For a book she had half-expected to explode in her face, the manual was surprisingly tame.
It wasn't bound in dragonskin or screaming pages. No magical fire burst forth, and there wasn't even an ominous chant whispered by unseen spirits. It simply sat on the table with polite stillness, waiting to be read. Elena squinted at the script—it wasn't handwritten, but printed in sharp black ink. The parchment was unusually thin, silky, and without a single crease.
"Introduction to the Principles of Low-Circle Magecraft," the title read. Beneath it, in smaller script: Official Manual for Apprentices of the Guild of Silverbranch.
It wasn't even cursed. How disappointing.
Elena sat in the far corner of the study room Master Fenric had begrudgingly allowed her to use. Sunlight from the arched window caught the dust motes in the air and warmed the wooden floor. A chipped teacup sat beside her, filled with lukewarm elderflower brew—courtesy of Liora, who had winked and muttered, "You'll need it."
And oh, did she.
---
Lesson One: Energy is Not Free
The first chapter bluntly explained that the essence of all magic—called aether—could not be created from nothing. It must be gathered, stored, and converted. The manual likened it to water flowing through a dam. The mage, apparently, was the dam, the reservoir, and the engineer all in one.
"Aether flows through natural leylines and pools in ambient air," she read aloud, scribbling notes in the cheap leather-bound journal she'd bought for five copper. "A mage must train to sense and absorb ambient aether before shaping it into spells. Aether from within the mage's own body is limited and must be replenished through rest, environment, or external sources such as crystals or alchemical potions."
That made her pause. Magic wasn't some flick of the wrist or enchanted word—it was energy management. Like charging a magical battery and hoping you didn't fry your circuits.
---
Lesson Two: Circles of Power and Licensing
Apparently, mages were ranked by "circles," from the First (Apprentices) up to the Ninth (Archmages). Licensing fees were staggeringly steep. A First-Circle license cost five silver crowns per season, while Second-Circle registration involved not just money but passing formal trials at the Guild Tower.
Elena sighed and ran the math.
In her new part-time job cleaning the archives, she earned 1 copper crown per hour. On long shifts, she might manage six hours, or 6 copper a day, and maybe 36 a week if she worked six days.
That meant a week's work barely earned her enough for half a silver.
She'd need ten weeks just to pay for one season's license—without even buying a staff, spell parchment, or a second pair of gloves.
"If a mage is caught casting unlicensed spells in public, they may be fined up to fifty silver crowns or imprisoned for endangering the aetheric balance," she read.
"Cool," she muttered. "It's like magical capitalism."
---
Lesson Three: Focus Tools, Not Wands
Wands weren't actually mandatory. They were focus tools, used to stabilize magic flow. Alternatives included staves, rings, or even inscribed stones. Poorer mages sometimes used carved bones or twigs if they had no choice.
The guild, however, had aesthetic preferences. A proper apprentice was expected to present themselves with a wand no longer than the forearm, carved from magically receptive materials like rowan, ironwood, or silver birch. Elena's best chance was a secondhand wand—she'd seen some battered ones being sold by peddlers for 8 to 12 silver, depending on the enchantment.
"Which I can totally afford after six months of cleaning dust off spellbooks."
Still, her heart was pounding. Not from the prices—but from the way the manual described how it felt to channel magic.
It was like heat and light coiling in the lungs. Like breathing in stars and exhaling thunder. The body would tingle, then grow numb with cold as the magic left you, leaving behind exhaustion and euphoria.
The book warned, multiple times, not to overuse one's aether without rest. Mages who "burned dry" could fall into a coma or suffer permanent loss of sensation in their limbs.
"...I wonder how many guild mages are missing fingers."
---
A Knock on the Door
A soft knock interrupted her.
"Come in," Elena called, setting the manual down.
The door creaked open and Liora poked her head in. Her curls were pinned back today, revealing the faint shimmer of enchantment on the silver necklace she wore.
"You still alive?" Liora asked, half-joking. "Or did the book devour your soul?"
"Still intact," Elena said, stretching her arms with a groan. "Mostly confused and poor, but intact."
"Then good news. Fenric says you can try your first aether-sensing trial tomorrow."
Elena blinked. "Wait, really? Already?"
Liora grinned. "You've been reading nonstop for three days. That's more dedication than most spoiled apprentice brats manage in three weeks."
"I just want to understand what I'm signing up for."
Liora crossed the room and sat beside her. "Want me to show you what it feels like?"
"What magic feels like?"
She nodded. "I can use a touch spell. It's harmless. Just lets you feel the aether flow across the skin."
"I… okay."
Elena held out her arm.
Liora's fingertips brushed against her wrist, warm and gentle. For a moment, there was nothing—then a strange, tickling sensation spread through her veins. Like goosebumps blooming from the inside out. It wasn't painful. Just… strange. Like wind slipping beneath the skin.
"Oh," Elena whispered. "That's…"
"Addicting," Liora finished. "That's why mage apprentices push too hard. But you'll do fine."
Elena nodded slowly, not entirely hearing her. Her mind was still focused on the fading trace of that sensation.
Magic wasn't loud. It wasn't fire or lightning, not yet.
It was presence.
A quiet awareness humming beneath the world.
And for the first time since she'd arrived, she felt like she'd brushed against the edge of something greater—something real.
---
Later That Night
She stayed up reading until the candle guttered out.
When she finally collapsed into bed, head swimming with terminology and diagrams, her dreams were full of glowing runes, humming ley-lines, and a thousand flickering stars whispering in forgotten tongues.
And somewhere, in the folds of her old cloak, the crumpled mysterious note (from Chapter 10) pulsed faintly—its ink glowing for just a heartbeat.
---
Never Trust A Man With A Fancy Quill
Elena Virelle didn't expect the town's merchant guild to resemble a chandelier store.
She stood in front of the Guildhall of Tristagne, shielding her eyes from the polished glass windows that sparkled like sunlight on water. The building looked more like a noble's private estate than a hub of economic activity. The carved stone arch above the entrance displayed the guild's crest: a crowned stag entangled in silver vines. That stag, apparently, was rich enough to afford a better roof than half the district.
A week had passed since the encounter with the mysterious note, and she'd kept it hidden inside her worn notebook. For now, her focus had returned to work—and to learning how this world's economy actually functioned.
The guild smelled like ink, candles, and ambition. Her boots clacked across polished marble floors as she followed Madam Cyril, the brothel's retired accountant-turned-mentor, through the hallway. Elena wasn't officially registered yet, but Madam Cyril had offered to show her the ropes after overhearing her question prices for bulk soap and firewood the day before.
"Remember," Cyril said, tapping her cane on the tiles, "it's not about how much gold you have—it's about how fast you can make a copper turn into a silver."
Elena nodded. "So it's about profit margins."
"And manipulation, dear. Never forget that."
---
Inside the chamber marked "Merchant Trainee Archives," Elena was introduced to an archivist named Henwyck, who looked like someone had left him out in the sun for three years too long.
"She's got the curiosity," Cyril said, her voice amused. "Teach her something useful."
Henwyck blinked slowly. "Useful? Like export tariffs or fake smiles?"
Cyril grinned. "Both."
---
Hours passed. Henwyck began with a primer on trade routes and taxation. Elena scribbled frantically.
Tristagne imported spices from Tethorvia across the Mistvale Pass. Caravan guards earned up to 15 silver crowns a week, but the real profit was in reselling the dried saffron—10 silver a pouch locally, 2 silver where it came from.
Soap, which she'd nearly burned the bathhouse over last week, cost 3 coppers per bar if bought in bulk. Some inns charged 1 silver per bar just by calling it "scented."
Candlewax suppliers operated under seasonal guild pacts. When bees were low in the highlands, wax prices doubled. Opportunists made fortunes hoarding.
"The guild taxes by shipment weight and luxury classification," Henwyck droned, sipping ink-stained tea. "Anything involving foreign glassware or perfume gets classified as 'opulent.' Higher fees."
Elena's eyes narrowed. "Is that why there's no decent perfume in the common market?"
"Exactly. Most merchants bribe the classifiers or mislabel imports."
She blinked. "So the entire system relies on creative lying."
"Welcome to economics."
---
At dusk, Elena sat under a crooked iron lamppost just outside the Guildhall. Her notebook was now crowded with numbers, margins, loopholes, and something Henwyck called "emotional baiting sales tactics."
Her head spun. But it was a good kind of spinning.
Something about all of it—the strategies, the hidden logic—made her feel like she could, eventually, play this game well. Better than just surviving. Maybe even… thriving?
She was still pondering that when someone stopped beside her. A shadow cast across her pages.
"Didn't think I'd see you here, Miss Virelle."
She glanced up and blinked. It was the red-haired girl from the bathhouse front desk—Liora. Today, she wore a soft blue shawl and a satchel at her side. Her expression was, as always, unreadable—but her eyes flicked to Elena's notebook with interest.
"I had a study day," Elena said lamely.
Liora gave a quiet hum. "Guild archives, huh? Bold choice."
"I like knowing things."
"That's dangerous, you know."
Elena tilted her head. "Why's that?"
Liora's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Because the more you learn, the more people notice. And not all of them are kind."
She turned to leave but hesitated. Then, slowly, she took out something from her satchel. A slip of parchment. She handed it to Elena.
"Found this slipped into the laundry bin two days ago. Thought it might be yours."
Elena unfolded it.
A second note.
"The star is waking. When the gears turn, beware the bird who sings out of season."
No signature.
Elena felt her stomach tighten.
Liora was already walking away.
"Wait," Elena called. "Why give this to me?"
The redhead didn't turn around. But her voice floated back.
"Because I think you're already involved."
---
That night, Elena couldn't sleep.
She stared at the ceiling of her tiny rented room, moonlight casting bars across the rafters. One hand rested on her notebook, the other on the new note.
Two messages. Both vague. Both oddly poetic. And now Liora was involved, too? Or just passing it along?
She turned over in bed and stared at the shadows.
"The star is waking…"
Whatever that meant, she was sure of one thing now: this world wasn't just about copper coins and scented soap. Something much older—and much stranger—was stirring.
And for reasons she didn't understand, it wanted her attention.
---
[End of Chapter 26]