A sharp sting of stiffness radiated through his neck as Zack jolted awake.
Rubbing the knotted muscles with small fingers, he sat up against the pillow and surveyed the battlefield that his room had become. Books lay strewn across every available surface like literary shrapnel: scattered on the floor, draped over his blanket, clutched unconsciously in his grip.
What the hell did I even do last night?
He clicked his tongue in annoyance as fragmented memories surfaced through the morning haze. After finding the first book inadequate for his purposes, he'd devolved into indiscriminate skimming. A desperate treasure hunt through every text he could lay his hands on.
The boy heaved a resigned sigh.
Well, it couldn't be helped.
He shuffled out of bed and began the tedious restoration process, stacking volumes in some semblance of order.
After cleaning up the mess he'd made, he headed to the bathroom only to be greeted by an unwelcome surprise. Ice-cold water that shocked his system into immediate alertness.
He shivered.
I thought this was charmed to stay warm. Do wizards have plumbers for when enchantments fail?
The boy huffed, dried his face quickly and headed downstairs. A glance at the clock above the counter revealed the time: quarter past eleven. He was definitely not early by any reasonable standard.
Sophie performed her morning ritual with characteristic grace, humming softly while polishing glassware behind the bar. His attention immediately fixed on the impressive array of equipment positioned strategically nearby: glass beakers, serpentine tubes, and a substantial stone mortar that spoke of serious alchemical work.
Potions.
He'd skimmed enough texts on brewing to recognise a professional setup when he saw one. While potion-making wasn't his primary obsession, the economic and practical benefits couldn't be ignored.
Still, strength is the main goal. I want to depend on my own magic. Prove my own worth.
Sophie spotted him lingering by the staircase and waved enthusiastically. He responded with his most winning smile, the kind of expression that made adults automatically assume he was harmless and adorable.
My acting skills are definitely improving by the hour.
But he hadn't descended merely for pleasantries. A pressing concern had crystallised overnight: he was completely broke. If he intended to pursue magical education seriously, he'd need funds for books, materials, and whatever opportunities might arise.
The approach required delicacy. Direct requests for payment would seem mercenary for a child of his apparent age. Better to offer assistance freely and let them reciprocate with kindness.
"Would you like to have breakfast?" Sophie rustled his hair.
"No, thank you, I'll have some later."
Several minutes of polite refusal later, he found himself accepting a bowl of hearty stew that had simmered overnight. Once properly fed, he tested the waters.
"Could I help around the pub today?"
Her amused expression suggested she saw through his transparent motivations, but she agreed to let him sweep floors and clean windows.
Zack rushed to collect a broom from behind the counter and attacked the work with methodical efficiency. The pub was modest in scope and space for perhaps twenty patrons. It was lined with hardwood floors, had wooden ceiling beams, and round tables scattered throughout the main area.
Now that I think about it, she could have accomplished all this with casual magic in minutes.
The realisation struck as her periodic giggles reached his ears.
I've been duped. She's humouring me rather than actually needing help.
Still, when the hour concluded, Sophie praised his efforts enthusiastically before pressing several bronze coins into his palm.
She really had guessed my intentions from the beginning.
Five Knuts. Not enough for anything significant, but every fortune began somewhere. He thanked her sincerely and retreated upstairs to his room.
Closing the door with a satisfying click, he deposited his earnings in the bedside drawer with ceremonial gravity. The money itself mattered less than the precedent: at least he could earn funds through legitimate means.
Now came the real work.
He settled cross-legged on his bed, breathing deeply to centre himself. Yesterday's research had yielded a crucial insight: practical experience was the only path forward. But wandless magic remained too broad a concept for effective practice.
Wandless spells? Not possible. I'm far too inexperienced. Even my Legilimency operates subconsciously without conscious control.
He needed to narrow his focus dramatically.
"Forget the spells, the casting... I need to go smaller," he murmured, working through the logic aloud.
The answer struck with perfect clarity: Start with feeling the magic itself.
He remembered that first moment of awakening in this world—the strange energy coursing through unfamiliar veins, alien yet intoxicating. To someone who'd lived an entire lifetime in mundane reality, that sensation had felt genuinely miraculous.
I need to find that feeling again. Master it.
The technique required absolute focus. Every distraction had to be eliminated: heartbeat, breathing, wandering thoughts, external sounds. He inhaled deeply, then released the breath as slowly as possible while turning his attention inward.
Twenty minutes of disciplined meditation finally yielded results.
A cool sensation began pulsing through his veins, synchronising with his heartbeat while remaining distinctly separate from mere blood flow.
Is this magic?
The experience defied simple description. He felt simultaneously calm and ecstatic, powerful yet fleeting, impatient but content. It was profoundly fulfilling.
Hours passed unnoticed as he lost himself in the harmony between mind, body, and soul. When awareness finally returned, his physical form felt subtly stronger. Not dramatically enhanced, but measurably improved.
Every fibre of my being is interconnected through this power.
Excitement warred with exhaustion as the session concluded. He'd successfully located and briefly touched his magical core, but control remained elusive. The energy flowed according to its own patterns rather than responding to conscious direction.
But meditation, however beneficial, is extremely taxing on my mind.
The body he had inhabited craved movement and excitement, not robust contemplation. Pure meditation wasn't sustainable long-term.
That night, he fell asleep while skimming through one of the magizoology texts, partly from exhaustion, partly from genuine fascination with the magical world's complexities.
-
The next day, he established what would become his routine: breakfast with Sophie, an hour of helpful labour around the pub, careful storage of modest earnings, followed by extended magical practice sessions.
This time, accessing the meditative state required only thirty minutes of preparation.
Once properly centred, he attempted something new: trying to accelerate the magical flow through conscious effort. Initial results proved futile, but persistence gradually yielded progress. Occasionally, he could sense the energy "skip a beat," as if clearing some internal obstruction.
Three hours and thirty-four minutes.
"I tapped out early today," he muttered, disappointed despite modest successes. Was this exhaustion from insufficient rest, or did a stronger magical connection require proportionally greater concentration?
Probably the latter. If I can make the magic jump and flare sometimes, that suggests measurable progress.
As he prepared for sleep with customary bedtime reading, a curious observation surfaced.
Two full days had passed without any sign of Dalton. His belongings remained in place. Shoes by the bedroom door, coat hanging in their shared room—but the man himself had vanished completely.
He returns very late at night and leaves before dawn. What kind of enforcer work demands such hours?
The mystery nagged at him, but asking direct questions wasn't really appropriate.
Suspicious, but I'm not in any place to be asking questions.
He filed the observation away and let sleep carry away his spinning thoughts. The books scattered around his bed bore testament to both obsession and progress.
-
A/N: Throw some damn stones, and leave a review!