The soft light of the late afternoon filtered into her private training room, dust motes floating lazily through the air like tiny stars. Jasmine closed the book she had been reading and set it aside, letting the quiet satisfaction of absorbed knowledge linger a moment.
"Time to practice," she murmured, though the words were as much a reminder to herself as they were a declaration.
Lilian stood silently at her side, her hands folded neatly, posture impeccable as always. Jasmine hardly noticed her; she did not need commentary or instruction. This was her domain, a space carved out for focus, for mastery.
Jasmine paused a moment, closing the book with reverence. She turned to Lilian. "Carry this," she said, voice calm, handing the tome over. The leather cover bore faint rune-etchings in silver. Lilian accepted it silently, bowing her head in acknowledgment, then stepped aside to allow Jasmine's passage.
She moved through a narrow corridor of vine-clad walls. At a side door, she withdrew a slender key, sliding it into the lock with a soft click. The door opened into a small anteroom lined with shelves and hooks.
On a low bench lay her training garb: fitted black leather leggings, soft but reinforced for flexibility; a deep charcoal tunic of fine, stretch-weave fabric that would move with her; fingerless gloves of supple hide; and a lightweight hooded cloak for her warm-up.
She usually wore a bodysuit while training, but of course, not always.
Jasmine changed swiftly, her movements precise. She laced her boots, flexed her ankles, and drew her hair back into a tight braid that would not interfere with her vision or motion. She donned the tunic, secured the gloves, and for a heartbeat she stood in the half-light of the ante-room, feeling the weight of readiness settle in her muscles and her breath.
Walking into her private training room, Jasmine stepped across the threshold. She set her stance, inhaled deeply, and the hush of concentration settled over her.
She lifted her hands slightly, feeling the familiar hum of mana flow beneath her skin. Magic in this world was not a gift; it was everything. Civilization relied on it for nearly every necessity, every defense, every labor. The world revolved around mana, and those who could wield it were those who shaped it.
There were mages, pure spellcasters who could command the elements; their destructive power was vast but often slow in close combat. Battlemages blended martial prowess with mana, their bodies augmented to near perfection, able to face armies and beasts alike. Swordmages were rare, disciplined; their magic subtle, enhancing their blades for devastating, precise strikes, but unlike mages, they lacked raw destructive force.
And then there was her.
Purely a mage, by all appearances. The designation fit neatly: dark mage. The rarity of her kind was a whispered legend even in scholarly circles. Few wielded darkness. Fewer still did so without succumbing to the corruption many assumed accompanied it. And yet she had learned to control it, to shape it with deliberate precision.
No one knew she had trained in swordsmanship. Not even her father. And in her defense, he had never asked. Perhaps it was best this way.
She flexed her fingers, channeling mana into her palms, letting the power stir. Darkness. A living thing. Writhing tendrils that obeyed her will.
She cast some of the spells she had been learning
Darkness Veil.
She cast the spell, a ripple of black mist flowing forward like a wave, solid enough to block or strike, yet fluid in motion. The training room seemed to absorb it, the shadows curling around the walls before dissipating harmlessly. It was a basic class spell, yet essential; it taught control, precision, and the manipulation of her element.
Shadow Bind.
This time, she extended her will, and the shadows arched and reached outward like living tendrils, twisting and binding a phantom target. Intermediate. Restrictive, precise, and more demanding of her concentration. Every pulse of darkness had to obey her intent exactly, or it would falter.
She allowed herself a small smirk.
Blackhole.
Her signature, most destructive spell. She summoned it carefully, aware of its potency even in a training room reinforced against magic. A small sphere formed, sucking in light, space, and air with terrifying efficiency. She dismissed it almost immediately, mindful not to rip apart the walls, floor, or ceiling. An Advanced spell. And she had mastered its control only after countless attempts. Next.
Life Steal.
Though she could not practice the spell now, since it required a target, it basically replenished her stamina and mana, drawing energy from an opponent. Its reach was limited to close range, but its utility was undeniable. An intermediate, but crucial, battle without such conservation would always end in failure.
And she would be a nightmare in a battle against any enemy. It would be like fighting against a leech for the other person.
As she moved through the motions, Jasmine's thoughts drifted. Elements defined more than spells; More often than not, they shaped identity. Fire mages burned with passion, reckless or focused. Water mages flowed with patience, clarity, and sometimes coldness. Earth mages stood firm, steadfast, immovable. Wind mages were capricious, swift, untouchable. Light mages and healers are rare, almost divine in temperament. And darkness… darkness was a mirror. It reflected will, discipline, and cunning.
Personality and element are often intertwined, though not always. A mage could defy expectation. And Jasmine had long pondered the possibility of dual mastery. Could a dark mage wield fire or water, without fracturing her very essence? Theory, for now, but tantalizing. Perhaps one day, she would explore it.
Around her, mana flowed as naturally as blood. Shadows bent at her fingertips. She was faster, stronger, and sharper than her peers in raw spellcraft. She knew their reputations, their triumphs, and their struggles. Most could barely manage intermediate spells by her age, some only barely scraping basic mastery. She had passed that stage long ago. Her control over the element of darkness made her dangerous, even to adults who considered themselves powerful.
Yet she practiced diligently, as if each motion were a conversation with the shadows themselves. Each spell cast with intent, each spell dismissed with precision.
Lilian remained a silent observer, a ghost in the corner. Jasmine neither needed nor sought commentary; her mastery was self-taught, guided only by discipline, curiosity, and the cold clarity of her mind.
Finally, she lowered her arms, letting the shadows collapse harmlessly back into the ether. The room returned to stillness.
She exhaled. Mana hummed faintly in her veins, quiet now, patient, waiting for the next command. And somewhere deep inside, Jasmine smiled a little, not out of vanity, not out of pride, but out of understanding. She had not only studied magic today; she had learned herself.
And that was what made her powerful. But she could not help but let her thoughts wander to something else.