Chapter One: He Sat Five Feet Away. (Which is Four Too Close)
Hi again, I'm still Feyri Virelle, reclining on a rune-etched towel at the water's edge. The sun presses down in waves of warmth, and the ocean shimmers like liquid moonlight. This isn't Moonshade Glade—no phosphorescent trees, no eternal twilight—but there's magic here, all the same. Every grain of sand hums with arcane potential, waiting for a practiced hand to coax it into spellcraft. I didn't come here for leisure. I came for quiet.
Spells begin as threads of intention woven into runic patterns.
The basics of minor enchantments are simple enough:
- Choose your intention.
- Draw or carve the sigil.
- Infuse it with emotional resonance.
- Seal it with a final gesture.
That's the formula, though mastery demands so much more than formulaic repetition.
Intent shapes the outcome. A ward cast in anger snarls sharper than a blade. A charm laid in sorrow will tremble with fragility. Each rune is a vessel for feeling, and each spell a mirror of the caster's soul. At Lunehart Academy, most students hammer out neat circles on parchment, reciting incantations until their voices are artifacts of precision. I practice in the sand: runes bloom under my fingertips, pulse once, then vanish like a sigh.
Magic is resonance.
In broad strokes:
1. Emotional Harmonics: Tuning feelings as one would a lyre.
2. Memory Weaving: Restoring or unraveling recollections.
3. Sensory Displacement: Shifting sight, sound, scent, even touch.
4. Illusory Warding: Concealing people or places from prying eyes.
I specialize in the first two. Emotional harmonics taught me that sorrow and joy share the same frequency, separated only by perspective. Memory weaving revealed how delicate identity becomes when your past is a tapestry of enchantments. I can make someone relive a single childhood laugh—or plunge them into the ache of loss so vivid it stains their present. These gifts earned me praise and wariness in equal measure, for most elves fear power they cannot control.
I rest on a beach towel embroidered with protective glyphs. The sunbaked sand beneath me shifts in temperature with every passing cloud. My swimsuit is an unassuming slip of enchanted silk—warded against sunburn, tinted to mimic coastal hues. I chose function over flair. Yet each decision is a statement: I am both student and sorceress, here to learn, but never to conform.
Here's how I draw a simple sensory-dampening ward:
- Select a base rune for muffling.
- Overlay three concentric circles of emotion-neutral glyphs.
- Anchor the design with a line of personal intent: "I will not feel pain."
- Finish with a soft downward stroke to ground the spell.
The ward hums faintly beneath my palm, smoothing out the sharp edges of reality. I can taste salt and hear gulls without the jarring jolt of brightness or noise. It's the kind of calm most people mistake for indifference.
I've spent nearly two centuries mastering subtler arts—toning down the world rather than bending it overtly. In my first year at Lunehart, I tried to capture a single wave's cadence in a crystal orb. It shattered under the weight of its own beauty and sorrow, sending flecks of raw emotion through the lecture hall. That failure taught me more than any academic success. Since then, I've perfected minor illusions, sensory wards, and memory-tinting charms. True artistry lies in restraint.
The ocean's machinery rolls before me, each crest a chord, each trough a release. I quiet my thoughts and let the tide become my tutor. Magic and nature share rules: flow, resistance, return. The sea yields to no one, illustrates balance with each cycle. I watch for patterns, listen for subtle shifts—because in resonance, the smallest discord can echo catastrophically.
Most students wouldn't notice these nuances. They'd see sun, sand, surf, then pick up a beach volleyball. I see energy fields, emotional undercurrents, and a chance to rehearse my craft away from prying eyes. Here, with only gulls and tide for witnesses, I practice drawing runes that mend broken memories, that mask a scream as easily as a whisper.
Silence isn't absence. It's layered.
I sense the flutter of life: distant voices muffled by wind, a gull's solitary cry, the pulse of magic hanging in the air like heat haze. I tap a rune into the towel to filter sensory input—to savor solitude in a world determined to impose itself.
That's when my ward flickered—just a tremor, a pulse through the sand like a held breath. I sensed three emotions washing across my field: anxiety, hope, and… love?
I opened my eyes.
Five feet away, a human boy froze in place the moment we locked gazes. His expression twisted into panic, his breath caught like he'd been struck by lightning, and then—he fell. Backwards. Limbs flailing, sand kicking up like startled birds. He landed on his back with an awkward grunt and scrambled upright, pushing damp hair from his face and blinking wildly.
He was terrified. But not of me—of what I represented.
He sat, precisely five feet from my towel, arms wrapped around his knees like a self-imposed cage. Still shaking, still staring. But not directly—his eyes flicked to the side, then crept back to me like they couldn't help themselves.
I studied him. He wore a simple linen shirt, slightly wrinkled at the collar, and trousers rolled to mid-calf. No warded accessories. No spellbook. Nothing but vulnerable curiosity. He looked too soft for our academy's politics.
I waited.
He inhaled like someone preparing a confession. "Hi," he said, voice cracking halfway through the word. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I was… you looked like you were listening to the sea and I didn't want to interrupt but then you saw me and I—" He broke off, wincing. "I'm Rowan. Rowan Graves."
I tilted my head. "Five feet. Was that a strategic choice, or just a convenient collapse zone?"
Rowan blinked. "I… measured. I thought any closer might interfere with your spellwork."
I folded my arms. "You seem familiar with resonance."
"I—I read about it. But the way you were listening... and the runes you drew—they were beautiful. Elegant."
His voice softened. "Like you."
The compliment hung in the air. I didn't flinch, but his face turned red enough to rival a sunset spell.
"I—I mean—you're elegant. I wasn't comparing you to runes. Not exactly. I mean…" His eyes darted down, and I noticed them linger—briefly—on the curve of my shoulder, where bare skin shimmered against the light.
My swim suit was simple: snow-white with subtle geometric wardwork stitched through the fabric, woven from coastal thread designed to mimic the motion of the tide. It clung neatly, cool against my skin, warded for sun protection and sensory flow. My long silver hair was tied back, framing pointed ears that caught the light when I shifted.
Rowan noticed everything—he tried not to, but I could feel his attention like heat.
"I didn't mean to stare," he blurted. "I just… you're radiant. You look—like someone who belongs to the sea."
I blinked slowly. "I belong to Moonshade Glade."
"Right. Of course. It's just… the way the sunlight hits your skin, and your hair—it looks like starlight." He stopped himself. "Sorry. That was weird. I'm nervous."
"No kidding," I said dryly.
Rowan laughed—an embarrassed, fragile thing. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm not trying to flirt. I mean… I am. But not obnoxiously. I'm just—I've seen you at the academy. You're always so composed. So calm. Even now."
"You're five feet away. That helps."
He nodded solemnly. "I thought you might like space."
I traced a rune lazily in the sand beside me, letting the line fade before completion. "Most do. You're still here, though."
"I know," he said. "I just thought… if I didn't say something, I'd regret it. You're fascinating."
I met his eyes. "Fascination isn't a spell. It fades."
He smiled, quieter now. "I don't think you fade."
For a moment, the wind carried his words out to sea. I sat back, the rune cooling under my fingertips. My towel glowed faintly, ward pulse steady. He kept looking at me—not with hunger or fantasy, but with the overwhelmed awe of someone who saw magic stitched into skin and didn't know how to hold it.
"You're different from every student I've met," he said finally. "Not cold. Just… clear. You don't pretend."
I nodded once, a silent affirmation.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a blank parchment. "Will you… show me a rune? Not one of the ones from class. One you use when you want to feel nothing."
I paused, then leaned forward and sketched a spiral into the sand. "It's called a quiet bind. You draw it when silence isn't external—it's something you need inside."
Rowan watched, breath held. "That's beautiful." He glanced at me again. "So are you." His voice cracked slightly. "I mean—not just your magic. All of it."
I didn't respond immediately. I finished the rune, sealed it with a soft downward stroke, then met his eyes. They were full of questions he hadn't asked yet.
"You can sit here," I said. "Five feet away. That's close enough for now."
He nodded—grateful, amazed, and maybe still a little in love with the idea of me.
And I let him stay