This city was built of familiar sights and memories. Isa remembered every corner with a flash of action, a hint of fury and a few drops of embarrassment. As he left the smithy that day he passed about a million of them.
To the left, there was the little alleyway he'd run into as a kid and got shouted at by some bigger kids. He retorted, spat back and got kicked down easily. But then he launched himself at the biggest of the kids and took him down before he got pulled back and beaten up. His father had saved him then. Isa remembered, with no little amount of awe, how fascinatingly fantastic his father's mage gift had been.
Two blocks later he passed the building he once met Ari on, as the Avenger. Then the building Isa slipped and fell off one winter, almost breaking his foot. The memories depicting injuries were the more abundant of the lot. The place where he got his milk teeth knocked out of him, the spot where his shoulder twisted so badly his dad had to make him bite his leather belt so as not to bite his tongue in pain and, amusingly, the street corner he'd run into whilst trying to run away from a very pissed off guard.
Before he turned into one of Marithseum's main arteries, Isa grinned as he passed the place he won his first few coins at, after betting someone he could juggle until they counted to fifty. He made it past seventy-five. Java was a good trainer.
The last memory was more recent, from about four years prior to that day, when he stood in front of the same desk, nervous but enthusiastic, very keen to say his name and join the country which expected nothing of him.
"I want to sign up. Isa... Seaborne," he managed to say before his throat knotted. If he'd been born a mage, he was sure he would have spat fire by now. He leaned in and put a scribble in over his name and, numbly, straightened again.
"This is gonna be fun," he mumbled, hollowly.