Part I : The First Meal
The post-dawn chill of Oakhaven seemed to settle in the void left by Faelan's departing party. While Lyra and Thorgar had already set out on their own mission into the Blightwood Forest, Arthur and Ingrid remained.
The fire from their recent battle with Thorgar had forged in them a new, shared motivation, a readiness to embrace the hell that had been promised .
But motivation alone does not sharpen a blade.
Their first meal of the day was not served on a plate by Lilia. It was to be served by Brimor.
The stoic dwarf led them to the top of Oakhaven's towering city walls, the wind whipping at their clothes.
On one side, the city sprawled in a chaotic tapestry of life. On the other, the vast, untamed wilderness stretched to the horizon, where the Blightwood Forest lay like a dark scar.
Brimor spent the first half of the day not training them, but draining them—grueling exercises that pushed their bodies to the point of collapse, teaching them the hard language of their own physical limits.
When they were finally gasping for breath, leaning against the cold stone of the battlements, he began the lecture.
The sun was a bloody smear on the horizon, bleeding its last light across the training fields.
Every muscle in Arthur's body was a screaming nerve.
He and Ingrid stood before Brimor, drenched in sweat, their chests heaving.
The dwarf, by contrast, looked as if he'd just taken a leisurely stroll, his breathing even and his posture as unyielding as the mountain stone of his homeland.
He addressed Ingrid first, his voice a low rumble, like stones grinding together.
"We could spend months trying to build muscle on you," he continued, his gaze analytical, dismissive of the idea. "It would be a waste of time. Your frame isn't built for it.
He crossed his thick arms. "A proper mage stands behind a wall of steel—comrades you trust to handle the wet work up close. But let's be honest, girl. You're more likely to grow a beard like mine than you are to make friends who'll die for you."
It wasn't meant as an insult. It was a diagnosis from a seasoned warrior that lacked the grace to soften the truth for a child.
Ingrid flinched, but said nothing.
"So," Brimor grunted, "we work with what we have. Strength is a luxury. Endurance is a necessity. A mage who can't stand after the third spell is a corpse. We are building endurance. Stamina. The will to keep moving when your body is screaming to stop. Those are more valuable than any mana reserve you have."
He pointed a thick finger towards the distant forest.
"Your first lesson starts now. You and Aeris will go to a place called Pond Annoy. It's crawling with D-rank fish: Flying Razor Gill Minnows."
Arthur, standing behind Ingrid with the silent, ever-present Aeris, listened intently.
"They're not dangerous," Brimor explained, his eyes fixed on Ingrid. "But they're fast. Annoying. They'll give you a thousand paper cuts if you're slow. Your task is to stand on the platform in the middle of that pond, release a pulse of mana to draw them in, and catch five of them. Alive. With your bare hands."
A flicker of arrogance sparked in Ingrid's eyes. Catch fish? After surviving a massacre and facing down warriors, it sounded like a child's errand.
Brimor saw the look and his lips thinned into a hard line. "This isn't about catching fish. It's about control. You will use your magic to defend yourself."
"Not with big, sloppy shields from your palms but from every inch of your skin. A shield no bigger than a coin, moving to block each cut. You will learn to make your mana an extension of your reflexes. Understand?"
Ingrid gave a sharp, earnest nod.
"Good," Brimor grunted. "After you catch them, you bring them back. They spoil fast".
He finally let his gaze fall on both of them. "Tomorrow, the number of fish increases. This will be your life now."
Ingrid squared her shoulders, her resolve hardening. This was just another obstacle, another price to be paid for power. She would conquer it. She didn't realize, not yet, just how humbling that pond was going to be.
Now he fixed his gaze on Arthur who was in a better shape than Ingrid, his expression unreadable. "You're not as soft as you look, boy," Brimor rumbled, the words grating like stone.
A flicker of pride warmed Arthur's chest, a rare and welcome sensation. It was extinguished an instant later.
"But a start is all it is," the dwarf continued, his bluntness a physical force. "Your sword-work is clean but hesitant—the motions of a student, not a survivor. Your mana is a puddle in a drought. And you waste what little you have like a drunken lord on a festival night."
The criticism landed like a physical blow, and Arthur's shoulders slumped.
He looked down at his trembling hands, the assessment a perfect, painful echo of his own deepest fears.
"Your life is now owned by three duties," Brimor declared, beginning to pace before them. "First, the body. You continue with me at dawn. Second, the blade. After your conditioning, you will learn from me how to blend that magic of yours with steel. A spellsword is more than a fighter who knows a few tricks. Third," he stopped and pointed a thick finger at Arthur, "your mana. You are a novice. An infant. Aeris's methods would be wasted on you. You will train with Ingrid."
He then turned his gaze to the girl. "And you, after a few days, will learn close-quarters combat. From Arthur."
Ingrid's brow furrowed. She was to teach the prince magic? Fine. But learn close combat from him? A boy who had frozen solid during their first real fight? The thought was a quiet, sharp insult.
As if hearing her unspoken pride, Brimor's eyes narrowed.
"I see that look on your face, girl. The boy is an infant with mana. You are an infant with a blade. You think I'd put you against me, or Thorgar, or Lyra? We'd break you by accident before the first lesson was over."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over both of them. "You and the boy are evenly matched in your weaknesses. You will start there. You will build each other up from the ground. That is not a request."
His assessment was over. The day was not.
A pale, silent shadow detached itself from the base of the city wall. Aeris, who had been observing from a distance, approached and stood beside Ingrid without a word.
Brimor nodded toward the darkening forest. "Your lesson begins now, girl. Go."
As Aeris and Ingrid started their long walk toward Pond Annoy, two disparate figures swallowed by the twilight, Arthur remained. He watched them go, then turned to face Brimor, whose face was unreadable in the growing dark.
"Pick up your sword, boy," the dwarf commanded.
For Arthur, the day's torture was only a beginning.
Part II: Pond Annoy
Silence was the third companion that walked with Ingrid and Aeris toward Pond Annoy.
The elf moved with an effortless, weightless grace, while Ingrid's steps were heavy with a mix of anticipation and the lingering ache from Brimor's morning torment.
They reached the pond well after the sun had set.
It was a perfect, still disc of black glass under the moonlight, the air sharp with the scent of cold water and damp earth.
As Ingrid prepared to use a gust of wind to cross to the small platform in the center, Aeris spoke, her voice as calm and dispassionate as the water's surface.
"You'll want to lose the winter clothes."
Ingrid turned, surprised.
A flicker of suspicion crossed her face, but Aeris elaborated before she could voice it, a hint of weariness in her tone. "Not all of them. Just the heavy layers. Leave your underthings."
Ingrid hesitated for only a second. Shame and modesty were luxuries for a life she no longer lived. She stripped down to her underclothes, the cold night air raising goosebumps on her skin.
It was a familiar, biting cold, a ghost of her home in Frostpine's End, and it grounded her.
She crossed to the platform, a pale, determined figure in the moonlight.
From the shore, Aeris settled onto the trunk of a fallen tree. "Release a pulse of mana," she instructed, her voice carrying easily across the water. "Just a small one. Too much will frighten them."
The water seemed lifeless.
Ingrid held out her hand and conjured a small, dancing flame at her fingertip. For a few moments, nothing happened. The pond remained a silent, black mirror
Then, the mirror shattered.
The water erupted in a frenzy as a living storm of silver scales and needle-thin fins launched itself into the air
The sound was a high-pitched hum, like a thousand tiny razors slicing the air. Ingrid instinctively threw up a wall of wind, a powerful gust that shielded her torso but left her legs exposed.
Dozens of the Flying Razor Gill Minnows slammed into her, their fins leaving a crisscross of stinging, shallow cuts
The pain wasn't deep, just a maddening, stinging annoyance that broke her concentration.
She tried a ring of fire, but they flew right through it, their wet bodies hissing as they extinguished the flames.
She remembered her goal: catch five, bare-handed.
Gritting her teeth against the constant, paper-cut assault, she lunged, her hands closing on empty air as the fish darted away with impossible speed.
When she did manage to touch one, its body was slick as oiled glass, slipping through her grasp instantly.
Hours passed in a frantic, losing battle. Finally, gasping, bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts, an idea sparked.
Finesse, not force. She wove a thin, almost invisible layer of abrasive wind magic around her palms. The next time she lunged, her magically-textured grip held firm. She had one.
"AERIS!" she roared, her voice raw with triumph and exhaustion, holding the thrashing fish aloft.
The elf stirred, rubbing her eyes. She looked at Ingrid's sorry, bleeding state, then at the single, wriggling fish.
"The bucket!" Ingrid yelled, her patience worn thin. "Pass me the bucket!"
Aeris rose with a languid slowness that was infuriating. She walked to the bucket, but instead of throwing it, she simply raised a hand expelled a mana pulse.
The swarm of minnows instantly got frightened, diving back into the black water and vanishing. The pond was silent once more.
"You won't solve this in one night," Aeris said, her voice thick with sleep. "We should head back.
"No!" Ingrid shot back, unwilling to let her single victory die. She crossed back to the shore, placed the fish in the water-filled bucket, and turned, her jaw set. "I will catch the other four."
"That will take you until morning, if you are lucky," Aeris stated. "And catching them is one thing. Keeping them alive is another." She nodded at the bucket. "That one is already dying."
Ingrid snatched the bucket, her voice frantic. "How do I keep it alive?"
Aeris met her gaze, a flicker of something ancient and knowing in her eyes. "Knowledge, Observation, and Imagination. These are the pillars of a true mage. Did Sybill not teach you this?"
Ingrid stared at the dying fish, its gills barely moving.
Her eyes darted from the listless fish to the water, then back.
The answer was right there.
She plunged her hand into the bucket, pouring a steady, gentle stream of her own mana into the water. The minnow shuddered and then began to swim with renewed vigor.
Aeris gave a single, slow nod. "Close the lid. Unless you want it to fly away."
As Ingrid sealed the bucket, the elf yawned. "One of the tastiest fish in the world. Requires a constant stream of mana to keep it from spoiling, which is why you never see it in the market. Without it, the flesh turns to poison in a few hours."
Seeing the disappointment on Ingrid's face, Aeris stepped forward and placed a cool hand on her arm.
A gentle, green light spread over Ingrid's skin, and the stinging cuts faded away.
"There will be more failures," Aeris said softly. "The mark of a great soul is not the absence of failure, but what is learned from it."
It was well past midnight when they returned.
The Guild Hall was cavernous and quiet, empty save for three figures huddled around a table.
Brimor, impassive as a mountain, was nursing a stein of ale.
Opposite him, Arthur was draped over a chair like a wet rag, a boneless heap of exhaustion, staring at the ceiling. Lilia was just setting a plate of food before them.
Brimor looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately finding the bucket in Ingrid's hand. "One," he grunted. "And still alive. Better than I expected for a first attempt."
Ingrid said nothing, the words not feeling like the praise they were.
"Lilia," Brimor called out, "would you cook this for us?"
"Of course, sir," Lilia replied with her usual bright smile, taking the bucket and heading for the kitchens.
Aeris glanced at Arthur's sorry state. "Did you make him clear out twenty goblin lairs?" she inquired of Brimor, her tone one of dry curiosity.
"No," the dwarf rumbled, taking a deep drink of his ale. "He just got a taste of what survival truly means."
He turned his gaze to Ingrid. "Why the long face?"
Aeris answered for her. "She only managed to catch one."
Brimor was silent for a moment, his gaze heavy.
"You should be proud, girl," he said, his voice low and serious.
Ingrid finally looked up.
"Thorgar or the twins could have killed the whole swarm. Brute force is easy. You kept one alive all the way back here. That's not strength. That's control. That's precision. Don't mistake a small victory for a failure."
The words didn't erase her frustration, but they eased the sting of it. A warmth spread through her chest.
Lilia returned with their meals. As she set a plate before Arthur, she asked gently, "Anything else, sir?"
From the depths of his exhaustion, Arthur uttered a single, muffled word, a breath of pure longing. "Home."
Lilia tilted her head. "Pardon?"
There was no reply. Arthur didn't move.
With a small smile, Lilia retreated.
In the quiet of the great hall, they ate, two exhausted children and their two ancient guardians, the promise of another, more grueling day hanging silently over them all.
Part III : The First Principles
Dusk had settled by the time Ingrid and Aeris departed, their figures swallowed by the growing dark.
Arthur remained with Brimor in the vast, empty field outside Oakhaven's walls.
Every muscle protested, but the memory of the fight, of his brief moment of competence, was a fire in his belly. It was time to learn.
Brimor, his arms crossed over his barrel chest, regarded Arthur with an appraising stare.
"The fight with Thorgar," the dwarf's voice rumbled. "You used wind. Is that all you have?"
Arthur shook his head.
He focused, gathering the small reservoir of power within him, and a flickering, fist-sized ball of fire bloomed in his palm. It wavered, unstable, but it was there.
"Anything else?" Brimor asked, unimpressed.
"No," Arthur admitted, extinguishing the flame.
The dwarf paused, his gaze seeming to weigh Arthur's very soul. "And what do you know of magic itself? The theory?"
"My uncle favored the sword," Arthur said, the familiar excuse sounding hollow even to his own ears. "I only know a few practical spells."
"Mandala theory? Mana control? The forms of magic—manipulation, conjuration, Aura, the Deviants?"
The terms were a foreign language. Arthur's blank expression was all the answer Brimor needed. The dwarf let out a heavy sigh that seemed to come from the deep earth.
"Gods and stone. To have a prince with such low magical education … it's an embarrassment to your House."
Shame, hot and sharp, pricked at Arthur, but he held his face rigid, focusing on the dwarf's guidance.
"Listen, boy, and listen well. I'm not repeating myself," Brimor began, his tone shifting to that of a master smith lecturing an apprentice.
"Your Mandala is the heart of your power, a reservoir of mana every living thing possesses. Humans can awaken up to seven. Dwarves, three. Halflings have one small one, but like the elves, they can draw a little from the world around them. We—humans and dwarves—must rest to refill our reserves. They don't. Remember that. It will save your life one day."
He strode forward and placed Arthur's hand flat against his own chest. "Now, close your eyes."
Arthur obeyed.
"Focus," Brimor commanded. "Find that feeling you had in the fight. Not the fear. The power. The hum beneath your skin. Chase it."
For a moment, there was nothing but the cool night air and the pounding of his own heart.
Then, a flicker. A warmth deep within him. He focused on it, nurtured it, and the flicker grew into a steady, internal glow. His breath hitched.
"You feel it," Brimor stated. "What color is it?"
"White," Arthur whispered, his eyes still closed
"Then your Affinity is wind," Brimor grunted. "Fire is red, water is blue, earth is brown. Aura is purple. Deviant magic… that's a deep, starless black."
"An affinity?" Arthur asked, not daring to open his eyes.
"The path of least resistance. The magic you are most naturally suited for. It's not a cage. With practice, you can change it, master others. My own burns both red and brown."
"What are Aura and Deviant magic?" Arthur asked hesitantly.
"Aura is raw mana, pure and unconverted, used to augment the body. Strength, speed, resilience. It's the way of the augmentor, the warrior who makes his own flesh a weapon. Faelan uses it. The beastfolk are masters of it. Deviant Magic,"
Brimor's voice held a note of grudging respect,
"is different. When a mage is powerful enough to awaken their fourth mandala, they reach the rank of Adept. One in a hundred, maybe. Sometimes, the world notices. A god, a demon, an ancient spirit… it grants them a blessing. A Divergence. Teleportation, gravity manipulation, foresight. Rarer than dragon's teeth."
He fell silent for a moment. "Focus again on your Mandala," he ordered. "Tell me two things. First, its light. Is it uniform?"
Arthur sank back into his own senses, observing the white glow. "No. The bottom half is bright, but the top is dim, almost dark."
"That's because your first Mandala isn't even full," Brimor's voice was blunt. "You cannot begin to fill the second cup until the first is overflowing."
The dwarf's next question was sharp. "Second, its shape. Is it a perfect sphere?"
Arthur observed the shape of the light. It wasn't smooth. It bulged in places, wavered in others, like a poorly blown piece of glass. "No. It's… uneven."
"That," Brimor said, the word landing with crushing weight, "is your control. The more flawed the sphere, the more mana you bleed with every spell. It means your control is abysmal."
He let the silence hang for a moment before delivering the final, devastating blow.
"To put it in terms a prince might understand: for the same simple Fireball, Ingrid spends one copper piece worth of mana. You, boy, spend a hundred."
The sheer, impossible scale of the gap between them settled on Arthur, a weight heavier than any crown.
"You speak your spells," the dwarf continued, his voice a low rumble that cut through the chirping of crickets.
"That's a crutch. An enemy who understands your tongue knows your next move before you do. An Initiate doesn't give them that luxury."
Arthur's mind flashed to Ingrid, to the effortless, silent storm of spells she had unleashed.
"Now, magic," Brimor continued, pacing slowly. "The wall Thorgar raised to block you. The rock hammer Ingrid formed to strike his leg. What's the difference?"
Arthur thought back, visualizing the battle. "One uses the environment," he said, thinking aloud. "The other… creates something new. So, manipulation versus conjuration?"
A rare grunt of approval escaped Brimor. "Good. You have eyes. What else?"
Arthur drew a blank. Brimor didn't wait long.
"Cost and permanence. Manipulation is cheap. It rearranges what's already there. That wall would still be standing if Thorgar hadn't shattered it. Conjuration is expensive. It tears matter from pure mana. The moment a mage stops feeding a conjured weapon, it dissolves back into nothing."
The dwarf stopped and pinned Arthur with his gaze. "Another question. The girl has a deep well of mana, yet she tired almost as fast as you. The kick was part of it. What was the other part?"
Arthur replayed the fight again, seeing Ingrid's flashing attacks. "The ice daggers," he realized. "And the hammer. She kept having to make them."
"Precisely," Brimor nodded. "You have a sword. A simple, reliable piece of steel. She has nothing. Every attack requires her to pay a heavy price just to create a weapon. Never forget the advantage that gives you."
His tone hardened, becoming the voice of a veteran imparting his core belief. "Forget the labels—mage, spellsword, augmentor. They are academic nonsense. In a real fight, there are only two kinds of people: the living and the dead. You do what you must to stay in the first group. Learn from the girl. Be fluid. Be whatever the battle demands."
He gestured to the patch of earth before them. "Your task is to raise an earthen wall. The same one Thorgar used against you." He recited a short, guttural chant. "Now, do it."
Arthur knelt, placed his palms on the cool dirt, and spoke the words. He poured every ounce of his will into the spell, pushing his mana out in a desperate, formless flood.
A pathetic lip of dirt, barely ankle-high, pushed up from the ground before crumbling.
The world dissolved into a gray haze. A leaden weight crushed Arthur from the inside out, and his consciousness simply… ended.
He awoke with a gasp, a pounding headache, and a mouth that tasted like sand.
He was on his back, staring at the star-dusted sky. Brimor was sitting beside him, calmly sharpening a knife.
"What… what happened?" Arthur rasped.
"Mana exhaustion," the dwarf stated, not looking up from his blade.
"It stings, doesn't it?" He finally met Arthur's eyes. "You tried to force it. Poured everything you had at once. Most of it bled into the dirt as waste. Next time, focus on your Mandala."
"As you cast, will it into a perfect sphere. Make it efficient. And never, ever empty the tank completely. A sleeping warrior is a dead one."
Arthur sat up, his body screaming in protest. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet. He took a deep, shuddering breath, placed his hands on the ground, and spoke the words again.
This time, he focused inward, visualizing the lopsided, wavering ball of white light, trying to smooth its edges.
The ground groaned. A wall, this time knee-high, surged up before it too lost integrity.
He hadn't passed out, but the effort left him breathless.
He collapsed backward, landing hard on his rear, gasping for air as black spots danced in his vision.
From beside him, Brimor's voice was a low growl. "Progress."
Lying there, staring at the endless tapestry of stars, Arthur's mind replayed the battle. But he wasn't thinking of his own actions.
He was thinking of Ingrid.
He had seen her as a reckless brawler, a glass cannon. Now, with Brimor's lessons echoing in his mind, he saw the truth.
The quicksand—an act of manipulation, first used to trap Thorgar, then later to cushion his own fall.
The rock hammer and ice daggers—costly acts of conjuration, born of the desperation of having no weapon.
The rock cuffs, the air trampoline that had saved him, and finally, the colossal pillar of stone that had thrown Thorgar off balance—a feat of manipulation so powerful it dwarfed his own pathetic efforts.
He was in awe. It wasn't just power. It was versatility, control, and a tactical mind that could shift between forms of magic in a heartbeat.
His own goal, once an abstract concept of "strength," now had a face, a form, and a name: Ingrid. He had to match her.
Slowly, painfully, he stood up.
His body screamed, but the fire in his gut burned hotter.
He took his position, focused, and attempted the spell again. And again. Each time the wall rose a little higher. Each time the exhaustion cut a little deeper. He never matched the wall Thorgar had raised.
"Enough," Brimor's voice finally cut through his haze. "It's late. We continue tomorrow."
Part IV: Cherish the small wins
When Lilia served the food, the rich aroma of roasted fish pulled Arthur from his stupor. He straightened from his boneless slump, his body a map of aches, and looked at the simple, perfect meal.
"Try the fish," Brimor rumbled, gesturing with his stein. "The girl caught it."
Arthur tore off a piece. The first bite was a revelation. It melted on his tongue—a burst of clean, savory flavor so intense it silenced the aches in his body for a single, blissful moment.
He had dined on royal feasts his entire life, but he had never tasted anything so purely, wonderfully delicious.
His eyes instinctively shot up to look at Ingrid, hoping to share the moment, to see a flicker of pride or satisfaction on her face.
But there was nothing. The impassive mask she wore was firmly in place, her expression as distant and cold as the winter sky.
It was the same mask she had always worn, broken only for that one, brief, startling moment of laughter after their fight.
He remembered the sound—soft and airy, as if she were trying to catch it before it could escape.
He wanted to thank her. The prince in him, trained in the courtesies of the court, knew it was the proper thing to do.
But the sight of her remote gloom made the words wither in his throat.
He remembered their conversation by the oak tree; her explanation of the tournament had felt like a grim, dispassionate report.
A knot of dissatisfaction tightened in his chest.
He didn't want this chasm between them. Why?
Was it the prince, bound by etiquette to thank her for the meal? Was it the fledgling warrior, awed by her formidable skill and wanting to acknowledge her protection during the fight? Was it just the boy, lonely in a world of adults, desperate for a friend his own age? Or was it simpler than all that? Maybe he just wanted to see her smile again.
He didn't know. He only knew that the silence felt like another wall he needed to break down.
They finished their meals in that same heavy quiet. Brimor and Aeris departed for their rooms with little more than a grunt and a silent nod.
Arthur and Ingrid were the last to leave, their exhaustion slowing their pace.
They walked up the creaking stairs and down the long, drafty hallway of the upper floor.
Moonlight streamed through a high arched window, painting a silver rectangle on the floorboards.
Arthur trailed a few steps behind her, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Hey…" The word was barely a whisper, almost lost in the sigh of the wind.
Ingrid stopped and turned.
The motion was fluid, and a stray strand of her silver-white hair caught the moonlight, momentarily glowing like spun starlight. She tucked it behind her ear.
For an instant, the exhaustion, the aches, the entire Guild—it all vanished. There was only the girl, bathed in silver light, and the sudden, sharp silence in his own chest.
He found his voice again, this time firmer. "Thanks."
Her head tilted slightly, but her expression remained unreadable, her voice as flat as still water. "For what?"
He held her gaze, refusing to be intimidated by the wall she kept around herself. "For your help yesterday. With Thorgar. And for the fish."
She watched him for a second, her blue eyes giving nothing away. Then she turned and walked the few steps to her door.
"Don't mention it," she said, her voice completely mechanistic, as if reciting a line from a script written for mundane conversations.
She slipped into her room, and the soft click of the latch felt louder than a slammed gate.
Arthur stood alone in the moonlight for a long time, then tilted his head back and looked out the window at the bright, indifferent moon
A new goal was taking root within him, one he couldn't yet name.
It wasn't a grand vow made before a dragon's skeleton, but a quiet, persistent need. He didn't know how, or even why it mattered so much, but he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he wanted to breach that wall.
He wanted to hear her laugh again.
Arthur walked to his own room and collapsed into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The night bled into morning, and the sharp cry of a rooster tore through the quiet, heralding the arrival of their second, more grueling day.