Chapter 11 — The magic lessons (3)
"Again."
Vice Master Eldric Vayne's voice cut through the air like a dull blade.
Rowan stood soaked to the bone, water dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. Thin smoke still curled lazily from the burned edge of his sleeve, carrying the faint smell of scorched cloth.
His palm trembled as he tried again.
Mana stirred—hesitant, scattered—then gathered, drawn toward his hand like iron filings to a weak magnet.
A flame bloomed.
Three seconds.
Then it sputtered out.
Eldric exhaled heavily.
"Hm. At this rate, how exactly are you planning to become a mage," he muttered, "when you can't even keep a flame alive?"
"I'm trying," Rowan snapped back, frustration slipping through his voice. "Is there… is there something I'm missing?"
"I already told you," Eldric said. "Sense mana. Gather it. Shape it."
"I am doing that!"
As if to mock him, the faint fire he'd just summoned flickered—and died.
Eldric stared at it for a moment, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Keep trying. You'll get it eventually."
He turned and began walking away.
"Wait—where are you going?" Rowan asked without looking back.
"I've got important work," Eldric replied lazily. "So you just… try. Try. Try."
Rowan watched him go, shoulders slumping.
'Important work, my ass.'
There was an inn not far from here. Rowan knew exactly what kind of "work" his master meant.
'How did someone like him even become a teacher…'
Gritting his teeth, Rowan turned back to his palm.
'Sense mana.
Gather it.
Shape it.'
Again.
The flame appeared.
But Three seconds later.
It's Gone.
Rowan let out a long, exhausted breath.
"…Huh."
"You're forcing it."
The sudden voice made Rowan spin around.
Someone stood a short distance away.
A young man—tall, straight-backed, dressed neatly. His presence was calm but unmistakable, like a still lake hiding depth beneath its surface. Not flashy. Not arrogant. Just… composed. Refined in a way that didn't beg to be noticed.
'This… 'Rowan thought his eyes sparking, 'this is how I imagined mages should look.'
His mind flashed briefly to Eldric—half-drunk, sloppy, loud.
'…Not like that.'
"Ah—!" Rowan straightened and instinctively tried to bow.
The man lifted a hand.
"Relax," he said. "You don't need to do that. I'm not a teacher."
Rowan visibly relaxed. "Oh… good."
The man's gaze shifted to Rowan's hands.
"You're trying to cast fire magic."
Rowan blinked, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.
"Well… yeah. But it either doesn't last long. Or it goes wild."
The man raised his own hand.
Mana flowed effortlessly—no strain, no visible struggle. Fire wrapped itself around his palm, controlled, precise, alive. It burned without burning him.
Rowan's eyes lit up.
"…Whoa."
The man let the flame fade.
"Magic isn't something you force," he said. "It's something you understand."
Rowan frowned slightly. "Understand?"
"Yes."
He conjured fire again—but this time it was different. The flame danced softly, gentler, warmer.
"There are many kinds of fire," the man continued. "The fire that lights a cigarette. The fire that cooks food. The fire that burns down a house."
The flame shifted—brighter now, heavier.
"Each has a different warmth. A different intent."
He looked at Rowan.
"To cast fire, you first need to know what kind of fire you want."
Rowan stared, wide-eyed.
"If you want to understand fire magic," the man added, "then go near fire."
Rowan hesitated, then asked, "What about water?"
"Near a lake."
"And if it's wind then, Cliffs. Places where the wind runs free."
Rowan looked down at his palms.
'What kind of fire do I want…?'
A faint smile touched his lips.
He lifted his head.
"…Thank you."
But—
"Huh?"
The man was gone.
No sound. No footsteps.
Just empty space.
Rowan stood there for a moment, then slowly closed his eyes.
'I understand now.'
He inhaled deeply.
Sense mana.
Gather it.
'I was forcing it.'
'Trying to recreate every fire I knew.'
But that's not it.
I need to choose.
Images surfaced in his mind.
His mother cooking.
The chimney fire warming their home.
The campfire crackling in the snow.
A warmth spread across his palm—not burning. Not violent. But Gentle.
Rowan opened his eyes.
A flame danced above his hand.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
His breath caught.
'Yes… I'm doing it.'
Suddenly—
"Hey, dolt."
Smack.
The flame vanished.
Rowan froze.
His face went pale.
"Are you done or not?" Eldric asked casually, a bottle dangling from his hand.
"I—I was maintaining it!" Rowan shouted, spinning around. "I was finally doing it! Why did you interrupt me?!"
"Eh?" Eldric scratched his cheek. "Is that so?"
Rowan clenched his fists, trembling with frustration.
From a distance, the young man—Riven—watched quietly.
A faint smile crossed his lips as he turned away.
Two familiar figures approached him.
"Hey," one said. "What were you doing with that guy?"
"Wait," the other added. "Were you messing with him?"
The first one elbowed the other guy."Hey! Come on there's no way he would be messing with someone."
Riven closed his eyes and just walked past them.
"He looked pitiful," he said calmly. "And the Vice Master is extorting him for drinks."
"…So?"
"So I thought a little advice wouldn't hurt."
They scoffed.
"Huh... What a joke."
Riven didn't stop walking.
"After being extorted that much," he said without looking back, "if he still can't cast fire properly, that would be truly pitiful."
He paused for half a breath.
"And someone that pitiful leaving this dojo like that…"
"…would be an insult to this place."
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Chapter ends