Swana and Sik'ra walked alongside Jorghan as they made their way through the busy pathways of the Nor'vack settlement. They were on their way home.
The main island, called the turtle rock, was present in the middle, home to the clan. It's a giant landmass consisting of a whole lot of vegetation with beasts too and other lives too.
You won't even know that you are standing on an island until you reach the edges. Under the island, there were dark woods known to be the habitat of dark beings.
The floating islands covered a large span of area too.
The west side consisted of the great Aranian forest.
The Nor'vack people—tall, proud beings with brown skin that shimmered faintly in the sunlight—moved with purpose through the village square.
Jorghan walked between Swana and Sik'ra, his head barely reaching their waists. At eleven years old, he stood just over four feet tall—a stark contrast to the eight- to ten-foot frames of his family members and tribe members. The villagers' eyes followed him, quick glances that darted away when he noticed them. Their whispers carried on the wind.
He could feel their stares.
He always did.
"Look at the little one," a voice whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
"The human child", another murmured, the word 'human' spoken like something strange and foreign.
The tribe people glanced at Jorghan from time to time, their large eyes curious and sometimes distrustful. Their whispers followed him like shadows.
When Sigora brought him, they were terrified to let a human live among them, and they disliked how their sorceress favoured the boy. To them he was an alien, a creature who shouldn't exist.
To them, he was an outsider—different in every way from their kind. His skin lacked their white shimmer, his ears were round instead of pointed, and most noticeably, he stood barely half their height.
Jorghan kept his eyes forward, pretending not to notice. He was used to being an outcast in the tribe.
Except for his aunt's family, no one really talked to him. But Jorghan didn't mind anyone as he made his way towards home, chatting easily with Swana and Sik'ra.
"Did you finish the task Mother gave you?" Swana asked, her melodic voice kind.
Jorghan nodded.
Sik'ra laughed, the sound like distant bells. "If you haven't, then Mother will spank you."
Jorghan only stared at him, blankly.
Unlike the two children of Sigora, these two cared for Jorghan. They are children who respect their mother and heed what she says. When they learnt that Jorghan was their cousin, they were happy to welcome him and treated him as a brother.
They reached the large wooden house that stood apart from the others—the patriarch's home. Built from the sacred floating wood that grew only on the undersides of the islands, it was both beautiful and strong. Intricate carvings of the clan's history decorated its walls, telling stories of ancient battles and magic.
Once they were inside the house, Swana and Sik'ra left for their own work—Swana to her healer's apprenticeship and Sik'ra to his warrior training.
Jorghan continued alone, passing through the main living area where the patriarch's other two children, twins Lira and Morden, were practising their battle forms under the watchful eye of a clan elder.
They didn't spare him a glance. They didn't like having Jorghan staying in the house, but they couldn't disobey their mother's wishes. So they just ignored him.
Jorghan walked behind the main house, toward a structure that resembled a warehouse. Before it stretched a beautiful garden filled with all kinds of herb plants—Sigora's pride and joy. Rows of healing herbs with purple leaves, protective plants with spiky blue flowers, and magical flora that seemed to glow faintly even in daylight filled the carefully tended beds.
This garden was Sigora's special place, where she grew the ingredients for her powerful magic. As the clan's high sorceress, her knowledge of plants and their magical properties was unmatched on all the floating islands.
Jorghan walked to the open door of the warehouse-like building and stepped inside.
The air inside was warm and rich with the scent of drying herbs and brewing potions. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars, bottles, and strange magical items Jorghan couldn't name.
He saw a woman sitting before a large wooden table, her tall frame bent over her work. Her skin was a deeper brown than most of the tribe, marked with sacred patterns that showed her high status. Her long, ebony hair was woven with beads and feathers that clicked softly as she moved.
Jorghan walked to her and called out softly, "Aunt Sigora?"
"Did you call for me?"
Sigora didn't turn around right away. Her voice was gentle but carried a hint of sadness as she replied, "When will you start calling me mother?"
Jorghan looked down at his feet. "Hmm."
It had somehow become a habit to call her aunt, even though she had asked him many times to call her Mom. It was something Jorghan couldn't come to terms with, for now.
He wasn't sure why he couldn't make the change—perhaps some part of him felt it would be betraying the memory of his birth mother.
Sigora turned around then, her movement fluid and graceful despite her size.
In front of her, Jorghan looked like a little baby even though he was eleven years old. Her tribe's trait—her eight-foot height—made her tower over him. Her emerald eyes, with pupils that expanded like a cat's, looked down at him with love and concern.
"So," she said, kneeling down to be closer to his level, "how far are you able to control your mana now?"
"Up to 80 percent I can control now," Jorghan said proudly. This was a huge improvement from just months ago, when his magical abilities would burst out unexpectedly, sometimes with dangerous results.
Sigora's expression grew serious. "Do you still feel the rage inside you? Your ability—is it kicking in?"
Jorghan shook his head. "No, it's dormant now."