Theron had been thinking about this wrong.
He realized it on a Saturday morning, sitting at his desk in the library while Philippos dozed in his chair across the room. A scroll about painting techniques lay open in front of him — one of the texts he was cataloging — and something in it stopped him cold.
The author was describing how to paint a realistic flame. Not just any flame. A specific one. The exact colors at the base, the way the edges flickered, the shape of the tip. Every detail laid out precisely so that a painter could reproduce it on canvas.
You cannot paint what you cannot see clearly, the author wrote. The hand follows the eye. If the eye is vague, the hand is vague.
Theron set the scroll down.
He thought about his own casting attempts. Every time he tried to make fire, he focused on the circle and thought "fire." That was it. A single word. A concept. Not an image.
He had never actually tried to see the flame in his mind. Not properly. Not in detail.
What if that was the problem?
That evening, he sat in front of his oil lamp and stared at the flame.
Not casually. He watched it the way he watched the nobles train — with total attention, noting everything.
The base of the flame was blue. A thin ring of it, right where the oil met the air. Above that, bright yellow, almost white at the center. The edges were orange, darker, constantly moving. The tip flickered and danced, never holding the same shape for more than a fraction of a second.
He watched for fifteen minutes. Then he closed his eyes and tried to recreate what he'd seen.
The image appeared in his mind. Faint at first, like looking at something through fog. He could see the general shape — a teardrop, vaguely. But the colors were wrong. Too bright in some places, too dark in others. The edges were blurry.
He opened his eyes, looked at the real flame again, and tried once more.
Better this time. He could hold the image for about five seconds before it started to dissolve.
He kept going. Open eyes. Study. Close eyes. Recreate. Open eyes. Compare. Close eyes. Try again.
By the time an hour had passed, he could hold a reasonably clear image of the flame for about twenty seconds. The colors were close. The shape was recognizable. It wasn't perfect, but it was specific. Detailed. Real, in a way that the word "fire" had never been.
He tried casting that same night.
Full routine. Stretch. Position hands at 144 degrees on the circle. Deep breath — four counts, diaphragmatic. Hold for two counts. Feel the warmth gather in his chest.
But this time, before he exhaled, he built the image.
Not just "fire." A specific flame. The one he'd been studying all evening. Yellow center. Blue base. Orange edges. Flickering slightly. Sitting above the center of the circle, about the size of a candle flame.
He held the image as clearly as he could. Steady. Detailed. Real.
Then he exhaled and spoke the words.
"Φλόξ, καῦσον, πῦρ ἀνάπτω."
He kept his eyes open this time, watching the circle.
For one second, nothing happened. The crystal warmed in his hand — same as always — and he almost looked away, already expecting another failure.
Then he saw it.
A flicker. A tiny, brief flash of light above the center of the circle. So small and fast that if he'd blinked, he would have missed it entirely. It lasted less than a second. Then it was gone.
Theron didn't move.
He stayed perfectly still, staring at the exact spot where the flicker had appeared. His heart was hammering. His hands were shaking.
Had that been real? Or had he imagined it? He wanted it so badly that his mind might have invented it.
He waited five minutes. Let his breathing return to normal. Let his hands stop shaking.
Then he tried again.
Same preparation. Same breathing. Same image — candle flame, specific, detailed, held steady in his mind throughout the entire cast.
He exhaled. Spoke the words. Watched the circle.
The flicker appeared again.
This time it lasted slightly longer. Maybe one full second. A tiny point of light, orange-yellow, exactly where his mental image had placed it.
Then it vanished.
Theron exhaled slowly.
It was real.
He cast a third time. The flicker appeared again. One second. Same spot. Same size.
A fourth time. This time it lasted two seconds. A little brighter.
Fifth time. Two seconds again.
Sixth time — he lost his focus halfway through the cast, distracted by his own excitement — and nothing happened.
He forced himself to calm down. Breathed. Centered himself.
Seventh time. Two seconds of visible flame.
He stopped after ten attempts. Seven successes. Three failures — all of them when his concentration broke.
He sat on the floor next to his circle and wrote in his notebook with hands that were still trembling slightly.
BREAKTHROUGH: Visible flame produced.
Variable that changed: Visualization clarity.
Previous method: Vague mental concept of "fire." Result: Crystal warming only.New method: Specific, detailed mental image of a candle flame. Result: Visible flame, 1-2 seconds.
The mental image is not decoration. It is functional. The clearer and more specific the image, the stronger the result.
Success rate: 7/10 (failures caused by loss of focus, not technique error)
He looked at what he'd written. Then he added one more line.
I made fire.
No bloodline. No blessing. No years of training.
I made fire because I understood how to make fire.
He practiced for another hour after that. Not to push for bigger flames — he knew that would come with time and repetition. He practiced to make it consistent. To get the success rate higher. To build the habit of holding a clear mental image while doing everything else at the same time.
By the end of the session, he'd produced visible flame twenty-three times out of thirty attempts. The flame was always small — a flicker, barely bigger than a spark. It never lasted more than two seconds.
But it was there. Visible. Undeniable.
The nobles produced flames six inches high that burned for fifteen seconds. Theron's flame was a fraction of that size and a fraction of that duration.
But he'd had one evening of practice with the correct technique. One evening.
The nobles had years.
And Theron had something they didn't have: an understanding of why it worked. Not just how to do it, but the reason behind every step. The ratio. The angle. The breathing. The visualization. Each piece fit together like parts of a machine.
And if he understood the machine, he could improve it.
He blew out his lamp and lay in the dark, and for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep almost immediately.
Tomorrow, he had work to do. But tonight, he had proven something that no one in Erytheia believed was possible.
Anyone could learn magic.
He just had to teach them how.
End of Chapter Ten