The caravan creaked into a busier town by midmorning.
Not as big as the capital, but bigger than the villages they have passed so far. Stone walls, banners fluttering at the gate, even a mage's tower poking out over tiled rooftops.
The streets buzzed with merchants shouting prices, horses snorting, and kids weaving between stalls with bread in their mouths.
Roland squinted at it all and immediately sighed.
"Ahhhh it's too crowded, too noisy. And it smells like bad soup," he muttered, tugging his coat collar up as if that would hide him from the chaos.
Reinhardt had already dismounted and was shaking hands with a guild official.
Noble stuff. Numbers, tax ledgers, reports, well basically just Roland's nightmare. He slinked away toward the nearest tavern before anyone could rope him into "formalities."
He made it as far as the alley before—
"Sir Roland!"
Ugh. Of course. He didn't even turn around.
"Not 'sir.' I'm allergic."
Elena stomped up, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her academy boots kicking up dust.
She looked sharper today, hair tied neatly, satchel hugging her side. But the tightness in her shoulders gave her away.
"You promised we'd continue," she said, cutting him off before he could deny it.
"Don't even try. You can't keep running to the tavern every time."
Roland scratched his chin.
"Watch me."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"If you don't, I'll follow you inside, sit next to you, and loudly announce you're my tutor until everyone hears."
"…That's blackmail."
"Correct."
Roland groaned, tilting his head back toward the sky.
"Gods, why do nobles learn dirty tricks faster than magic?"
Still, he let her drag him out through the side gate, past rows of wheat fields into a quieter meadow beyond.
The town wall loomed behind them, but at least out here, the only noise was cicadas buzzing in the tall grass.
Elena planted herself in front of him, her arms crossed.
"I want to know why I'm weaker than the others. No candle tricks, no excuses. Tell me."
Roland rubbed his temples. His hangover hadn't even settled yet, and she was already demanding answers.
"You're really pushy, you know that?"
Her jaw tightened.
"And you're really evasive."
"…Tch." He plopped down on a flat stone, flicking his coat aside.
"Fine. You want the boring lecture? You asked for it."
Elena blinked, not expecting him to agree so fast.
Roland smirked.
"But you're not gonna like it."
Roland plucked a dry reed from the grass and twirled it between his fingers.
"Alright, brat. Basics. You want to know why you feel weaker than the others? First, you need to actually understand what magic is."
Elena sat on her knees, back straight like a proper student. Her eyes gleamed.
Roland groaned.
"Don't look so eager, it makes me feel like a real teacher. I hate it."
She ignored him.
"Magic," he continued, "is three parts: mana, attribute, and spell. Think of it like cooking. Mana is your firewood, attribute is the pot you prefer to use, and the spell is the dish you're trying to make. Without all three, you're just waving your hands and looking stupid."
Elena frowned.
"That's not how the academy explained it."
"Yeah, because the academy likes to make everything sound fancy and complicated. Gets them more tuition money."
He spat the reed out.
"But the truth is simpler. Mana's just life energy, kid. Everyone has it, like blood or breath. But some folks have more, some less. That's your base fuel."
Elena's hand went to her chest.
"So mine's just… smaller than theirs?"
Roland waved her off.
"Not necessarily. You've got plenty. More than average, I can feel it. Your problem's control, not amount."
He plucked a second reed and lit the tip with a snap of his finger, letting the tiny flame dance.
"Which brings us to attributes. Everyone's mana has a 'flavor.' Fire, water, wind, earth, lightning, shadow, light, whatever. Most people are born leaning toward one, sometimes two. It's just how their mana resonates. You—" he jabbed the flaming reed at her— "are fire. Obvious from the way your temper explodes before your magic does."
She puffed her cheeks, but didn't deny it.
Roland smirked.
"Then there's spells. Spells are basically instructions. You tell your mana: 'do this, take this form, behave like this.' Problem is, the academy teaches them like recipes from a book. Memorize steps, wave hands, chant fancy words. But if you don't understand why it works, you'll never make it consistent."
Elena's brows knitted.
"…So you're saying spells aren't absolute?"
"Exactly. They're guidelines, not laws. Mana doesn't care about your chanting. It listens to intent. Control."
He snuffed the flame with two fingers and flicked the burnt reed aside.
"And that's where you're tripping. You've been forcing mana into rigid molds without actually holding it steady. It's like trying to carry water with a torn bucket."
Elena bit her lip.
"So… all this time, I wasn't hopeless, I was just… leaking?"
Roland chuckled.
"Leaking like a drunk noble after a feast."
"That's—! Don't say it like that!"
But the corner of her mouth twitched upward. Just a little.
Roland dragged a small lantern over from the carriage, plopped it in front of her, and lit the wick with a snap. A gentle flame flickered inside.
"Lesson one," he said, pointing. "This is [Candle Flame]. Your job isn't to make it bigger or smaller. Just… keep it steady."
Elena tilted her head.
"That's it?"
"That's it. If you can't control a candle, you've got no business tossing [Fireball]s around."
She extended her hand, channeling mana carefully. The flame wavered, stretched tall for a second, then sputtered and nearly died.
Roland snorted.
"Congratulations. You just killed a candle."
"I-It's harder than it looks!" she protested, cheeks red.
"Of course it is. Control is harder than power. Any idiot can dump mana and hope for a boom. But making it obey you, that's the difference between blowing up your enemy and blowing up yourself."
He crouched beside her, holding his palm over the lantern. His own mana seeped out, invisible but heavy. The flame stabilized, standing perfectly still even as the breeze rustled the grass around them.
"See? It's like holding your breath steady. Smooth in, smooth out. Don't choke, don't rush. Just… balance."
Elena clenched her fists.
"Okay. Again."
She tried once more. This time the flame flared up violently, then shrank to almost nothing. Sweat dripped down her temple.
"Ugh!"
Roland clicked his tongue. "Stop thinking about it like fire. Think of it as… data flow. Your mana's a stream. You need to regulate the current, not drown it."
"Data… flow?"
"Yeah. Flow control. Too much, it floods. Too little, it starves. Find the middle."
She took a deep breath, hands steadying. Her mana poured out — unrefined, jittery at first — but slowly began to align. The candle flame wavered, then straightened into a calm, steady glow.
Roland raised his brows. "Well, would you look at that. Bug patched."
Elena gasped softly, staring at the tiny flame. It was the first time her mana hadn't spiraled out of control.
"…I did it."
Her shoulders trembled, not from strain but from excitement.
Roland leaned back, his arms crossed.
"Not bad. You finally managed to walk without tripping over your own feet."
But inside, he was oddly pleased. The brat was quick on the uptake once given the right perspective.
Elena wiped her brow, still glowing from her tiny victory.
"If I can hold a candle steady, then… maybe I can try again?"
Roland flopped down on a rock.
"Sure, but don't get cocky. One stable candle doesn't make you a fire mage. You'll probably still burn your eyebrows off."
She ignored his jab and focused, both her palms open.
Mana gathered in her hands. This time, instead of surging recklessly, she coaxed it, just like keeping the candle flame steady.
A small sphere of fire flickered into existence. Not the unstable spark that used to sputter and collapse, but a true, balanced [Fireball], glowing orange in the twilight.
Elena's breath caught.
"…It's real."
She released it carefully toward a patch of dirt. The fireball landed with a muffled whoosh, scorching the earth black. It's stable now, controlled.
For a moment she simply stared, unable to speak.
Then her lips curled into the tiniest, trembling smile.
Roland scratched his beard, pretending to look bored.
"Hmph. Took you long enough."
"You saw that!" she burst out, face alight. "It worked! I actually—"
"Don't get carried away. That was the kiddie pool version." He turned away, waving lazily. "But… yeah. You didn't screw it up. Good job, I guess."
Elena blinked at him. Was that… praise? From him?
Roland stood, stretching. "Lesson's over. Don't push your luck today. Small steps. Stability first, strength later. Got it?"
"Yes, Mentor—" she caught herself, then huffed. "I mean… Ossan."
He smirked faintly at her correction, though he didn't comment.
As he headed back toward the inn, he muttered under his breath:
"Guess the brat isn't hopeless after all."
Elena stayed behind a moment, staring at the faintly smoking scorch mark with her heart racing.
For the first time in years, she didn't feel like a failure.