“Channel your intent,” Rowan instructed, his tone calm yet firm, his presence exuding quiet authority. Standing beneath the canopy of ancient trees, he raised his hands, and with a subtle motion, an orb of shimmering water began to coalesce in his palms. It wobbled as it took form, reflecting the fading hues of the evening sky, but Rowan’s steady focus kept it intact. Slowly, he passed it between his fingers, the water gliding effortlessly like silk. “Magic isn’t just about power—it’s about control. Let it flow naturally, like a river finding its path.”

  Magnus was the first to respond. With a serene expression, he raised his hands, closing his eyes briefly to center himself. A soft, green glow emerged from his fingertips, twisting into an intricate swirl of root-like magic. The light pulsed in harmony with his measured breaths, its soft luminescence casting delicate patterns on the ground. The magic in his hands seemed alive, tendrils of light unfurling like vines seeking the sun. The golden rays of the setting sun caught his flowing pale green hair, making him appear otherworldly, almost as if he were one with the nature he invoked.

  Nearby, Seraph worked with quiet confidence. Her hands moved gracefully, summoning a warm, golden light that danced across her fingers like tiny fireflies. The glow radiated a gentle heat, illuminating her silver hair and reflecting in her bright silver eyes. She manipulated the light with an ease born of familiarity, her movements fluid and precise. The soft radiance bathed her dark grey skin, creating an ethereal contrast.

  Lorian, however, was not having such luck. He clenched his small hands, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. A faint flicker of white light sputtered at his fingertips, struggling to hold form before fizzling out completely. He exhaled sharply, frustration coloring his youthful features as he stared at his empty hands.

  “I don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice laced with exasperation. “Why can’t I just make it work?”

  Rowan stepped closer, his blue eyes calm and reassuring. “Don’t force it, Lorian,” he said gently. “Magic responds to your intent, not your frustration. Take a breath. Let it flow through you naturally.”

  Lorian huffed but nodded, his small shoulders stiff with determination. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath that seemed to settle his restless energy. This time, a faint white light appeared in his palms, wavering but steadying for a brief moment. It wasn’t much, but it glowed softly before fading again. He sighed, disappointment etched into his face.

  “I’m so bad at this,” Lorian murmured, lowering his hands. His gaze flicked to Magnus and Seraph, their confident displays of magic a sharp contrast to his struggles.

  “Everyone starts somewhere,” Rowan said, crouching slightly to meet Lorian’s eyes. “You’re not bad at this. You’re learning. And trust me, that takes time. The important thing is to keep trying.”

  From her spot nearby, Seraph gave Lorian an encouraging smile. “You’re doing fine,” she said softly, her voice as warm as her magic. “It’s only the first day.”

  Magnus nodded, his serene demeanor never faltering. “It’s about finding your rhythm, Lorian. Keep practicing, and it’ll come to you.”

  Lorian’s lips quirked into a small, hesitant smile at their words, though doubt lingered in his eyes. He glanced back at his empty hands, flexing them slightly as if willing the light to return.

  Rowan stepped closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried, his expression radiating understanding. The soft glow of fading sunlight framed his youthful face, but his steady gaze carried the weight of someone who had seen more than his years suggested. “Light magic directly counters Myrkos’s dark magic,” he said, his voice steady but infused with a quiet urgency. “The more of us who can wield it, the better chance we have. And, Lorian, this is just the first day of training. You’ve done more than enough for a start. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  Lorian looked up at Rowan, his lips pressed into a tight line. He shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t know,” he began, his voice tinged with frustration and a shadow of self-doubt. “I’ve been practicing for ages. I have this spellbook, and I’ve tried so many spells from it. But I’m not good at any of them. It’s like I’m just... mediocre at everything. A jack of all trades, master of none.” His hands fidgeted at his sides, betraying the weight of his own insecurities. “It feels like I don’t have a calling.”

  Rowan’s expression softened, his blue eyes reflecting genuine empathy. He folded his arms, his posture relaxed but thoughtful. “I know exactly how you feel,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost confessional. “When I first started learning magic, I felt the same way. I could cast spells from nearly every school of magic, but none of them felt... exceptional. I wondered if I’d ever be good enough at anything. It was overwhelming.”

  He glanced at the orb of water still hovering gently in his palm, its surface rippling faintly as if mirroring his introspection. “It took me years of trial and error, testing every spell I could, to figure out where my strengths really lay. And you know what I found?” He looked back at Lorian, offering a small, encouraging smile. “It’s not about mastering everything. It’s about finding what resonates with you—what suits you best—and honing that. The rest will come with time.”

  Lorian’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, but Rowan’s words seemed to spark a faint glimmer of hope. “You really think so?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

  Rowan nodded firmly. “I do. And I believe in you, Lorian. You’ve got potential—you just need to trust yourself and keep going.”

  Nearby, Magnus chimed in, his serene voice adding to Rowan’s reassurance. “Lorian, the magic you’ve shown today already proves you’re capable. You might not see it now, but you’re making progress. And sometimes, the journey is just as important as the destination.”

  Seraph, standing a little farther back, let her own light magic fade and approached with a gentle smile. “They’re right,” she said softly. “You’re doing well, Lorian. You just need time and patience.”

  Lorian glanced between them, his shoulders straightening just a little. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice still uncertain but touched with gratitude.

  As Rowan stepped back to give him space, Lorian looked down at his hands once more.

  “I’ll keep trying,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. And as he stood there, surrounded by the quiet strength of his companions, he felt, for the first time, that perhaps his calling wasn’t as far out of reach as he’d feared.

  Cheese wobbled across the grass, its gelatinous form gleaming faintly in the dimming light. It engulfed a sandwich with a delighted squelch, a cheerful squeak escaping as if to cheer Lorian on. Pip, perched on a low-hanging branch above, nibbled at a biscuit with its tiny teeth, its round, inquisitive eyes observing the scene below.

  Across the courtyard, Caelus, Elira, and Darius were locked in a spirited sparring session. The clang of metal against Elira’s massive shield echoed as she deftly maneuvered it, deflecting incoming strikes with impressive precision. Her shield wasn’t just a tool of defense; it was a weapon of its own, its sheer size and weight making each swing a formidable attack.

  Darius, wielding his halberd with calculated power, forced both of them to stay on their toes. His strikes were deliberate, each swing creating an arc of raw force. Caelus, with his borrowed sword, darted between them with practiced agility, his movements a blend of speed and strategy as he sought openings.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  On the sidelines, Riven emerged from her alchemical work, her fingers stained with vivid green residue from freshly brewed poisons. She approached Sir Edric, who observed her with a discerning eye.

  “Ah, Riven— a halfling with talent for stealth and agility,” he mused aloud, stroking his impressive mustache thoughtfully. “You’re neither a pure mage nor a straightforward fighter. You’re something in between—a hybrid. Use that. Be unpredictable. Be crafty. Mix the two.”

  Riven nodded, her dark eyes narrowing as determination settled on her face. She adjusted the leather bracers on her wrists and joined the sparring circle with quiet resolve.

  The matches were fierce yet friendly, each champion pushing the others to refine their skills and adapt to new challenges. As the day wore on, it was Caelus’s turn to face Riven in a sparring match.

  Riven stepped into the circle, her short green hair catching the fading sunlight as a sly smirk curved her lips. She drew two twin daggers, their edges gleaming faintly. “Hope you’re ready,” she teased, her voice calm but laced with challenge.

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Caelus replied, tightening his grip on his sword.

  The moment Sir Edric barked, “Begin!” Riven vanished.

  “She just disappeared!” Elira gasped, leaning forward, her amber eyes alight with astonishment.

  “Now that’s a neat trick,” Darius rumbled, crossing his arms. A low whistle escaped his lips as he watched the spectacle unfold. “Let’s see how our fearless leader handles this one.”

  Caelus froze, his eyes darting across the sparring ring. The courtyard felt unnervingly still, save for the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze. He shifted his stance, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword. Where is she?

  A whisper of movement behind him.

  Caelus ducked instinctively, feeling the air shift above his shoulder as one of Riven’s daggers slashed through the space where his head had been. He pivoted, but she was already gone, melting back into the shadows.

  The spectators held their breath, the tension mounting with each passing second.

  Caelus’s heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts racing. Think, Caelus. Think. He forced himself to inhale deeply, then exhale, his breath steadying. She’s faster than me—smarter, even—but she’s not invincible. She has to leave a trail. Something I can use.

  Another faint sound—a subtle crunch of gravel underfoot. Caelus spun toward it, but Riven had already retreated, her movements so fluid they were like smoke. His sword sliced through empty air.

  The pressure mounted. Sweat trickled down his temple, but his mind sharpened. He adjusted his stance, lowering his blade as if in defeat. But his eyes flicked to the dusty ground beneath them.

  Then he saw it—a faint shift in the sand, the ghost of a footprint.

  A plan formed in his mind. He dropped to one knee, dragging his sword across the earth with deliberate force, kicking up a billowing cloud of sand. The particles hung in the air, catching the light like golden mist, and for a split second, they outlined a faint silhouette.

  “There you are,” Caelus muttered.

  Riven’s figure jerked as the sand caught her off guard. She raised an arm to shield her face, her cover momentarily broken. Caelus seized the opportunity, lunging forward with a burst of speed.

  The tip of Caelus’s training sword halted just above the crown of Riven’s head, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Riven froze, staring at him with wide, startled eyes before a slow grin spread across her face.

  “Well, you got me,” she said, stepping back as her form shimmered into view.

  Without missing a beat, Caelus brought the flat of the training blade down in a light, playful bonk against the top of her head.

  “Hey!” Riven exclaimed, glaring up at him as she rubbed the spot where he’d tapped her. The indignation in her voice was only half-serious, though her narrowed eyes suggested she’d remember this moment. “What was that for?”

  “You were wide open,” Caelus replied with a grin, lowering his sword.

  Sir Edric chuckled, striding toward them with an approving nod. “Well played, both of you,” he said, his deep voice carrying a note of genuine praise. “Riven, your stealth is impressive, but overconfidence leaves openings. Caelus, excellent use of tactics. Resourceful and quick on your feet—just what I like to see.”

  Riven rolled her eyes but smirked as she turned to Caelus. “You win this round.” She delivered a firm punch to his shoulder, making him wince and stagger back slightly. “I don’t blame you for playing dirty, but next time, don’t hold back. Hit me for real.”

  Caelus laughed, rubbing his shoulder where her punch had landed. “I don’t think I could actually hit any of you, even if I tried,” he admitted, his tone light but genuine.

  “That’s your problem,” Riven teased, her smirk widening. “You’re too soft.”

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky ablaze with shades of gold and purple, the courtyard transformed into a soft, glowing sanctuary. The air cooled, carrying with it the faint scent of evening dew, as the champions regrouped. Their bodies tired from hours of training, but their spirits were lifted by the satisfaction of progress.

  Lorian, his face glowing with excitement, practically bounced over to Caelus. In his small hands, he held a small vial filled with a bright red liquid, its hue almost ethereal in the dimming light. “Look!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with pride. “I made this today—a healing potion!” He shoved it toward Caelus, nearly knocking into him as he did so.

  Caelus smiled warmly, taking the vial from Lorian’s eager hands. He studied the contents for a moment, noting the clarity of the potion, and then met Lorian’s gaze. “Great job, Lorian,” he said, his voice filled with encouragement. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”

  Lorian’s face lit up, a grin splitting his features. “I used sage, lavender, and a bunch of other herbs,” he explained, practically bouncing on his heels. “It took me forever to get the proportions just right! But it’s worth it. I can feel it’s strong.”

  Caelus chuckled softly, nodding. He admired Lorian’s enthusiasm. But as he turned the vial in his hands, a thought flickered in the back of his mind. Sage and lavender? he mused. I didn’t know this world had those herbs… He set the vial back in Lorian’s hands, but the thought lingered, and a sense of unease settled at the edge of his thoughts.

  Nearby, Magnus and Seraph were deep in conversation, their quiet voices carrying across the courtyard. The elf’s pale green hair shimmered in the fading sunlight as he discussed the best ways to combine their magic in combat with the dark elf woman. Seraph, with her silver eyes gleaming in the twilight, nodded thoughtfully, her silver hair catching the last rays of the sun. Their bond over magic was palpable, their words and gestures synchronizing like a well-rehearsed dance.

  Not far from them, Darius and Elira were in the midst of playful banter, their voices filled with laughter as they compared bruises from their sparring matches. “I’ll have to wear armor for the next round!” Darius grinned, rubbing his shoulder where Elira had landed a particularly hard blow. Elira, ever the mischievous one, poked him in the ribs with a grin. “I’ll go easier next time—only if you promise not to hit me so hard, old man.” Her laughter rang out, echoing in the quiet of the courtyard.

  Meanwhile, Cheese nestled happily in Lorian’s arms, content and sleepy after a long day. The slime made soft, contented squeaks as it curled up, its small form wiggling with happiness. Pip, perched on Magnus’s shoulder, chirped softly, his bright eyes watching the others, as though keeping a careful eye on their progress.

  As the evening deepened, Rowan’s blue eyes scanned the champions, taking in their tired, satisfied faces. The glow of dusk caught in his hair and eyes, giving him an almost ethereal presence. He stood there for a moment, silently assessing each one of them before speaking.

  “You’ve made good progress,” Rowan said, his voice steady and measured, but not without a hint of approval. His eyes settled on each of them in turn, lingering briefly on Lorian, who still beamed with pride. “But there’s still a lot to do if you want to improve your Stats.”

  The words hung in the air, a reminder that their journey was far from over. But despite the challenges ahead, the champions could feel it—the camaraderie, the shared purpose. They were a team, and together, they would face whatever came next.

  The courtyard was quiet now, save for the sounds of the evening—distant chirps of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. It was a brief moment of peace, but the champions knew that the real work lay ahead. And as they gathered their things and prepared to leave, the weight of Rowan’s words settled in, stirring something deep within each of them. There was more to be done, and they would rise to the challenge.