PART 4: DESTINY?

Five more years. Ten years old. A full decade since my unexpected, humiliating rebirth. Mary, my enthusiastic and alarmingly talented sister, was now thirteen. Two years. Two glorious, peaceful years before she'd inevitably leave for the Midland Academy, the prestigious magical institution located in the heart of the Western Kingdom.

Midland. Even the name conjured images of grand halls, esoteric lectures, and certainly, a complete absence of the blessed normalcy I craved. It was, apparently, ruled by two colossal royal families: the Mach Family, High Elves; and the Jair Family, Dark Elves.

Ah, elves. My prior existence had, thankfully, been mercifully free of such fantasy staples. Now, I had a mental dossier on them. High Elves: long, ridiculously pointed ears that seemed designed to catch every whisper of gossip; hair like spun gold; eyes the color of summer skies or emeralds. Taller than average humans, which meant they probably looked down on us, literally. Their specialty? Light magic. Because, of course, the pure, ethereal elves would wield the purest, most ethereal magic. It was so on the nose it almost hurt.

Then there were the Dark Elves: darker skin, ranging from a rich mahogany to obsidian; hair like midnight, or sometimes, a striking silver; eyes like polished onyx or warm hazel. Their ears were slightly shorter, a subtle distinction, as if to say, "We're still elves, just… cooler." Their thing was Enchantment magic and Invocation. So, basically, they were the ones who put curses on your socks and summoned angry imps to redecorate your living room. Delightful.

And, because every fantasy world needs its elusive, mysterious third race, there were the Forest Elves. They were less-known, rumored to dwell deep within the forests of Oregon. Their magic? Plant magic. Because, naturally, they communed with trees and made flowers bloom on command. I pictured them having polite conversations with oversized carnivorous plants. The whole thing was just… peak fantasy.

I, Jack Mikus, however, remained resolutely, gloriously, maddeningly average. At ten, I had shown absolutely no sign of magic. No accidental sparks, no levitating spoons, no impromptu conversations with the garden gnomes. Mary, in her infinite enthusiasm, had tried everything to "awaken" my "latent powers."

"Jack! Focus! Imagine the energy flowing through you!" she'd instruct, her eyes sparkling with unyielding belief. She'd hover a small pebble in front of my face. "Now, make it glow! Make it soar!"

I would stare at the pebble with the intensity of a highly bored housecat. My internal monologue would be a symphony of existential dread. Please don't glow. Please don't soar. Please remain a very boring, inert rock.

Then, with a sigh of exaggerated effort, I'd feign a look of intense concentration, clench my tiny fists, and… nothing. The pebble would remain stubbornly inert.

Mary would slump, momentarily deflated. "Oh, bother. Maybe tomorrow, Jack! Your magic is just… shy!"

Shy? I'd think. No, Mary. My magic is non-existent, and that's precisely how I want it to be. My only true magical ability is making myself utterly unremarkable. It was a subtle, yet highly effective spell.

My physical prowess was equally unremarkable. Mary, at thirteen, was a whirlwind on the training grounds. She moved with surprising speed, her wooden sword a blur. She could parry, thrust, and occasionally, with a surprising burst of strength, disarm a fully grown guard.

"Jack! Come on! Don't just stand there like a lump of bread dough! En garde!" she'd shout, her eyes alight with the thrill of combat.

I'd dutifully pick up my own wooden sword, considerably lighter than hers, and adopt a stance that screamed "reluctant participant."

Mary would launch herself at me, a tiny, furious warrior. I'd block, parry, and strategically "lose" with an almost artistic flair. She'd always win.

Every. Single. Time.

"Hah! And that's another victory for Lady Mary Mikus, the future Blade Mistress of Sorna!" she'd declare, striking a triumphant pose.

I'd slump dramatically, rubbing my arm. "Aww, you got me again, Mary! You're just too strong!"

Internally, I'd be meticulously analyzing her every move, her weaknesses, her openings. I could disarm her in a heartbeat, render her utterly helpless with a single, precise movement. But why would I? That would only lead to more attention, more questions. "How did he do that?" "Does he have some kind of hidden talent?" No, thank you. Being effortlessly beaten by my older sister was a small price to pay for anonymity.

My father, Karl, would occasionally observe our "training" sessions. He was a good man, for all his stern exterior. He had a surprisingly quirky sense of humor, often delivering dry one-liners that went over Mary's head. But he was, as I had quickly discerned, utterly terrified of Jane.

"You know, Jack," he'd say, after Mary had sent my wooden sword flying into a rose bush, "sometimes, perseverance is more important than raw talent." He'd wink at me. "Besides, your mother would skin me alive if you actually hurt Mary."

I'd just nod sagely. Oh, believe me, Father. I know. I had witnessed the Maid Incident. Jane's fury was a force of nature. If Mary was a budding magical prodigy, Jane was a quiet, domestic hurricane.

"Perhaps, Son," Karl continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "your talents lie in… less obvious areas. Like… the delicate art of financial management! Or perhaps… negotiating favorable trade deals for our harvests!"

I would offer a noncommittal shrug. Right. Because nothing screams 'normal, average child' like a ten-year-old mastering arbitrage.

Mary, oblivious to Karl's attempts at subtle encouragement (and my own internal panic), would suddenly shout, "Father! Look! I made a daisy levitate!"

And Karl would visibly jump, his eyes darting towards the floating flower, then nervously towards the manor, as if expecting Jane to materialize and demand an explanation for any potential property damage. "Indeed, my dear! Marvelous! Simply marvelous!"

My ten years had been a masterclass in controlled mediocrity. I had successfully maintained my cover as the unremarkable younger brother. I was good at it. I was a professional at being average. It was my superpower.

Yet, a tiny, nagging voice at the back of my mind whispered about "destiny." Was I truly meant to be just Jack Mikus, the noble who was just… there? Or was this supposed peace merely the calm before the storm? The very idea of being entangled in some grand prophecy, or forced into a hero's journey, made my stomach clench.

No. I reject your destiny, whatever it may be. My destiny is a quiet life, a comfortable chair, and a complete absence of world-shattering events.

I watched Mary, now attempting to make an entire flowerbed dance. Her focus was absolute, her face contorted in an expression of intense concentration. A few daisies wobbled precariously.

Just two more years, I mused, taking a bite of a particularly delicious apple. Then Mary goes off to Midland. And I can finally embrace my destiny… of being utterly, gloriously forgotten.

The apple was crisp, sweet. A perfect, normal apple. Just like I intended to be.