Chapter 7 – The Laws of Magic
The morning after the Bloodborn attack was cold and wordless.
Ash still clung to the rocks around them. The wind carried no birdsong. Only the empty crackle of dying embers.
Aurther sat beside the fresh graves, staring into the distance where mist rose like ghosts from the mountains. His hands were wrapped in cloth, but he could feel the heat pulsing beneath—the same wrong, cold heat that had burst out of him the night before. Whatever he had summoned… it hadn't been instinct. It had been something more.
Lysaria sat across from him, silent, sharpening a thin curved blade. For a while, the sound of stone scraping steel was all they shared.
Then finally—he spoke.
"Tell me how magic works here."
She didn't look up. "That's not a question people ask lightly."
"I'm not asking lightly."
A pause.
Then a quiet sigh.
"All right," she said, setting the blade aside. "I'll explain what I know. But understand—magic in Eryndor isn't simple. It's not a spellbook or a school. It's… language, law, and will. And everything has a price."
They sat beneath the shadow of a shattered boulder, where faded runes from the Blood War still hummed softly.
Lysaria scooped up a bit of earth, letting it run between her fingers.
"There are three pillars that govern all true magic: Essence, Vow, and Domain. Break one, and the others collapse."
"Essence," she began, "is the what. Your nature. Your source. It determines what kind of magic you can wield—what responds to you. It's tied to something in your soul. To emotion. Memory. Bloodline. Pain. Even lies."
Aurther blinked. "So people don't choose their magic?"
"Not at first. Your Essence chooses you. Later, you can shape it—refine it—but only within its rules. The strongest mages know themselves better than they know their spells."
She drew a rough circle in the dirt, then sectioned it into twelve uneven parts. Symbols spiraled around the edge—some curved like waves, others jagged like blades.
"There are twelve recognized Essences, each named after one of the Ancient Twelve."
"Like… fire and water?"
"That's the simple version. Yes. But each is far more than an element. They're archetypes. Flames that burn truth. Ice that preserves memory. Lightning that punishes betrayal. Dream, Void, Sky, Bone, Metal, Bloom—each Essence is an echo of a concept made flesh."
She added a thirteenth symbol—scratched hastily, like it didn't belong.
"And then there's yours," she said softly. "The power you hold is more dangerous then anything I ever even heard of.
He shivered.
"Second is Vow," Lysaria continued. "It's the how. The structure your magic follows. You can't just do whatever you want. You have to make rules. Restrictions. Conditions."
"Like… limiting how often you use it?"
"More than that," she said. "True magic demands a Vow. The stricter your Vow, the more powerful your spells. That's why most powerful mages tie their powers to something important—emotion, memory, identity. Some only cast when they speak a name. Some draw blood. Some must never lie. And some… die if they break the rules they've set."
"Sounds insane."
"Only if you think power comes free."
"The last pillar is Domain," she said. "It's the where. The spiritual territory your magic governs. Each mage develops a Domain—a conceptual field where their will overrides the world."
"Like a personal dimension?"
"Not always literal. Sometimes it's metaphorical. A battlefield. A garden. A nightmare. Inside your Domain, your magic bends space, law, even fate. But it takes years to build. And most never survive creating one."
Aurther looked down at his hands. "I don't remember choosing any of this. Or making a vow."
"Because yours wasn't given like ours. Yours took."
Lysaria stood and looked east, toward the horizon where the Pass bled into distant fog.
"There are ranks," she added. "Not like soldiers—but layers of understanding. Magic users aren't sorted by strength, but by comprehension. We call them Steps."
"Steps?"
"Because each mage must climb. Step One: Awarenes. Step Two: Awakening. Step Three: Control. Step Four: Dominion. Step Five…"
She stopped.
"What?"
"No one climbs higher than Five. If they do… they stop being human."
Aurther sat back, stunned. "And you? What Step are you?"
"Three. Control. I can cast freely. Shape what I've learned. But I've paid for it."
"How?"
She hesitated, then tugged her glove off.
Her fingers were burned black, cracked like charred wood beneath glowing skin.
"Magic doesn't ask if you're ready. It asks what you'll give."
They walked in silence for some time, the earth underfoot winding toward a narrow ridge.
Eventually Aurther asked, "Can you teach me?"
"I don't think I would be able to, I mean not Even the council knows what powers you hold."
"It doesn't follow the Law. You don't have Essence. You have… absence. No Vow. No root. Your magic is consumption. It's not cast. It's released."
He felt cold.
"So what now?"
"You wait. We reach the Seer. She'll explain what you are."
"And if I don't like the answer?"
"Then you pray it doesn't like you either."
That night, Aurther dreamed again.
He stood in a field of bones beneath a sky with no stars. A voice spoke—not from around him, but from within.
"There were Twelve who lit the world."
"And one who watched it burn."
"You are not heir to fire or storm. You are the child of the quiet between."
When he woke, the grass around him had withered.
Lysaria didn't say anything.
But she didn't meet his eyes for the rest of the day.
[End of Chapter 7