone worth keeping around.

"You're weird, Aron," she said, but it wasn't mean. Just warm, like she was wrapping the words around me.

"Takes one to know one."

She giggled, and it was like dropping a stone in a still pond—ripples spreading, loosening the knot in my chest. I flicked my eyes to her, caught the way the sun snagged in her hair, turning the ends gold. My stupid heart lurched, and I cursed it silently. This wasn't the plan. Wasn't supposed to feel like this. I'd pushed her away once, built walls of ice and shadow to keep her out. Now those walls were dust, and I wasn't sure I minded.

"Aron?" Her voice went quiet, the laughter draining out.

"Yeah?"

"You ever think about… leaving? Just going somewhere else?"

My gut clenched, a cold fist wrapping around it. "Like where?"

She shrugged, tugging at her sleeve, fingers fidgeting. "Dunno. Anywhere. See what's out there."

I swallowed, throat tight. "Sometimes."

She nodded, like that was all she needed. "I'd go with you. If you wanted."

The words hit like a punch, stealing my breath. She said it so casual, so easy, like it wasn't a promise that could shatter us both. "You don't know what you're sayin', 'Melia."

"Yes, I do." She turned to me, eyes blazing, fierce and sure. "I'd follow you anywhere, Aron. You're my best friend."

Friend. It cut deep, that word, sharp on both sides. I'd torched it once, turned it to cinders along with everything else. Now she was holding it out again, bright and whole, and I didn't know if I could take it. Didn't know if I deserved it.

I looked away, stared at the river instead. It glittered back, a mirror of the sky, the trees, us—two kids pressed too close, caught in something bigger than we could name. The water murmured low, a sound that mocked the silence stretching between us.

"You're stuck with me, then," I mumbled, trying to keep it light, keep it safe.

She laughed again, softer, warmer. "Good. 'Cause I'm not going anywhere."

Her hand slipped into mine, fingers threading through like it was the most natural thing. I froze for a second, then let it happen. Let her hold on, let her think this was simple—just two kids, a tree, a promise. But inside, it was chaos. Memories slammed against the present—her screams when I'd turned, the fire in my hands, the dark I'd chosen. Guilt churned, thick and bitter, but there was something else too, something warm and fragile flickering under it. Hope, maybe. Or something dumber.

I didn't pull away. Just sat there, her hand in mine, the river whispering secrets we couldn't say aloud. The breeze tugged at her hair, and the sun caught it again, making it glow like a halo she didn't know she wore. She squeezed my hand, just once, and I squeezed back before I could stop myself.

"You're still weird," she said, grinning like she'd won something.

"Yeah," I muttered, lips twitching. "And you're still a pain."

She laughed, and I let myself smile—just a little—while the river kept moving, carrying pieces of us downstream where we couldn't follow.