Edmund's parents are very proud of him.
He was a difficult child. Always ready to learn, but, frankly, a bit of a prick. But he's grown, become a lovely young man, made friends with his enclave cohort. Peter will hardly recognize him. If Peter's still alive.
Occasionally he wonders what it would be like not to have magic. He would hardly have to worry at all about whether his siblings would live long enough to have children. Maybe he'd be an author. Maybe he'd be a politician. As it stands, he's a scholar, because he has to be, and a fighter, because he has to be, and... maybe he'll do something worth having been born about, someday.
Edmund's parents are proud of him because he might survive. He's not sure that's enough for him to be proud of himself.
He's standing with the other members of his cohort, none of whom know about his doubts. His hair is short. He's hungry - he had a good supper, of course, twelve hours ago, but breakfast is by all accounts the most important meal of the day.
He's got a backpack. Some healing cookies - not top quality, but good enough. Some mana storage. Other than that, mostly magical supplies. He's left the survivalism to his friends for the most part; they've got a checklist, and they're going to redistribute when they get there. Nigel weighs about 35 kilos, so he's carrying a lot of it. Nigel's good. Edmund is glad of Nigel.
Maybe Nigel will be the first of his friends to die, he thinks as he vanishes.