Chapter 14 — Every Wand Is Just a Stick(2)
The night sky stretched endlessly above him.
Stars shimmered like distant embers scattered across black velvet, the pitch black clouds of night drifted slowly, each following its own quiet journey. The forest slept beneath the moonlight, branches whispering as the cold air moved through them.
Rowan lay on his back in the snow-dusted clearing, his breath rising in pale clouds. His axe rested beside him, its worn handle familiar beneath his fingers.
"…How do I get my own wand?" he murmured.
The sky did not answer.
Silence pressed down—deep, heavy, uncaring silence.
Then a voice echoed in his mind, lazy and irritatingly confident.
'Every wand is just a stick.
Rowan exhaled sharply and sat up.
"Every wand is just a stick huh."
His gaze drifted toward the forest line—towering trees standing like sentinels beneath the moon.
"…Alright," he muttered. "Let's see."
He reached for his axe.
---
Moonlight guided his steps as he entered the forest, boots crunching softly over frost and fallen needles. The nearest tree stood tall and unremarkable.
Chop.
The axe bit into the trunk.
Chop.
Wood cracked, fibers splitting cleanly under practiced swings. Rowan snapped off a branch and carved it quickly, hands moving from memory rather than thought.
A stick was finally made.
He held it up, turning it slowly.
"…I'm sure this is how vice Master's stick— I mean, wand—looked."
Nearby, a fallen tree trunk lay half-buried in snow. Rowan's lips curved into a small, hopeful smile.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's give it a try."
He raised the makeshift wand, closed his eyes, and focused.
Feel the mana… gather it… shape it… fire…
Warmth filled his thoughts—the kitchen at home, his mother stirring stew, the steady glow of the chimney that kept them alive through winter nights.
"FIRE!"
Nothing.
He opened his eyes.
The stick remained cold. Lifeless.
"…Huh?"
Frowning, Rowan dropped it and raised his bare hand instead.
"FIRE!"
A small flame burst from his palm, flickered forward, and died after a few feet.
"…It works this way," he muttered.
He picked the stick again and pointed it on the fallen trunk.
"Fire."
Nothing.
"Ugh.. hello fire...?"
Rowan looked at the stick carefully examining it as of the stick is holding some ancient secrets.
'Why is it not working?'
"Fire... Fire..! FIRE!"
Rowan chanted fire like a mantra but still nothing happened.
His jaw tightened.
"…Maybe," he said slowly, "it needs a different shape."
Rowan dropped the stick and lifted his axe again.
Branches snapped. Wood splintered. He carved—thin sticks, thick ones, crooked ones, ones shaped like claws, others etched with meaningless symbols he half-remembered from Eldric's drunken ramblings.
Hours passed.
The ground around him filled with failures—broken wands scattered like discarded bones. — some crooked, twisted, carved like animals, some cracked in half. He kneels among them, frustrated and tired, his breath visible in the cold night air.
Rowan knelt among them, breath heavy, fingers numb from cold and effort.
He clenched his hair in both hands.
"Why?!" he shouted into the dark.
"Why does it work with my hands but not with these stupid sticks — i mean wands?!"
The forest answered only with silence.
"…Maybe," he muttered hoarsely, "…I need a different tree."
Without thinking further, Rowan rose and swung his axe.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Each strike grew heavier, frustration bleeding into force. Sparks leapt as steel met wood.
Eldric's voice echoed in his head.
Feel the mana.
Gather it.
Shape it.
His mother's stove.
The chimney's fire.
The campfires that warmed frozen nights.
"Fire…"
"Fire…"
"FIRE!"
"FIRE!!!"
He roars the word, swinging down with everything he has.
Suddenly, flames erupt from the axe's edge, engulfing the tree in a violent blaze. Rowan stumbles back, eyes widened.
"What the—"
Rowan was taken aback by the tree suddenly getting ignited in a violent blaze.
Instinctively, he swings the axe aside, trying to smother the blaze — and to his shock, the flames follow his motion, coiling and shrinking like they were alive. The fire doesn't rage uncontrollably — it listens.
It obeys him.
Rowan stands frozen, heart hammering, watching as the last tongues of flame retreat and the charred trunk collapses into glowing ash.
"I…" His voice trembled. "…I didn't cast anything like that before."
He stared at the axe.
A faint red glow pulsed along its edge.
Gulp.
Rowan gulps down the awe and astonishment that's gathered in his mouth seeing something he himself never expected. then Carefully, reverently, he lifted his axe again.
He remembers his father's voice — steady, proud, patient — teaching him how to feel the weight of the swing, how to listen to the tree's heart before striking.
Then he recalls the Vice Master's words again — the importance of focus, form, and channeling mana through what feels right.
He swings the axe again — this time deliberately — and a trail of fire slices through the air, following the arc of his blade lighting the areas along it's path in an orenge hue.
Swoosh.
He freezes, breath caught in his throat.
He tries again, aiming toward a fallen tree trunk. He lifted his axe and swings again — the fire detaches from the blade, launching forward like a burning crescent.
The trunk explodes, scattering flaming splinters that hiss as they land in the snow.
The forest glows orange around him, smoke curling upward into the night sky.
Rowan stares at his axe, eyes wide, awe mixing with disbelief.
Then slowly, a smile spreads across his face.
"Looks like…" he says softly, gripping the axe handle tighter, "I've found my own stick."
"…I mean, my own wand."
The firelight was dancing in his eyes like fireflies of spring.
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Chapter Ends