Alaric sat on the chapel floor, breathing hard.
His hand shook slightly as he raised it again.
"Creo Ignis," he whispered.
Nothing happened.
He frowned and tried again.
"…Creo Ignis."
Still nothing.
Only a faint, hollow tug inside his chest, like someone scraping the bottom of an empty pot.
"So it really does run out," he muttered.
He slumped back against the cool stone pillar, sweat dampening his shirt. In front of him, five burnt‑out candle stubs sat in a line. Above them, soot smudged the wall where he'd been practicing concentrating tiny flames.
He counted in his head.
Ten little flame spells in the morning. Ten more after lunch. Fifteen now.
Each one had felt a bit harder than the last, like the mana had to travel further each time.
The Primer had said mana refilled slowly over a day.
It hadn't said what happened if you drained it on purpose.
Now he knew.
You get tired. Your head aches. And then it's like trying to breathe when there's no air.
He wasn't sure if that was clever or just stupid.
Probably both.
Alaric let his head rest against the pillar and closed his eyes, feeling the faint throb at the center of his chest.
If the "tank" is empty now… I wonder how long it takes to fill again.
He'd done this a few times already, burning himself down to the point where even a spark wouldn't come, then resting, then doing it again the next day.
Each time, he thought it took a bit more mana to reach that empty feeling.
Or maybe he was imagining it.
Only one way to be sure.
"Alaric?"
He jumped. The world tilted.
Sister Elaina stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a broom tucked under one elbow. "Why are you the colour of boiled flour?"
"I'm… practicing," he said.
"Practicing what, turning into a ghost?" She walked closer, peering at his face. "You're pale. And sweating. And shaking. That's three signs I don't like."
"I just used a lot of magic," he admitted. "I wanted to see how much I could...."
"Of course you did," she sighed. "How many times?"
He glanced at the candles and decided lying would be pointless. "…Thirty‑five? Maybe forty?"
Elaina shut her eyes briefly. "You're going to make me grow white hair early, you know that?"
He tried to laugh; it came out weak.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
He nodded. Then his legs promptly tried to fold when he pushed himself up. Elaina grabbed his arm before he hit the floor.
"Wonderful," she muttered, half to herself. "Come on."
She half‑dragged, half‑guided him to a pew and sat him down.
"You're not allowed to drain yourself to the bottom alone," she said firmly. "If you're going to experiment, at least tell someone so we can drag your silly body to bed when you collapse."
"I'm not going to collapse," he said, then reconsidered. "Much."
"Mm." She patted his cheek lightly. "Drink water. Eat something salty. No more spells until tomorrow. That's an order from your terrifying superior."
He nodded, chastened.
As she walked away, broom wagging angrily, he rubbed his chest lightly.
Even if she doesn't like it… it works.
He could already tell that when he refilled and tried again the next day, it took a little longer to hit the "nothing left" wall. Barely. But it was there.
If I keep doing this, carefully I can make my mana pool bigger than anyone expects.
He let his head rest against the wood and closed his eyes.
For now, resting was also training.