I woke to the sound of my own breathing. That, at least, was progress.

  Weeks had passed, though I couldn’t measure them precisely. Time came and went in hazy fragments of warmth, hunger, and sleep. The storm that had once clawed at the roof was long gone, leaving only a faint scent of damp earth and old smoke. I existed now in a rhythm of waking and fading, my awareness flickering like the candlelight I had been born under. Sometimes I drifted into dreams that weren’t dreams, but memories of magic and fire, but they vanished whenever I tried to hold them.

  Sight came slowly. At first there was only darkness and a vague shimmer of light, pale and formless. Then, gradually, the blur began to sharpen: moving shadows, shifting brightness, the vague outline of my mother as she moved about the room. Colors were still beyond me; the world was all gray and smoke, soft edges and indistinct shapes. I had once commanded constellations to bend to my will, and now I couldn’t even tell the difference between wall and ceiling. It was humbling, almost insulting, but there was something grounding about it too.

  All right, Azolo. Think. What are the goals? Breathe. Live. Grow stronger. That seemed like a reasonable starting point for an infant.

  The problem, of course, was the lack of magic. I reached inward by instinct and found nothing. No current, no flow, no pulse of power at all. This body lacked the very design to hold it. Wizards were born with a second network beneath their veins, a hidden web of channels and capillaries that wove around a secondary heart, one that pumped mana in rhythm with blood. This body had none of that. It was a creature of flesh only, incapable of housing magic. I was no empty vessel. I was a solid block of iron in a world demanding sponges. Mana could not fill me; it would run off my surface, unabsorbed, uninvited. I could not hold it, but perhaps I could be forged by it. That was the thought that anchored me: if I could not contain magic, then I would become something that could endure it. This body would never carry mana, but it could become a vessel of strength. The peak of physicality, the absolute refinement of flesh. The problem was simpler in theory than in practice. What exercise existed to strengthen a baby? I knew the principles of magical shaping, not the forms of the body. I had studied the architecture of power, not the labor of muscle. Still, I would find a way.

  Magic was not gone from the world. It thrummed everywhere, threaded through air and soil, shimmering faintly in every living thing. I could not command internal power anymore, but perhaps I could learn to influence the ambient flow, to use what the world itself offered. Small runic effects, reagent-driven charms, the crude tools of lesser mages. It was humbling, but also strangely exciting.

  When my mother moved about the room, I listened and strained my limited sight to follow her motion. I heard the soft scrape of powder being poured, the faint spark as it met carved wood. The air shifted, and warmth spread gently through the room. A simple warming enchantment.

  Recognition hit me like a memory from another life. I knew that circle. I had designed circles just like this one, centuries ago, when I still believed the world could be improved through small kindnesses. It was one of the first enchantments I had ever written, a spell so basic it could be fueled by a pinch of dust and a spark of will. How long had it been since I’d used something so simple? I could once conjure ninth-level architecture in my sleep. Why would I ever draw circles again? And yet… hearing it, feeling the warmth seep through the air, filled me with awe. Weak or not, it worked. And weakness, I realized, might be my only path forward.

  There were ways to carve circles into flesh. The process was brutal but possible. Runes, properly aligned, would not let mana enter the body, but they would reinforce it. Those sigils could make the body faster, tougher, sharper, capable of grounding and stabilizing magic that touched it. They could never create new circuits for me; quite the opposite, they sealed sections of flesh away from external influence, making it harder to heal and impossible for a wizard to cast.

  There were carvings that could grant minor regeneration, simple circles cut into the skin, designed to restore flesh slowly over time. They weren’t powerful, but they worked. They came at a steep price, however. A carved regeneration circle would prevent any form of healing magic from touching the bearer. You couldn’t use healing magic on someone branded that way. The regeneration circle cannibalized any external healing magics that touched it, feeding on the mana to sustain its own slow process. Any healing spell, divine or otherwise, would be devoured by the circle, leaving only the sluggish regeneration it was designed to provide. You could feed it more power, but it would never grow faster. It was a counter to healing magic itself, and really, who in their right mind wanted a counter to healing magic? The reagents to carve and sustain it were inordinately expensive, too, so most people found it cheaper to visit a healer. Only criminals and outcasts used such methods, those with no one willing, or able, to mend them.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  For them, it was desperation. For me, it might be survival. I could already see the design in my head, the layers and lattices that would make it stronger, cleaner, more efficient. I could build on it, refine it, turn a forbidden relic into the foundation of something new. The regeneration circle should be my first goal. If I could craft it properly, it would grow with me rather than hinder me. It could become the base of every physical discipline I would ever master.

  The Tenets of Magic forbade such acts for the harm they did to the mage’s inner network. The strain of reinforcement burned through secondary hearts and ruptured mana veins. To the faithful, it was sacrilege, flesh defying the gift of magic. But I was no mage anymore, and I followed no Tenets of Magic. They were not the laws I would believe in again.

  I did not yet know the Tenets of Iron, but I had made a promise to the God of Iron, to follow his laws, whatever they might be, and to live by the strength of the body rather than the grace of power. Flesh, not flow. Struggle, not faith. Pain would be my scripture.

  I thought of the runes, the way they could shape strength from suffering. If I designed them correctly, they could let me jump higher, see further, even grasp the stray threads of external magic itself. The thought thrilled me. I giggled aloud before I could stop myself. The sound startled me. A moment later, my mother rushed over, her face a blur of warmth and laughter as she began to tickle me. Her fingers danced across my belly, and I couldn’t help it, I laughed harder. It was strange, joyful, and terribly distracting.

  Then I felt something else. Oh no. I pooped.

  My mother changed me. As she did, I thought about the circles I had designed centuries ago. They were too primitive for what I needed. I would have to possibly invent a new discipline of magic, one that did not involve direct casting in any way. One that took patience and time. Closer to the art of enchanting, but dedicated to the body itself. Body carving magic, that was what I would call it. A discipline of flesh, pain, and precision.

  Body carving magic… it would be unbelievable, the suffering I would have to endure to gain power. The pain would shatter a lesser mind. But I would endure it. I had to. The idea of reforging myself, of turning pain into strength, was the only path I could see forward. My mind drifted to possibilities, circles for endurance, sigils for speed, marks that could allow me to seize external energy with my hands. The future burned bright and terrifying.

  Then I remembered the burn. The small, stupid wound from the candle flame that had hurt so badly I’d passed in and out of consciousness for weeks. I stared at my trembling hand, flexing it slowly. Maybe not yet. Maybe endurance would take longer than I thought.

  A wry thought drifted through my head. Apparently, a great deal of my will had been tied to my old body. Azolo, think, think, think, man. Then, realizing the absurdity of it, I corrected myself. I guess… baby.

  As the day slipped into evening, my body grew heavy, but my mind refused to rest. I watched faint shapes blur through the dimming light and thought about how far I was from the power I once commanded. Yet somewhere deep within, I felt a spark, not of magic, but of determination. Every cry, every ache, every tiny motion was a form of training now. I might be small, fragile, and utterly mortal, but I was still Azolo. The world had forgotten what I was capable of, but I would remind it, one breath, one scar, and one circle at a time.

  I began to do the only thing I could, plan. I slept more than I wished, but in my waking moments I could picture the circles I needed to create, the lattices forming in my head. I began to plan; I began to engage. The first discipline in my head was a lattice of circles, not the crude patterns of village charms, but a network designed to reinforce, to tune, to direct ambient power toward specific purposes. I sketched it in my mind like a map: rings that crossed, anchors where reagents could bind, channels that would strengthen muscle and tendon instead of trying to build a second heart. It was an architecture of flesh, not of flow.

  To make any of it real I would need a spark. A proper mana potion could do that, just a single draught to feed the ritual that bound the first circle. But potions were coin and coin was a thin thing in this hut. I tried cataloguing options: gather the herbs myself, learn to bargain in markets, steal what I needed, or find a place that still kept old seals and trade for a scrap. The problem kept looming in my head, reverend iron. I had no idea how I would get the materials to forge it, and I would have to make a blade of it myself.

  Where would a baby get such a thing? I didn't know. But babies become boys, boys become men, and men can break into places no child is allowed. Time was on my side. I had ideas, and ideas were the only currency I needed for now. I would learn to walk, to steal, to bargain, to beg, whatever the world required. The map of my body took shape in my head that night. It was not a thing that would be built quickly. It would be built one cruel, beautiful notch at a time.