The world spun and blurred as Brakar stumbled through the doorway from the backroom, his legs trembling beneath him like a newborn foal’s. Sweat plastered his tunic to his skin, and each breath came in ragged gasps that appeared to scrape his lungs raw. The simple act of staying upright required more concentration than casting his first cantrip.

  The front room of Mimic & Co. swam before his eyes - or perhaps it was just his vision going fuzzy around the edges. He caught himself against the doorframe, the rough wood digging into his palm as he fought to remain standing.

  “By the gods, is that you Brak?” Thadan’s voice appeared to come from very far away. “You look like you’ve been wrestling a hydra.”

  Brakar attempted to respond, but all that came out was a wheeze. His knees buckled, and he would have face-planted if Thadan hadn’t lunged forward to catch him.

  “Whoa there! I’ve seen drunks at The Six Spoons with better balance.” Thadan guided him to the mimic-sofa, which promptly reconfigured its cushions to better cradle Brakar’s boneless collapse. “What happened? Did one of the mimics fight back?”

  Brakar shook his head weakly, immediately regretting the motion as it made the room spin faster. “Just... drained,” he managed. “Big one... took everything.”

  Understanding dawned on Thadan’s face. “Ah, right. The deep-dweller. Must’ve been a beast to transform something so enormous into a lantern.” He paused, brow furrowing. “Actually, that’s pretty remarkable. I didn’t think you could make something that big turn into something so small. Though it’s still pretty big for a lantern.”

  “Neither... did I.” Brakar closed his eyes, trying to will the world to stop tilting.

  “Well, ?it worked! Although you seem like you were dragged through all nine hells backward.” Thadan started pacing, his footsteps echoing ?in Brakar’s exhausted mind. “How long until you recover? We might need to step up production soon, especially if Othh spreads the word about our ‘never-extinguishing’ lanterns.”

  The question sparked a bitter laugh which then turned into a cough. “Recovery... that’s complicated.” Brakar forced his eyes open, watching Thadan’s blurry form move back and forth across the shop floor. “Been trying to advance beyond Conduit level for years. Still stuck.”

  “Conduit level?” Thadan’s pacing stopped. “Is it like... a magical rank or something?”

  “Sort of.” Brakar was trying to sit up straighter, but the mimic-sofa wouldn’t let him. Probably for the best. “There are gates - meridians - that mages have to open in sequence. Each one represents mastery over different aspects of magical energy.”

  “Oh!” Thadan’s face lit up. “Like how adventuring ranks work? So you’re what, Copper rank in magic?”

  Brakar pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting both exhaustion and exasperation. “Not... exactly. It’s more like...” He searched for an analogy Thadan would understand. “Remember when you tried to teach me swordplay?”

  “When you couldn’t even lift the practice sword? Hard to forget.”

  “Right. Well, imagine if before you could move on to actual fighting techniques, you had to master holding the sword perfectly still for hours. Then once you managed that, you had to learn to move it in precise patterns while maintaining that same perfect control. One tiny mistake and you’d have to start over.”

  “Sounds boring.” Thadan resumed his pacing, faster now. “So what rank are you stuck at?”

  “Conduit. Second gate.” Brakar watched Thadan’s boots wear a path in the floor. “Can’t seem to stabilize my essence flow enough to open the third.”

  “And that’s... bad?”

  “It means my magical reserves are limited. Like trying to pour a lake through a garden hose.” Brakar’s eyes drifted closed again. “Most mages my age are at least Channelers by now. Some have reached Weaver.”

  “But you can control mimics!” Thadan’s voice took on the familiar excited tone that usually preceded terrible ideas. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

  “It’s because I’m bad at magic.” Brakar couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “My essence flow is... wrong. Like you alway say, speaking with an accent, but with magic. Happens to match how mimics process energy, but it’s considered a flaw by proper mages.”

  “A flaw that lets you transform mimics! Speaking of which, do you know anyone who might be able to help? Someone who could teach you to handle bigger transformations without ending up looking like death warmed over?”

  Brakar’s tired mind drifted back through years of magical education, searching for someone who might understand his unique situation. Most of his teachers had written him off as hopeless, but there had been one...

  “Professor Gaifelon,” he mumbled. “My old instructor from basic training.”

  “Perfect!” Thadan clapped his hands, the sound making Brakar wince. “Where can we find him?”

  “What? No, I can’t... I haven’t seen him in years.” Brakar tried to push himself up, but his arms refused to cooperate. “Besides, I’m in no condition to-“

  “Nonsense! No time like the present!” Thadan was already gathering his things. “Where does he teach?”

  “The Academy’s eastern campus, but-“

  “Excellent! Up you go!” Thadan grabbed Brakar’s arm, hauling him to his feet despite his protests. “A little walk will do you good. Clear your head, get the blood flowing.”

  “Thadan, I can barely stand-“

  “That’s why the gods invented leaning on friends! Come on, the sooner we get there, the sooner you can sit down again.”

  As Thadan half-dragged, half-carried him toward the door, Brakar caught a glimpse of their reflection in one of the shop’s windows. He looked worse than he felt - pale as a ghost, dark circles under his eyes, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He would have argued further, but speaking required energy he didn’t have.

  The last coherent thought that crossed his mind before Thadan pulled him out into the street was that Gaifelon was going to take one look at him and wonder what had happened to a promising young student he’d once known. Then again, given how often he’d shown up to his classes looking like he was trampled by a herd of wild horses (the result of countless failed attempts to master “proper” magical technique), maybe he wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  ****

  Brakar’s boots scuffed against stones as they climbed the steps to Professor Gaifelon’s office. Each scrape brought back memories of his student days—the nervous anticipation before exams, the weight of spellbooks under his arm, the constant worry that today would be the day someone finally noticed how wrong his magic felt.

  “Quite a climb. Your old professor couldn’t have an office on the ground floor?”

  “Traditional magical architecture,” Brakar explained, grateful for the distraction from his thoughts. “Height correlates with status. Ground floor is for beginners, top floor for masters.”

  “So ?the more important you are, the more stairs you climb?” Thadan snorted. “Sounds like someone confused cause and effect.”

  “Almost there,” Brakar said, more to himself than Thadan. The familiar knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach. “Just... let me do the talking?”

  “What, worried I’ll embarrass you in front of your old teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  Thadan laughed. “Fair enough.”

  They reached the final landing. The door to the professor’s office stood the same as Brakar remembered it—dark wood worn smooth by countless hands, brass nameplate polished to a mirror shine. Even the faint smell of ozone that perpetually lingered in magical academies was stronger here, as if recognizing the authority behind that door.

  Brakar raised his hand to knock, then hesitated.

  “Having second thoughts?” Thadan asked.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “It’s just...” Brakar lowered his hand. “What if he can’t help? What if this is just a waste of time?”

  “Then we’re where we started, minus a bit of walking.” Thadan clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, partner. Worst-case scenario, we get to promote our new business to your old teacher.”

  Before Brakar could respond, the door swung open.

  Professor Gaifelon stood in the doorway—silver hair sticking out at odd angles, robe pockets bulging with an impossible number of notebooks, wire-rimmed spectacles repaired so many times they seemed to have developed their own minor enchantments. His stern expression melted into genuine delight.

  “Brakar Caneca!” The professor’s voice boomed through the hallway. “And you’ve brought a friend?”

  “Yes, this is my friend and business partner, Thadan Ginedras. But, um, professor,” Brakar said before Thadan could launch into their full business pitch. “I need your help.”

  Gaifelon’s expression sharpened, professional curiosity replacing casual interest. “Of course, of course. Come in, both of you.” He stepped aside, gesturing them into his office. “Mind the stacks—they’re organized by a system that only makes sense to me.”

  Books and scrolls filled every available surface, teetering stacks that seemed to maintain an impossible suspension. Star charts and magical diagrams covered the walls, some annotated so heavily the original images were almost not visible. A brass contraption that might have been an astrolabe ticked on the corner of the massive desk, though Brakar noticed it was counting down rather than measuring time.

  “Sit, sit!” Gaifelon waved them toward two chairs that had been cleared of papers. “Tell me what brings you back after all these years.”

  Brakar perched on the edge of his chair, hands clasped to keep them from fidgeting. “It’s about my... condition.”

  “Ah.” The professor’s excitement dimmed. “I always wondered if you’d find a way to work around it.”

  “I did. Sort of.” Brakar glanced at Thadan, who nodded encouragingly. “I discovered I can communicate with mimics.”

  Gaifelon’s eyebrows shot up. “Mimics? The predatory shapeshifters? Fascinating! How did you discover this ability?”

  “By accident. My spells come out wrong—you remember how they always translated incorrectly? It turns out mimics understand that ‘accent.’ I can convince them to transform into anything I tell them to.”

  “Which is where our business comes in,” Thadan added helpfully.

  The professor leaned forward, papers crinkling under his elbows. “You’re using this ability commercially? More fascinating! But I assume there’s a problem, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Brakar nodded. “It’s exhausting. The transformations drain my energy. I was hoping... maybe there’s a way to make it more efficient? To handle more at once?”

  “Hmm.” Gaifelon stood abruptly, sending several stacks of papers cascading to the floor. He ignored them, moving to a cabinet made entirely of drawers. “This calls for proper testing. We need to establish your current capabilities, examine the exact nature of your channel configuration...” He began pulling out various implements. “Would you be willing to participate in a few experiments?”

  “Of course.”

  “Starting with the basics - show me your shields. The different shield strengths will show us how well you can access each gate’s power.”

  Brakar’s heart sank. He’d never been particularly good at shield spells, even during his studies. Still, he raised his hands and began to gather his magic.

  “Basic Shield first,” Gaifelon instructed, pulling out a notebook and quill. “This will show us how well you can draw from your First Gate.”

  Brakar focused, drawing on his magical energy. The familiar sensation of power flowing through his channels felt as awkward as ever. Still, he managed to form the spell, and a small barrier of blue-tinted energy materialized in front of him.

  “Hmm.” Gaifelon circled the shield, making quick notes. “Unusual ripple patterns in the energy matrix... consistent with your previous work, but more pronounced. Try the Reinforced Shield now - it will reveal your Second Gate’s capacity.”

  Brakar gathered more power, feeling the strain as he pushed it through his channels. The resulting shield was larger but unstable.

  “Very interesting!” Gaifelon’s quill scratched frantically across his notebook. “The energy distribution is completely unorthodox, yet somehow maintaining coherent form. Greater Shield next - this will tell us if you can access your Third Gate’s power.”

  Brakar tried, he really did. But as he attempted to channel the necessary power from his Third Gate, his magic sputtered and died, leaving nothing but a few sparkles of blue light that quickly faded.

  “Now for the real test.” He grabbed the copper bowl from his desk and filled it with water from a crystal decanter. “The Mage’s Bowl will tell us what we’re dealing with.”

  He set the bowl on a small pedestal and gestured for Brakar to approach. “Just channel a small amount of power into the water - enough for a light spell.”

  Brakar did as instructed. In a normal mage’s hands, the bowl would show neat, concentric ripples spreading out from the point of contact. Instead, Brakar’s magic created jagged, irregular patterns, the water moving in sharp jolts and sudden swirls.

  “Just as I suspected,” Gaifelon said, scribbling furiously. “The tertiary channels can’t handle that level of power flow. Not with their current configuration. Without proper channel alignment, you’ll never be able to access your Third Gate.”

  “But why?” Thadan interrupted. “What’s actually wrong with him?”

  The professor’s eyes lit up. “Wrong? Oh, nothing’s wrong, precisely. It’s more of a... unique variation. You see, when a mage first begins developing their magical channels, they start from their primary core—here.” He tapped his chest. “The channels form outward in a very specific pattern, like roots growing from a seed.”

  He grabbed a piece of chalk and began sketching on his desk. “Normal channel formation looks like this—nice and orderly, yes? But in Brakar’s case, something extraordinary happened. His secondary core—” he drew another diagram “—developed first.”

  “Secondary core?” Thadan frowned.

  “Yes, yes. All mages have multiple magical cores, but only the primary is usually developed. The others remain dormant. Except in Brakar’s case, his secondary core spontaneously activated before anyone noticed. By the time the mistake was discovered, the channels were already permanently set.”

  Brakar remembered that day all too well. The look of confusion on his childhood tutors’ faces as his spells came out wrong. The growing frustration as no amount of practice was helping. The eventual realization that something fundamental was different about his magic.

  “So when he tried to progress normally,” Gaifelon continued, sketching rapidly, “the power had to flow through these misaligned channels. The result was... well, rather spectacular failure, I imagine. The channels shattered under the strain.”

  He drew a third diagram showing a chaotic mess of lines. “Now his magic has to take these circuitous routes, detouring through the broken pathways. Hence the... accent, as you call it.”

  “But can it be fixed?” Thadan pressed.

  The professor’s enthusiasm faltered. “Ah. Well. That’s the unfortunate part. These channel formations are permanent. Once set, they can’t be realigned without...” he trailed off, grimacing.

  “Without what?”

  “Without destroying his existing magical pathways and starting over. Which would kill him.”

  The words fell like stones in a still pond. Brakar had known, deep down, that his condition was permanent, but hearing it stated so bluntly still hurt. For a brief moment, a single tear threatened to fall—but he was strong. He swallowed hard, forcing it back.

  “This explains so much about your unusual affinity for mimic communication. Their magical signatures are naturally chaotic. I think your ‘accent’ matches their frequency better than proper spellcasting would! Unfortunately, your current channel configuration severely limits the amount of power you can safely handle. Attempting to force more through would be... inadvisable.”

  “But there must be something we can do,” Thadan insisted. “Some way to make it work better?”

  Gaifelon stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well... there are certain magical artifacts designed to enhance or stabilize spell casting. Focus rings, amplification staves, that sort of thing. In theory, they could help compensate for the inefficiency of your channels.”

  Brakar perked up slightly. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. A good set of enhancement rings could potentially double your effective power output. A properly attuned staff might triple it. The problem is...”

  “They’re expensive,” Thadan finished flatly.

  “Prohibitively so, I’m afraid. Such items are typically found only in noble houses or major magical institutions. The materials alone cost more than most mages earn in a year.”

  The hope that had flickered in Brakar’s chest for a moment guttered out. Even at their most successful, Steel Tempest had barely managed to keep up with basic living expenses. The kind of money needed for high-end magical artifacts might as well have been on the moon.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Gaifelon said, with genuine regret in his voice. “But please don’t think of your condition as a disability. You’ve developed a unique way of interacting with magic. Perhaps instead of trying to force your magic into traditional patterns, you should focus on finding new applications for your... particular talents.”

  Brakar managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Professor. For everything.”

  As they prepared to leave, Gaifelon suddenly snapped his fingers. “Oh! One more thing.” He disappeared behind a towering stack of books, emerging moments later with a dusty tome. “I’ve been meaning to give this back to you. You left it behind when you... er, departed rather suddenly.”

  Brakar accepted the book with surprise. His old spellcraft journal, filled with notes from his student days. He’d assumed it was lost years ago.

  “There are some interesting observations in there,” the professor said. “Your notes on alternative casting methods. Might be worth revisiting, given what we now know about your channels.”

  They said their goodbyes and stepped out into the hallway. The familiar sounds of the magic academy—student chatter, distant explosions, the occasional screech of a transformed familiar—washed over Brakar.

  “Well,” Thadan said after a moment. “That was...”

  “A waste of time?” Brakar supplied.

  “I was going to say ‘informative,’ but yeah, kind of.” He put a hand on Brakar’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get a drink. I’m buying.”

  “You don’t have any money.”

  “Then you’re buying, and I’ll pay you back when business picks up.”

  Brakar snorted but didn’t argue. After the day’s revelations, a drink sounded pretty good. As they headed for the exit, he found himself thumbing through his old journal. The pages were filled with his younger self’s desperate attempts to understand why his magic worked so differently, to find some way around his limitations.

  His magic might be broken, but broken things could sometimes be repurposed. And if there was one thing he’d learned from their adventures, it was that the strangest solutions often proved the most effective.

  Now he just had to figure out how to turn a magical disability into a business advantage.

  The journal’s worn cover seemed to pulse with potential under his fingers, like a mimic waiting to reveal its true form.