The Script's latest message burned in Elias's mind all night.
"The Reader will learn magic's first secret at dawn."
Dawn came with the acrid bite of frost in the air. The courtyard outside was alive even before the sun cleared the jagged skyline—soldiers switching shifts, merchants dragging wagons to the morning market, children darting between stalls.
The Warden stood waiting near the training area, cloak wrapped close against the cold. Beside him stood a lean, wiry man with ink-stained hands and a long staff strapped to his back. His black hair was bound in a crude knot, and his eyes were the flat, unblinking type that revealed nothing.
"This is Aric," the Warden said. "Mage of the Third Tier. He's going to teach you the basics."
Elias glanced between them. "Basics of what?"
"Magic," said Aric, his voice low but cutting. "And more importantly, the rules that will keep you alive if you insist on meddling with it."
They moved to an open space on the training ground. Frost crunched underfoot. Aric stopped in the center, ramming the tip of his staff into the dirt.
"First truth," Aric stated. "Everything has a cost. Every spell, every enchantment, every moment you channel mana costs you something. Use too much, and it will kill you."
Elias scowled. "Mana. Like… video game mana?"
Aric's lips quirked in what might have been a smirk. "Games stole the word. Here, mana is life itself—your own, and the world's. We breathe it in, shape it, and force it to do our bidding. But the body is a fragile vessel. Too much, and the vessel breaks."
"So, you're saying magic can… burn you out."
"I'm saying," Aric stepped closer, "that I've seen apprentices' hearts explode because they tried to summon one flame too many."
The Warden, watching from the edge, said, "There are five tiers. Each requires exponentially more control—and more cost."
Aric raised a finger. "First Tier—instinctual magic. Sparks, gusts, the smallest healing tricks. Second Tier—battle magic. Fire that can burn through steel, ice that can crack armor. Third Tier—strategic magic. Storms, earthquakes, enchantments that take months. Fourth Tier—miracles. The sort that redraws a battlefield."
Elias hesitated. "And Fifth?"
The Warden's expression darkened. "Fifth Tier is spoken of, not seen. Power to reshape the bones of the world. No living man wields it."
Aric's eyes narrowed. "Pray you never meet one who does."
The mage gestured to a small clay target set upon a stake. "Your turn."
"I can't cast magic."
"Not yet. But you can feel mana." Aric's staff tip touched Elias's sternum—gently, but firmly enough that he instinctively took a step back. "Close your eyes. Think of the warmth in your chest when you inhale. Push it outward."
Elias exhaled, trying to focus past the cold. There was something—faint, like the echo of a heartbeat not his own. A pressure, a vibration beneath the surface of his skin.
"Good," Aric said. "Now—reach for it."
Elias did. The hum became heat, pooling in his hands. His fingers tingled. A faint glimmer danced across his palms.
Then pain seared up his arms. The glimmer vanished. He gasped, clutching his hands. "That—burned."
"First lesson," Aric said. "Your body resists. It fears the strain. Push too far before it's ready, and it will fail you."
Elias looked down at his hands. "So I just… keep trying?"
"You build capacity like muscle. But muscle tears before it grows."
They trained for hours. Aric had him practice drawing the mana to his fingertips, releasing it in controlled bursts. Sometimes it broke up at once; other times it glowed faintly, the air around his hands rippling like heat over stone.
His arms ached and his head throbbed by noon. Aric finally called for a break.
The Warden approached as Elias sat on the bench, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the chill. "You'll be needing this," he said, and handed over a small leather pouch.
Inside were four glass vials, each filled with a pale blue, shimmering liquid.
"Mana draughts," said the Warden. "Leywater, distilled. They restore your reserves—but don't make a habit of them. The more you take, the more you rely on them, and the harder it is to go without."
Elias juggled one vial between his fingers. "And if I run out?"
"Then you don't cast anymore. Or you die."
They returned to practice in the afternoon, but this time Aric added movement—getting Elias to dodge thrown rocks while keeping his focus on the mana draw. The mage's aim was uncomfortably accurate.
By the time they halted, Elias's legs were lead. He sheathed his sword with shaking hands.
Aric regarded him for a long moment. "You have raw potential. More than most novices. But no discipline."
Elias snorted. "Yeah, that figures."
"Discipline will keep you alive." Aric leaned on his staff. "And something tells me you'll need every breath you can get."
That night, the Script came back—faintly at first, as though it did not wish to appear.
"The Reader will meet the beast again before the week is over. This time, he will not get up where he has fallen."
Elias scowled at the glowing words. Not get up where I have fallen. That could be anything—death without looping? Irreparable damage? Something worse?
His fingertips burned with the memory of mana burn. He'd scarcely started to surface today, but already the idea of more—more strength, more control—was a hook in his mind.
Because next time, he wanted the fight on his terms.
The next morning, he returned to the training ground. Aric was already there, staff planted in the dirt, a faint curl of frost at his feet.
"We're going to push you," Aric said without preamble. "You'll hate me for it. But when you're dealing with something that's got teeth as long as your arm, you'll be thankful."
Elias flexed his neck. "Let's get started."
At noon, his arms and legs were trembling with exertion. But this time, when he pushed mana into his hands, the light did not vanish immediately—it persisted, stubborn, a gentle glow tracing the lines of his fingers.
Aric nodded once. "Better. Tomorrow, we try to shape it."
Elias managed a tired smile. "Shaping?"
"Getting it to do what you want, instead of whatever it pleases."
That evening, the Warden summoned him to the map room again. There were several captains there, their armor emblazoned with different insignias—hawks, crossed axes, a rising sun.
One, a stout woman with hair cut short, pointed to a mark east of the city. "We've received word of movement here. Could be raiders, could be carrion. Either way, we can't spare a full patrol."
The Warden's gaze shifted to Elias. "You'll go with Aric and a small escort. Consider it training and service both."
Elias hesitated. "Is this… about the Script?"
The Warden did not answer directly. "If you see it, act on it."
Elias's stomach tightened. Act on it. That sounded ominously like being the bait again.
Later, in his room, he put the mana draughts into his pouch and looked out the little window at the twinkling lights of the city. Somewhere out there, beasts prowled, raiders plotted, and gods pencilled in lines in a book he wasn't supposed to be in.
He clenched his fists, feeling the faint hum of mana returning through his blood.
If they were writing his life, it was maybe time to start writing some changes.