After returning to the inn, Lira and I settled into our shared room. The day's adventures had left me tired, but my mind buzzed with excitement. There was no time for idleness, not when I had so much to learn. We sank into the cushioned couch, the low lamplight painting warm shadows across the room, and Lira clapped her hands with the kind of enthusiasm that made me sit straighter.
"First," she announced, her silver hair catching the light, "we begin with reading and writing."
She reached into her satchel and pulled free a thin wooden board. I leaned closer. Carved into it were about thirty distinct symbols, each strange yet oddly familiar. Letters, I realized. Shapes that carried sounds.
"This is the alphabet," she said, placing the board in my hands as though she were bestowing a relic. "Each symbol represents a sound. Put them together, and you have words. Words are thought made visible, Max. They let us share knowledge with people we've never even met."
I traced a finger across the first row, hesitant, reverent. I had grown up with only spoken language, with stories carried on the breath of neighbors and family. The thought that words could be captured, caged on a page for anyone to see, felt like magic in its own right.
For the next ninety minutes, Lira walked me through each letter. She had me repeat the sounds, scribble the shapes onto a slate, and then correct my mistakes with gentle patience. Some letters twisted my tongue, others refused to stay straight on the slate. But with her guidance, the chaos began to take form. By the end, I had scrawled two names: Max and Lira. The letters weren't pretty, more like lopsided scratches, but they were ours.
"Well done," she said with a proud smile, leaning just a little too close. "Each night, you'll practice. Copy words, refine your hand, learn their meanings. With time, your calligraphy will rival mine."
Her confidence felt contagious. I nodded, gripping the slate like a promise.
When she set the board aside, her tone shifted, becoming more solemn. "Now, we move on to something more dangerous. Magic."
The word itself made the air heavier. My heart thumped in my chest.
"Max," she began, her golden eyes pinning me, "why do you think that, despite the ocean of mana inside you, you can only use it with things like the doors in the ruins or that pistol you found?"
I thought about it for a moment, remembering the way the pistol had drunk from me. "If I had to guess, it's because those things take my mana. I don't give it to them."
"Precisely." She nodded approvingly. "Those relics are designed to draw mana from their wielder automatically. They use you like a reservoir. But that doesn't mean you are controlling anything. You're a well being tapped, not a river carving its own path."
I recalled how the pistol had nearly flattened me the first time I fired it. "At first, every shot threw me on my ass. But after a while, I figured out how to resist its pull. I can sort of decide how strong the blast is."
"Exactly," she said, snapping her fingers. "You've already begun training yourself without realizing it. But you're still reacting, not directing. You keep it from taking too much, but you don't truly channel your mana."
That clicked. I wasn't shaping anything, I was just holding back a flood.
"There are four stages to magic," she continued. "And we'll tackle them one at a time. Stage one is perception: feeling your mana, recognizing it as a part of you."
I nodded. That much made sense.
"Stage two is gathering. Once you can sense it, you learn to collect it together, focus it like drawing threads into a rope. At first, it requires conscious effort. Later, it becomes instinct."
Her fingers traced small circles on her knee as she spoke.
"Stage three is channeling, directing that gathered mana into something, whether your own body, a tool, or a spellform. And finally…" She paused, letting the silence thicken. "Stage four: spellcasting. Shaping mana into an effect, bending reality. The more mana you channel, the greater the spell."
My breath caught. Bending reality.
"The first three," she said, "are easy enough. With your reserves, I expect you'll manage them before we even reach the academy. But the fourth… that's the challenge."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is spellcasting so much harder?"
"Because aptitude matters. Mana reserves alone aren't everything. Every mage is born with affinities, aptitudes for certain kinds of magic. Some wield flame, others command wind, others still shape time or strengthen the body. Null spells, like the search spell I used in the ruins, can be learned by anyone. But true spellcraft? That depends on who you are."
So even with oceans of mana, I could still end up useless if my aptitude didn't suit me.
"When you can manage the first three stages," she said, "we'll test your aptitude. Then, at the academy, we'll place you where you belong."
Curiosity tugged at me. "What about you? What kind of mage are you?"
Her smile turned sly. "I have aptitudes in identification and dark magic. Combat isn't my strength, but with identification magic, I can look at an object and know its history, its functions, its secrets. That's how I recognized the enchantments on your coat. Impressive, isn't it?" She leaned back, puffing her chest with mock pride. "Now, praise me. Fufufu."
I couldn't help myself. I reached out and stroked her head, running my fingers through her silken hair. She leaned into it almost instantly, closing her eyes like a cat basking in sunlight. "You're amazing," I said softly.
Her ears twitched, and a satisfied hum slipped from her lips. She leaned forward, hand settling on my knee. "Exactly. Now, let's get started."
She motioned for me to draw one of my new pistols. I obeyed, pulling the weapon from its holster. Even in the dim light, the revolver gleamed, or rather, it didn't. Its black metal seemed to swallow light whole, a shard of midnight shaped into steel. Sigils curled across the grip, faintly glowing as if aware of my touch.
"Hold it with both hands," Lira instructed. "One hand on the barrel, one on the grip. These pistols are forged from mana-steel. When held this way, they allow mana to flow from your right hand, through the weapon, into your left, and back into your core. A perfect circuit."
I adjusted my grip, the cool leather firm beneath my palms.
"Now," she said gently, "close your eyes. Imagine a light glowing in your chest. See it travel down your right arm, out your palm, into the pistol. Watch it move through the weapon, entering your left hand, flowing up your arm, and returning home to your chest."
I obeyed, focusing. At first, there was only darkness, the stubborn blankness of trying too hard. Then, faintly, I felt something, warmth, subtle but present. It trickled from my chest like sunlight spilling through cracks.
Minutes dragged. Sweat gathered at my temples. But slowly, steadily, the warmth became a current. I could feel it now: a cycle, flowing, returning, alive.
"Good," Lira whispered. "Don't force it. Just notice it."
It took five minutes before I could consistently track the warmth. Thirty minutes later, I could sense the flow clearly, unbroken.
"That's about what I expected," she said when I finally set the pistol down, exhausted. "Forty minutes total to perceive it for the first time. Our goal is to reduce that to forty seconds. Once you can do that, you'll be ready for stage two."
My head throbbed from the effort, but beneath the fatigue was something else: exhilaration. For the first time in my life, I had touched my own mana.
That night, when I finally collapsed into bed, I slept deeper than ever before.