Nathan’s shoulders ached as if he’d hauled boulders all night, not spent four straight hours in the attic practicing invisible sigils. He pressed a thumb to the bruise near his rib, an errant pulse-kick from one of Narcis’s “endurance loops”, and hissed through his teeth.
A polite knock rattled the door. “Quinn? Breakfast?” Krit’s calm voice filtered through the wood.
Nathan blinked grit from his eyes. Breakfast meant conversation, questions he was too fogged to answer. “Coming,” he called, though his limbs protested.
Five minutes later he shuffled into the hallway, tunic crooked, satchel half-zipped. Krit took one look and arched an elegant brow. “You look like you argued with a thundercloud.”
“Study binge,” Nathan mumbled, skirted the remark, then endured the walk to the dining hall with half-formed nods while his mind replayed Convergence drills from the attic: see the intent, feel the rune, hold it, sprint three laps inside the chalk ring, repeat. Narcis swore stamina mattered as much as clarity, “Your magic rides your heartbeat; if the heart fails, the spell fails,” he’d said.
Conversation buzzed in the Hall, duel gossip, looming mid-terms. Nathan chewed spoonfuls of sweetgrain porridge that tasted like damp paper. Across the table, Roremand studied him in silence. The top duelist’s jaw set a shade tighter each time Nathan failed to look up. After a minute Roremand pushed back his chair.
“You’ll miss the pre-lecture briefing,” he said, too evenly.
Nathan startled. “Right. I’ll catch up.”
Roremand’s eyes cooled several degrees. He left without another word.
Practical Charms , Mid-Morning
Professor Varis’s glyphboard flickered through a sequence of eight basic runes; Nathan’s stylus hovered uselessly over his slate. His vision blurred. Lissandre nudged him.
“Quinn, front row, wake up.”
He forced his stylus to trace the assignment rune. The lines wobbled; the glyph collapsed into static. A ripple of giggles spread behind them. Varis paused mid-lecture, gaze narrowing on Nathan’s shattered scribble.
“Mr. Quinn, your circle discipline appears… deteriorated.”
Heat crawled up Nathan’s neck. “Sir, late night library slot.”
Varis’s expression softened a fraction, scholars pulling all-nighters was forgivable, but he still erased Nathan’s projection with a curt swipe. “Repetition cures sloppiness. See me for remedial practice.”
Remedial. The word stung more than Nathan expected. Lissandre whispered, “You okay?”
He managed a faint shrug.
Between classes he ducked into a stairwell niche, sank onto the steps, and closed his eyes. The melody, gentle yet insistent, brushed the edges of his consciousness, reminding him a half-dozen ancient runes hovered ready. But structure? Control? His body screamed for sleep, not sorcery.
Hidden Attic , After Lights Out
Moonlight sliced through the roof timbers when Nathan arrived. Narcis had transformed the cluttered loft: cedar chest pushed aside, floor swept, chalk circle replaced with tidy concentric rings woven through with stabilizer sigils. At the center, four waist-high stone blocks formed a rough compass.
“You built pillars,” Nathan said, voice a hoarse whisper.
“Anchors,” Narcis corrected. “North, south, east, west, the ward is stronger.” He stepped forward, silver eyes bright. “Tonight: reflex series. You’ll call four runes in sequence while sprinting the perimeter.”
Nathan stared. “I nearly face-planted in Charms.”
“All the more reason.” Narcis pressed a hand to Nathan’s shoulder, guiding him into the ring. “Begin with shield lattice, one lap, then lifting rune, then sun-beam, finish with merge-gust. Between each, touch the pillar.”
Breathless before starting, Nathan nevertheless closed his eyes. The shield lattice flared on command, bars interlocking, gold and steady. He jogged the circle’s edge, slapped the North block. Rune dissolved.
Second lap. Lifting tines formed under his feet; the pillar rose a foot, forced him to vault down and tap East. He stumbled, caught balance. Third rune: tri-ray sun-beam; his vision whitened, sweat stung. Final lap: gust-wave merge. Wind swirled, water crystals danced; he almost slipped but crashed into the West block, laughing breathlessly.
Narcis clapped. “Again, faster.”
“Slave-driver,” Nathan puffed, but obeyed.
They drilled until the attic spun, until Nathan’s lungs rattled and knees wobbled. At last Narcis signaled stop, tossed him a waterskin infused with mild stamina tonic. Nathan gulped it, collapsed against a joist.
“You’re pushing hard,” he managed.
“We have to,” Narcis replied. “The voice said practice Convergence, plural. That means both of us need to have perfect foundations. When the Reaper comes, raw power won’t be enough.”
Nathan’s head drooped. “My friends are noticing.”
Narcis lowered beside him. “I know.”
Nathan exhaled shakily. “Roremand thinks I’m unstable. Liss is worried. Krit keeps handing me focus crystals.” He laughed without humor. “I keep lying to all of them.”
Silence. Dust drifted in the moonlight. Finally Narcis spoke, earnest and tired: “When we’re certain you control every rune, we’ll tell them. Until then, secrecy keeps them safe.”
Nathan nodded, though guilt churned. He pushed to his feet. “Again tomorrow?”
“After curfew,” Narcis agreed. “Sleep, Nate.”
Following Week , Strain
Days blurred: dawn classes, bleary lunches, covert library hunts for pre-Cataclysm rune atlases (none existed); nights of sprint-casting until chalk dust caked Nathan’s nails. His progress sharpened, lattice shields snapped into place in a heartbeat, but the toll showed. He arrived late to Strategic Applications; dozed during Philosopher’s Axiom exam; skipped supper twice.
In Greenhouse Studies, Lissandre cornered him between trellises of luminous ivy. “You look like a wilted fern,” she huffed. “Talk.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Extra training with a new technique.”
“Who? Varis? Brannock?” She narrowed her eyes when he shrugged. “Secrets age badly, Quinn.”
Later, outside the Rune Archive, Krit intercepted him with a pouch of clear stones. “Focus quartz,” they said. “You hum with static. These settle resonance.”
Nathan accepted, throat thick. “Thank you.” Still he offered no explanation.
Roremand was worst. After advanced Duel Theory he cut Nathan off at the doorway, cool gaze scanning the dark circles under Nathan’s eyes. “You promised transparency,” he said quietly. “Instead you vanish nightly and yawn through every drill.”
Nathan mustered a brittle smile. “Building endurance. Tournament’s soon.”
“Or hiding fallout,” Roremand countered. Hurt flickered beneath the frost. “I thought we respected the craft enough to share risks.”
Nathan opened his mouth, closed it. Roremand gave a curt nod, as if something fragile had snapped, and walked away.
Attic, Seven Nights After the Duel
The ward gleamed brighter than candlelight as Narcis added a final reinforcing line. “Tonight we test chained casting,” he said. “You’ll cycle through six runes without rest.”
Nathan’s pulse lurched. Arms ached, vision fuzzed at the edges. “Let’s do it.”
Shield. Lift. Sun-beam. Mirror-dart. Snow-burst. Gust-spiral.
Sweat poured; his shirt clung. At the final spiral the music in his head crescendoed into a dizzying chorus, no words, just swelling harmonies. Nathan’s knees buckled. Narcis caught him before he hit the floor.
“I’m fine,” Nathan gasped.
“You’re done,” Narcis said, voice brooking no argument. He half-carried Nathan to a makeshift cot, pressed a cool cloth to his brow. “Overtraining helps no one.”
Nathan stared at the rafters. “I’m losing my friends.”
“They’ll understand once we show them.”
“When?” Nathan whispered. “After the Reaper knocks on the gates?”
Narcis’s jaw clenched. He drew a slow breath and shifted tone, calmer, older-brother gentle. “We reveal the truth when you can summon those six runes without collapse. Two weeks, four, maybe less. Then we introduce them gradually, on our terms, not the Reaper’s.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the soft creak of timber. Nathan nodded, exhaustion lulling him toward sleep. But even as his eyes drifted shut, he replayed Roremand’s wounded look, Lissandre’s frown, Krit’s gift of quartz. Friendships were fraying one unspoken secret at a time, and the ancient melody inside him offered no lullaby, only distant, urgent chords urging faster mastery, deeper focus.
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He slept, the old runes flickering behind closed lids like constellations no telescope had ever charted.
After-hours , Dormitory Alcove
Everyone in North Tower had turned in. Nathan padded down the dim corridor toward the tiny reading nook wedged between the washrooms, a place where he could think without Narcis driving another endurance drill or Lissandre barging in with Phil. He dropped onto the window seat and let his forehead rest against the cool pane.
I just need quiet, he thought. A wish as small as a candle flame, no footsteps, no ticking radiators, no distant snoring.
A pinprick of gold winked alive behind his eyelids.
Startled, he focused, and there it was in the mind-space where his intent always painted shapes: a delicate spiral curling into a droplet, lines narrowing until they vanished to a still point. The longer he watched, the clearer it glowed, as if waiting to be called. He raised a trembling hand and copied the form in the air.
Sound folded shut.
The corridor’s creaks muted, the draft under the door ceased its whistle, even Nathan’s own pulse thudded like a drum heard from underwater. Astonishment flared, he hadn’t damped noise with a ward; he had erased it. He released the shape. Reality’s hush dissolved, night-sounds rushing back in. A silence rune. Born the instant he’d wished for peace.
Heart racing, he stared at his palm. What else could intent conjure?
His gaze drifted outside. The inner courtyard lay three floors below, slick with moonlit drizzle. If only I could cross that courtyard in seconds, he mused, no staircases, no slipper stone, just a smooth glide.
Another flash behind his lids: nested hexagons, each edged by sweeping arrows that all pointed forward. Less ornate than the spiral but vibrating with kinetic promise. He pictured stepping onto that glyph like a raft.
The symbol snapped into glowing view at his feet. Momentum seized him, he skimmed six paces down the hall without moving his legs, coasting on invisible glass. The ride felt buoyant, not dizzying; friction returned only after he dismissed the rune with a thought. He leaned against the wall, breath shaking with exhilaration.
Two spontaneous runes in under a minute, each perfectly matching an unspoken desire. They hadn’t appeared in dusty mirrors or forgotten archives; they bloomed inside him at the precise moment he wanted something. The attic drills had taught him to picture specific effects, but this was different: the symbols arrived gift-wrapped, already designed, as if some ancient lexicon listened for his wish and wrote the solution in gold.
Nathan pulled out his pocket notebook, hands still quivering, and sketched both shapes:
- Spiral-Drop (Silence) , dampens all ambient sound within range.
- Hexa-Glide (Momentum) , grants frictionless forward slide for user.
Ink barely dried before another thought whispered: What if I need to breathe underwater? Or bend light? He forced the possibilities aside, tomorrow he would share discoveries with Narcis, add them to the ever-growing map.
For now he pressed a palm over the notebook. Two new tools, bound to nothing but imagination, proving again that his power answered only to him.
The hallway stretched quiet and ordinary once more, yet Nathan felt anything but ordinary. He pushed off the wall, rune of silence still tingling in memory, and walked toward the stairwell, feet solid on stone, mind alight with endless golden potential.
The Next Day
A pale blush of sunrise glazed the eastern sky when Nathan arrived at the cloistered courtyard behind the conservatory. Stone benches ringed a circular herb pool, steam rising from its moon-rune–warmed surface. Lissandre was already there, seat-dancing to music only she could hear while Phil scampered across her forearm, leaving chase-trails of harmless sparks.
Nathan raised a hand in greeting, Noctisolar swooped low overhead, talons whispering across the air before alighting on the courtyard balustrade. The Celestial Dragon folded its opalescent wings, eyes half-lidded in gentle approval.
Moments later, Krit stepped through the archway. Cradled in both palms was a fist-sized globe of rippling water shot through with threads of silvery algae-light.
“This,” they said, voice carrying the serenity of quiet fountains, “is Ripple. I waited for the bond to stabilize before bringing them out in crowds.” They offered an apologetic smile, as Ripple drifted upward, orbiting Krit’s head in slow, deliberate circles.
Lissandre’s grin spread ear to ear. “Ripple, meet Phil.” She lifted the fire-salamander. Phil chirped, puffed a ring of embers that evaporated into harmless smoke before reaching Krit. Ripple responded with a delighted burble, its surface dimpling into playful wavelets.
Krit laughed, a rare, bright sound. “I think they approve.”
Boot heels clicked crisply against the flagstones then, and Roremand Serel emerged wearing a tailored dueling coat the color of new iron. Perched on his gloved wrist was Aurum, a falcon seemingly sculpted from living brass. Every feathered plate shone in dawn light; clockwork pinions flexed with a faint metallic hush.
“I believe introductions are overdue,” Roremand said, and despite the usual evenness of his tone, pride softened the edge. “Aurum needed a week in secluded thermals to imprint.” The falcon bowed its sleek head once, luminous eyes scanning the gathering.
Nathan dipped his chin. “Noctisolar, you know,” he added, scratching the dragon’s jaw ridge. The beast responded with a mellow chime that vibrated through the balustrade.
Phil scrambled to Lissandre’s shoulder and posed theatrically. “Fire, water, metal, light,” she declared. “We’re an elemental menagerie now.”
Ripple drifted nearer to Aurum; a tiny swirl of vapor rose where cool mist met warm brass. Noctisolar leaned forward, curious, the opal scales along its throat catching motes of newborn light. For a heartbeat the courtyard held a perfect equilibrium: crackling ember, shimmering droplet, gleaming falcon, and starlit dragon, four companions, four distinct pulses of magic interlaced in the hush before morning bell.
Krit rested a hand on Nathan’s forearm. “I wanted you to meet Ripple properly,” they said quietly. “They’re attuned to emotional currents. If I ever seem distant, it’s because we’re calibrating. No secrets.”
Roremand nodded, offering Nathan a level look. “Aurum mirrors intention. He reacts poorly to uncertainty, so I kept our sessions private.” His gaze flicked to Phil and Ripple, then to Noctisolar. “Seems it’s time our companions learn cooperation, as we must.”
Lissandre pointed at the reflecting pool. “Then first order of business: group photo, mental-style.” She snapped her fingers; Phil sparked a tiny flare. Ripple responded with a shining ring across the water’s surface; Aurum fanned brass wings; Noctisolar lifted its head, scattering motes of iridescent light. The courtyard bloomed with intertwined reflections.
The academy bell tolled, calling them toward Casting Hall. Lissandre scooped Phil into her hood. Krit recalled Ripple to hover at their shoulder. Roremand whispered a single command, and Aurum took to the air in a silent metallic glide, circling once before angling toward the practice spires.
Nathan watched them all move and felt, for the briefest instant, that despite secrets and strain, this, friends, companions, dawn, was alignment worth guarding. He touched Noctisolar’s snout; the dragon’s luminous eyes promised silent support.
“Come on,” Lissandre called, already half-jogging toward the archway. “If we’re late, Brannock will make us clean dummy guts till graduation.”
They set off together, fire sparks, water glimmers, brass feathers, opal scales, into the waking corridors, a small brigade bound by new bonds and, for now, shared trust.
Casting III , Mid-Morning Drill
Professor Brannock’s advanced class assembled inside the South Arena’s echoing octagon. Bronze lattices climbed the walls; half the roof stood open to a clear, cold sky. As students filed in, Brannock halted them with a raised rune-stick, its ember-red tip already glowing.
“Today we revisit the shielding theory you fumbled last month,” he growled, kneeling to draw three concentric circles on the slate floor. Each ring pulsed as the rune-stick passed, thin firelight sinking into the stone.
- Outer ring , tier-one impact. “Blunt kinetic pellets only,” Brannock explained. “If you can’t stop marbles, you can’t stop meteors.”
- Middle ring , tier-two elemental mix. “Randomized jets of fire, water, wind, or earth. Your shield must re-tune on the fly.”
- Inner ring , tier-three area surge. “A uniform pressure wave that strikes every surface at once. Diffusion or catastrophic failure; no third outcome.”
He jabbed the glowing chalk at the class. “Companions stay benched. This is caster discipline, not familiar show-and-tell. If any student in a ring is tagged the pulse resets.” His flinty gaze swept the semicircle until it locked on Nathan.
“Quinn, Serel, middle ring. Velle, Krit, inner. Show the others why they should bother turning up.”
A rustle of anticipation swept the spectators, Nathan’s duel a week earlier was still everyone’s favorite rumor. Lissandre squeezed Nathan’s forearm in silent encouragement before jogging to the innermost ring with Krit. Nathan squared his shoulders and stepped opposite Roremand into circle two.
First pulse, tier-one impact
Brannock tested the outer ring first with two seniors; pellets flew, shields buckled, and the professor barked corrections. Satisfied, he cranked the sigil-staff and the arena’s center glyph brightened.
“Middle ring, ready!”
A hail of marble-sized force motes erupted toward Nathan and Roremand.
Roremand moved like a textbook engraving: palm out, spell circle drawn, Metal Rune spinning into a smooth half-dome that pinged each pellet aside in orderly ricochets.
Nathan let instinct answer. Block, absorb, protect. A brand-new shape, honey-gold ovals meshed like tortoise shell, flashed behind his eyelids. He traced it with a single slash. The tessellated shield blossomed round him, each cell swallowing impact with a soft spark of light, no rebound at all.
Brannock’s brows shot up. “Absorption tessella,” he muttered, audible enough for the closest students. “Extinct methodology.” He snapped a tally crystal once, green for both, and advanced the staff to phase two.
Second pulse, tier-two elemental mix
Flame tongues snapped across circle two, crossed immediately by high-pressure water lances. Roremand layered sequential runes, Metal canal to gutter the water, Fire siphon to starve oxygen from the flame. Solid technique.
Nathan’s lattice re-flowed at a thought: each shield-cell unfurled like a petal, exhaling chilled vapor that quenched flame and curved water harmlessly to the side. Unscripted, seamless.
Krit, waiting in the inner ring, breathed, “He’s catsing in under two seconds, no spell circles.”
Brannock grunted approval. “Ready circle two? Final pulse.”
Third pulse, tier-three area surge
The arena sigil roared. A dome of raw kinetic pressure rolled outward, silent but strong enough to rattle teeth.
Roremand’s siege-sigil strained; fractures spidered through his barrier though it just held.
Nathan called another unseen rune, two contra-rotating spirals inside a ring. He pushed it forward. Air folded; the pressure wave hit, slowed, and peeled upward like fog meeting a skylight, leaving him untouched.
The shock wave slammed the outer wall far behind, dispersing with a hollow boom. Silence fell; even Brannock took a heartbeat to find words. The tally crystal flared emerald three times.
“Ingenious dampening.” He paced a semicircle, tapping the fading spiral with the staff. “Serel, acceptable stabilization; Quinn, extraordinary. Class, note the progression: absorb, redirect, diffuse. That is adaptive shielding.”
Whispers broke out, admiration, disbelief, envy, but Brannock barked them into order and set the next pairs. Nathan stepped out of the ring, pulse singing, golden lattices still ghost-bright behind his eyes. Whatever came after this lesson, the impossible runes had again made him the talk of Casting Hall, even if none of his friends quite understood how or why.
The lesson had hardly dismissed before Lissandre and Krit flanked Nathan outside the arena arch. Phil perched on Nathan’s shoulder now, hissing steam at passers-by who stared too long.
“Badass encore,” Lissandre said, but worry pinched her grin. “You nearly ate a surge shield for breakfast. Talk to us.”
Ripple spun around Krit’s head like a watery halo, emitting soft plinks of concern. “Your spell casting is… changing,” Krit added. “Rapidly.”
Before Nathan could answer, Roremand stepped from a side passage, metal falcon perched silent on his leather glove. His tone held no preamble. “Those runes were impossible. Everyone knows merging elements or draining kinetic mass that cleanly violates fundamental casting law.”
Nathan’s stomach knotted. He tried to sidestep, but Liss and Krit boxed him in.
“Guys, I’m fine.”
“Fine?” Roremand’s laugh was clipped. “You were a mediocre caster a month ago. Now you channel impossible or forbidden runes no one can replicate.” Aurum’s brass talons tightened audibly. “You’re either hiding a relic or losing control.”
“Back off,” Lissandre snapped. Phil flared bright crimson, spitting sparks at Roremand’s boots.
Krit raised both palms, Ripple hovering between them like a peace offering. “We’re concerned, not hostile.”
Nathan’s pulse thundered in his ears. Being cornered, even by friends, felt too much like the night Kalden froze the world. “Training,” he muttered. “Late hours. It’s paying off.”
Roremand’s eyes flashed hurt beneath the ice. “Training doesn’t rewrite physics. We deserve honesty.”
The wall pressed closer, Phil’s heat, Ripple’s cool spray, Aurum’s metallic scrutiny. Nathan’s ancient runes flickered at the edges of vision, feeding his anxiety with bright static.
“I said I’m fine,” he hissed. “Maybe worry about your own casting instead of policing mine and kindly fuck off.”
Silence crashed. Phil’s flames dimmed; Ripple quivered. Roremand’s jaw ticked once before he stepped back, brittle composure snapping into place. “Understood. I’ll leave you to your secrets.”
He pivoted, cloak slicing the air, Aurum beating brass wings as they strode away. Krit watched him go, shoulders sagging, then turned their steady gaze to Nathan. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.” They followed Roremand, Ripple trailing like a worried comet.
Lissandre lingered, hurt bright in her eyes. “I thought we were a team.” She tapped Phil’s tiny snout; the salamander chirped forlornly. “Remember that.” Then they left.
Nathan sagged against the stone. Footsteps faded, leaving only the ringing echo of bridges burned and truths unspoken. The new runes pulsed faintly behind Nathan’s eyes, beautiful and terrifying, as if reminding him that power without trust carried its own price.