The forest grew denser as Lyra moved farther from the familiar edges. Vines hung like curtains from ancient trees, and patches of light spilled down like golden waterfalls through the branches. Her footsteps were slower now—not from fatigue, but from the awareness that she had entered somewhere deeper, older.
She paused beneath a gnarled tree and looked around.
"Noxy… I've been thinking. You said anyone can use magic, right? Kael mentioned something about chanting spells."
"That's correct," Noxy answered calmly. "Magic isn't bound by bloodline or birth."
"Then… can I learn it too? I mean real spells. You know a lot, right? You must know some magic."
"I know many spells," Noxy said with a soft hum of amusement. "More than most mages ever will. If you wish to learn, I can teach you. But know this—it won't be easy."
Lyra's eyes lit up. "I don't care. I want to learn. Really learn."
Noxy didn't answer right away. The wind shifted gently, rustling the leaves above.
"Then let's begin, not with chanting," Noxy said at last, "but with understanding."
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They made camp near a ring of old stones that night, half-buried in moss and surrounded by luminous mushrooms. As Lyra sipped water and leaned near the fire, Noxy's voice filled her thoughts.
"Magic isn't just a matter of saying the right words," Noxy began. "There's a system behind every spell—a structure. When you cast, you aren't simply reciting; you're invoking."
"Invoking what?"
"Will. Intention. The nature of reality itself. The words are a medium, but the source is deeper."
"So the chant isn't the spell?"
"No. The chant is a key, not a door. What matters is the image you shape within your mind. The clearer your visualization, the stronger and more precise the spell becomes."
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Noxy explained how two mages could use the same chant and yet produce entirely different effects—one might create a flickering spark, the other a roaring flame. It all depended on the caster's grasp of form, purpose, and vision.
"So it's not just reciting magic words," Lyra murmured, absorbing every word. "It's… art."
"Yes. And science. And emotion. All at once."
Lyra's head spun with possibility.
"So if I learned the words… and learned how to speak to the forest, or the flame… I could shape spells my way."
"Exactly. That is why magic has no true limit. It grows as you grow."
"Then teach me. Everything. From the beginning."
"I will," Noxy promised. "But remember: what you shape with magic shapes you in return. Learn wisely."
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Noxy then moved to the essence of language itself.
"Most chants use what scholars call the Language of Nature—the oldest tongue still remembered in the roots of the world. It's the language that speaks to earth, flame, wind, and water. But that's not the only language that can be used to invoke magic."
Lyra tilted her head. "It's not the only one?"
"Indeed. There are others. Dragon-tongue, imbued with raw power and authority. Elven-speech, subtle and graceful, perfect for enchantment. Even the tongue of gods, though mortals rarely grasp it. Each has different strengths, and these are just a few of many. There are countless tongues lost to time or yet to be discovered. And if someone reach a certain mastery over their own magic they can even create their own magical language that boost the power and effectiveness of their magic."
"So magic can change depending on the language used?"
"Precisely. A fire spell in nature's tongue may burn steady. But in dragon-tongue, it might explode with violent force. In elven, it could take the form of dancing embers. The structure, the pacing, even the emotion you pour into the words—all of it shapes the outcome."
"Can I… choose how to cast a spell, then? Change it?"
"If you understand the language and your will is strong enough—yes. That is the true potential of magic. You can shorten the chant to make it faster, or lengthen it to amplify power. You can blend elements, even combine spells together, if you know the balance."
"Then show me," Lyra whispered, leaning forward. "Show me how it works."
The fire crackled softly. Noxy did not speak. Instead, a flicker of violet light shimmered in the air before Lyra.
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A moment later, a phantom-like figure formed—Noxy's spectral shape, woven from light and memory. She raised one translucent hand and whispered a phrase in the Language of Nature.
"Sylavare illumina."
The air shimmered, and a gentle flame appeared above her palm, warm and steady.
Then she spoke in Dragon-tongue, her voice sharp and commanding.
"Drakar'vahn relthor!"
The same fire burst outward in a cone of heat, scorching a nearby log with its sheer intensity.
Next, in Elven. Her tone shifted to one of elegance, and her voice flowed like music.
"Thalën liraé eth'arien."
The flame changed—slender tendrils of fire wove upward like vines, dancing softly with elegance and color.
Finally, her voice dropped to a deep, echoing hum. The words were unlike any Lyra had heard—resonant, layered, and vast.
"Oréthal mur'navar sol'théryn."
A golden flame flared, hovering in midair. It pulsed with divine stillness. Even Lyra, though distant, could feel its power in her bones.
"That was the tongue of the divine," Noxy said gently. "Few can wield it. Fewer still survive its weight."
"They were all fire," Lyra whispered. "But none of them were the same."
"And each speaks to a different truth. That is the beauty of magic—and its danger. And the tongues I showed you are only a glimpse of what exists."
Lyra hesitated, then asked curiously, "Do you have your own language, Noxy? One you created yourself?"
There was a pause. Then Noxy's voice came quieter, steadier.
"Yes. I do."
"Can you show me? Just once? I want to see what it's like."
"No, Lyra. I cannot."
"Why not?"
"Because the tongue I forged is not one this world could bear. Even now, as a fragment of who I truly am, the words of that language carry the weight of all knowledge. It is the culmination of understanding across time, space, and beyond. To utter it would unravel more than just reality—it would tear at the fabric of this world."
Lyra's breath caught. She could feel the gravity behind those words, the sense of something vast and unknowable.
"So that's why you never really use magic?"
"Exactly. My presence here is already a delicate balance. To use my true tongue would tip it. It is not arrogance—it is necessity."
Lyra nodded slowly.
"Then one day… I'll make a language too. One I can use to protect, to change things."
"And I will guide you to that day," Noxy said gently. "But you must walk each step."
"I want to learn them all," she said with quiet determination. "Even if it takes a lifetime. And maybe… make one of my own."
"Then we'll begin," Noxy replied, her voice firm but warm. "Tomorrow, I'll teach you your first chant—and the image to hold with it. But tonight, rest. Magic begins in the mind, and the mind must be clear."
That night, Lyra lay beneath the stars, her heart filled with new hunger—not just for knowledge, but for mastery. The forest whispered around her, as though listening.
And within her, something stirred—something ancient and waiting to awaken.