Sword Stealth Magick - Nano Writing

Three elves, each with a divergent path, are following a prophecy they knew nothing about

From the shadow of the crazed king's reign,
Where hope is an echo from a once appeased domain.
The land, once fertile, now bears the scars of desecration,
A canvas marked by the lashes of his insane decimation.

Ages shattered beneath his every whim,
Spirits crushed, no songs or hymns.
Mother against daughters,
Whole villages sent to slaughter.

Three events destined to come to pass,
Events so obscure, none seen by an hourglass.
Fires in the sky- foretelling changes to gain,
Of a time when Madness shall be slain.

A simple lesser noble's son of a forgotten line,
Blessed with a gift so deadly, yet so benign,
A Wizard's curse, in his veins, a power concealed,
Causes even the mightiest to bend the knee and yield.

The Lost Heir- cursed to a legacy of death,
A father's son now sworn to Preath,
In Her Light, he finds the strength to vanquish,
The burden of fate he'll suffer to languish.

Assassin, born of Demons' blood, it's acclaimed,
Her Soul, a battleground, forever flamed,
Her bow hums a song of vengeance,
Yet within her heart, a final convergence.

Together, they rise, united by fate's strange hand,
Three heroes, bound by a destiny so grand,
With Fate, they stand, the last hope of the land,
To conquer the crazed king's unjust demand.

If any should falter within their deeds,
Evil will undoubtedly succeed.
The Convergence must be uninterrupted,
For the New Order to be Reconstructed.

As copied from the cell walls after Abbott's escape, written in her blood.

Candle Flies

          When a private tutor taught Norric, he always asked questions. This behavior was frowned upon, as tutors made pupils listen, not ask questions. Norric's parents hired many tutors, and many left after a few weeks. When the parents felt they could do no more, an elderly Elf woman, Imizael, came to them and applied, stating her family had all moved away, so she had no one to take care of. Jastrina and Evindal were elated to have someone who wanted to watch little Norric, and they hired her on the spot.

         Time passed as Imizael and Norric became fast friends. They had a nightly routine of visiting a scroll repository, taking a stroll through the Candlefly meadow, and being home in time for freshly made biscuits, honey, and buttermilk. After they ate, Norric read the story scrolls to Imizael until the early morning before sunrise. She would bid him a sweet goodbye, see him tomorrow, and promise another trip to the scroll repository.

         Their familiar ritual would continue for years until Norric was ready for the Academy. A month before the Academy was to start, Imizael did not arrive. Her absence was the first since the day she began. Norric and his parents became worried and visited her at her home.

         As they arrived, they saw a small cottage with a neat little garden with a white picket fence, a flowered yard, and a pink rocking chair by the front door. The inside curtains were drawn in silence.

         Approaching the door, Norric knocked urgently. Without waiting, he opened the door. The cottage was quiet. The parents immediately knew Imizael had moved on, leaving her shell behind. They attempted to restrain him, but he rushed to bed before they could. He tried to wake her, but he couldn't.

         After burning the effigy, he goes to the Academy to begin his studies. He was more withdrawn than he had been, quieter. He is initially afraid to make friends because he doesn't want to lose anyone again. His calm demeanor and studious traits are due to his love and devotion to Imizael. He excels in all his studies and is progressing through all his classes at an accelerated pace. His curiosity for learning overcomes his shyness. He constantly asks questions in the classroom, so even the proctors don't know the answers to his questions. As a result, they referred him to the Magick Repository and removed him from the classroom.

         Norric never forgot Imizael or Candle Flies.

Convocation

         As a newly appointed Liaison, you must report to the Liaison Front Office for duty."

         "The Liaison Front Office? Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
         "Sir?"

         Irritated from being pulled from her schedule, Erissa snapped, "What is it, Norric?"

         "Where is the Liaison Front Office?"

         "Where is the. .? The Liaison Front Office currently resides at the Snow Dwelling. If you failed Beginners Sanskrit for Gnomes, it's on Klantoka Mountain. You are dismissed."

         When Norric returned to his Mushroom Niche, he marveled at the Magicks the Titania Academy of Magicks and Higher Academics had in place. While Norric was shorter than the average elf, not measuring over six wings tall, everyone was the same height due to the Normalcy Spell cast over the academy. There is also a Passivity Spell. No one has the urge to follow their instincts to eat or attack others while on the academy grounds. Isn't Magick incredible?

         As he prepared for his departure, some unwelcome faeries arrived to taunt him, as they usually did.

          "Well, look who came back from receiving his assignment. Ol'Thistle Bottom himself. Going anywhere is important?" Smirked Blackberry Silverglitter, a mean-spirited Naiad.

         "I bet he will be the Lead Inspector for all of Fey Hills." Scoffed Petal Cornleaf, a Brownie.

         "No, I know. Norric will be the Queen's representative to the Seelie Court." Snorted an Elf named Solara Wildshine sarcastically.

         Staring straight at him, the Elf Tiana Dimpleshine sneered, "I got it. He didn't pass and must retake all his lessons with the baby faeries."

         With the last comment, all four faeries sauntered out, giggling, leaving Norric alone with a red face.

         "Don't let the freaky foursome bother you. I know you passed. I know you passed with the highest marks in our class. The highest in the academy's history. Why didn't you say something?"

         "Oh, hello, Paeris. They wouldn't have believed me. They never do. Even when Troll Proctor Bei announced my highest scores in the class history, they thought she was kidding. Why am I being sent so far away if I did so well? Shouldn't I have the responsibility that merits prestige or something? Have you heard of The Liaison Front Office? Additionally, in Beginners, Intermediate, and Expert Sanskrit, Snow Dwelling is not mentioned, particularly on Klantoka Mountain. The Proctors didn't cover where it was." Changing the subject, "Where are you being sent?"

         "I, along with two others, am going to the Land of Eternal Autumn, located between the Dark Forest and the Badlands," Paeris answers pensively.

         Paeris chose to come to this academy instead of the one his Mem wanted him to go to. He was more like his Da, an Elf warrior killed by the cursed race just before Paeris's one hundred fifty-third birth celebration. This academy was nestled and protected deep in an enchanted forest.

         "That sounds like a great place to go, Paeris. Why do you sound glum about it? I'll trade you."

         "The fey of that region takes the Hunt to an extreme. Only through Hunt are the genuinely worthy left alive. The resulting bloodbath is a cleansing that purges the world of unworthy essences. I wonder what they consider unworthy? I understand it's challenging for a faerie to survive more than three seasons.

         "Wow, Paeris, I didn't know. I am sorry. How soon can you apply for a transfer out of there?"

         "I need to be there for two seasons, and then I will be eligible for a transfer. I only hope I can last that long. It depends on the Sector's location and whether it's behind enemy lines.

         "You do have it worse than I do. When are you leaving? I'm going to the Ring tomorrow."

         "Wow, you're shipping out so soon. I leave next week. Everyone I have talked with is going next week or later. The Front Office must require your presence. I wonder what happened to the last inspector."

         "No idea. You know the command is tight-lipped about those things. I had no idea how long they had needed someone."

         Changing the subject, Paeris stated, "Since we have a New Moon tonight, let's forget about tomorrow and our assignments and enjoy the music, feast, and drink. I hear the Sprites from the Glenn will sing tonight by the Falls. If we hurry, we can get good seats."

         "You're right. I will come along. We could meet up with others and have an enjoyable time. It would be nice to have a relaxing last night here. Is Gwenyir joining us tonight?"

         Shaking his head adamantly, "Oh no. I needed a break from her. I told her I had already made plans with you and couldn't cancel." Paeris left it at that, and Norric didn't pursue it.

          They arrived at the concert in time to secure good seats and ordered the house's unique, chilled Flower Nectar Mead. The evening was hot, so they called for the Flower Nectar Mead several more times. Due to the young faeries' weak constitutions, the Flower Nectar Mead was quite intoxicating. By the concert's end, both faeries were merry and trying not to show it.

          "Norric, I need you to tell me something seriously. Be serious." Said Paeris, trying to focus on his friend.

          "Sure. Anything for a friend. You are my best friend, Paeris. I would do anything, anything for you."

          "Good. You need to tell me why there are two of you sitting in one chair. Did you drink another duplicating potion from the Dryad? I told you she liked you after you watered her tree."

          "Shsh! Don't say that. That's not true. Her boyfriend, the Brownie, will hear you and will want to fight again. He nearly stepped on the last poor bloke who upset him. Shshshsh."

          "Well, now, what do we have here? Two wee lads out on the town unsupervised and slightly under the table." The sound of Mr. Eamon Declan, Proctor of World Events, and Interactive Magicks' Irish accent with a slight lilt of humor immediately attracted Paeris and Norric's attention. Both tried to function as if they had not drunk any Flower Nectar Mead, let alone five each. Both failed miserably.

          "I'm surprised ye lads are even sitting upright. Well, partially upright. Ye be steamin, no doubt. Don't worry too much, ladies. But oft! Yi be hurtin' something fierce in the marrow."

          As the old Leprechaun left, he began to laugh to himself.

          With his head on the table, Norric states, "He's right. We should get back. I still need to pack stuff. I want to send all my belongings to my new residence at Port Sie, but I still need to sign the waiver for the new health policy. I'll never have time to mediate. Medicate. Meditate."

          "It's almost sunrise...Cock a doodle doo! I'm a bunny! Oh, Shshshshs! You can't do too much now. Let's go back, rest, and medicate, and I will help you pack when the sun settles. We will have plenty of time to make it before you have to be at the Ring-a-ting."

          "Think so? I am not feeling my best right now and feeling a bit like what Declan used in class a couple of times. Laundry? No, langered."

          I feel like I ate too many slug-and-beetle pickle pies.

          "What? That's disgusting. Why would you eat slugs and beetles? What is a potpie?"
          Paeris answered, "You asked how I felt. That's how I feel. That's what I ate, lots of it. All are squiggling in my stomach all at once. We'd best be getting back. I suddenly don't feel so good."

          As the two were on their way to Norric's Mushroom Niche, the four faerie girls who had previously insulted Norric walked by.

          "Oh, look, ladies," began Tiana, "if it isn't Paeris with his pet beetle. Oh, wait. It's Norric."

          All four tittered with laughter. Tiana was about to say more before Norric began addressing each in turn.

          "Why, Blackberry, you have something on your chin. No, it's your beard."

          "I thought of you today, Petal. It reminded me to take out the trash."

          "My dear Solara, I love what you've done with your hair. How do you get it out of the nostrils like that?"

          Instead of saying anything, Norric walked up to their leader, Tiana, and, using both hands, grabbed her head, kissed her soundly, and said, "The other night was great, but we can't do it anymore. You just weren't good enough for me."

          Norric turned and said to a wide-eyed Paeris, "We're done here. Let's go. It was a great night, one to remember."

          Instead of saying anything, Paeris unceremoniously regurgitated his supper and drinks at the girl's feet, smiled sheepishly, and staggered after Norric.

          As they walked to Paeris's niche, Norric waited while Paeris attempted to pronounce his passwords correctly to undo the door's warding locks so Norric could pass unharmed. After several unsuccessful tries, Norric walked through the threshold without providing the correct releasing incantation.

          "Youse idiot! The poofy spell could've vaporized you - POOF! Then there would be a big puddle of you on the floor, and I would slip up on it. You made me slip on you because you walked right through the poofy spell."

          "You never ever set the poofy spell thingy to go off. You always ferget and go away."

          "Nuh-uh, not this time. I set it; I did. I remember setting it. I did because I knew I would be inticksication, intoxipediacatide, not sober when I got here, and just wanted to make sure no one was waiting fer me when I came back. You know why?"

          "Because you're a wizard? POOF!"

         "No. Well, I don't think so. My Mem wanted me to be one. I want to be like my Da. Anyway, the Threshold Alarm would zap anyone, not me. ZAP! POOF! Shahs. You could have been poofified."

          "You must have forgotten. Don't worry about it. We're here and safe. Do your meditation and rest for tomorrow. Be over to my niche as planned, and we will finish packing my stuff." Without waiting, Norric turned and left.

          After watching Norric leave, Paeris walked to his cot to change into his meditation clothes. Upon sitting down, he promptly passed out and fell sideways toward the bottom of his cot.

          Sometime later, an assailant who watched Norric and Paeris enter and saw Norric leave alone knew it was time to strike. Before entering, three small round objects were rolled over the threshold toward the room with the cot, bumping into each other until they were out of sight. After not hearing any noise, the figure in grey was confident that no one was awake. After witnessing the gangly youth enter and exit without harm and listening to the duo's conversation, the intruder is convinced that the threshold alarm trap has been disarmed, and the occupant is sleeping. "This will be an easy twenty-five crowns."

          When his foot crossed the threshold, the assassin's dying thought was, "Well, da...."

Norric

          Paeris was true to his word and was at Norric's niche promptly at sunset, ready to help organize and pack. Norric noticed Paeris looked pale.

          "You don't have to help. Why don't you lie down and rest? Were you even able to meditate?"

          "Barely. I passed out when you left. When I woke up, focusing was terrible. It took five candle widths to finish. When I went to come over, I saw a pile of dirt by the door I hadn't noticed before." He peered at Norric and saw that he looked great, with no ill side effects from the mead. "Why aren't you suffering like I am? We drank the same amount."

          "I dunno. After my meditation, I felt good, so I began organizing and packing. Before I knew it, I had completed everything. So, you can go; there is nothing to do. Go rest and meet me at mid-of-night at the Ring. I leave when North Star is close to the horizon. Have the House Brownie wake you before that so you can be on time."

          "You sure? What will you do in the meantime?" Paeris asked, making loud kissing noises. "Go kiss your faerie girlfriend again?"

          "Kiss an ogress."

          "Can't. Gwenyir would get jealous. Oi! That reminds me. I am supposed to send her a Wishgraph later. It's her two-hundredth birth celebration. I will rest and send her a Wishgraph. I'll see you later at the Ring.

          When Paeris was out of sight, Norric thought about what he wanted to do. He had plenty of time to waste, just nothing to occupy his mind. He would be at the Scroll Burrow doing coursework if he still needed to graduate.

          Of course! That was an excellent idea! Why not research the Snow Dwelling located on Klantoka Mountain?

          He made his way to the Scroll Burrow, which was eerily quiet. He had never been out during classes at this time. He suddenly saw someone approaching carrying a lantern. Norric saw that no one was there as the unknown individual got closer. He recognized it was Will-o'-the-wisp, a campus guide.

          "Hello there. Thank you for coming over. My name is Norric. I am not lost. I am a new graduate. Well, I am not a Graduate Student. I have graduated, and I will be leaving soon. Tonight. The Ring. I am going to leave using the Ring."

          The Will-o'-the-wisp dully dimmed briefly, then brightened back up.

          "I am on my way to the Scroll Burrow for research purposes. I'm going to the Snow Dwelling."

          Suddenly, a series of fast flashes, a short pause, a sharp brightness, and a slow fade to normal.

          "Why was my Scroll Burrow pass canceled? I thought all graduates had a lifelong membership. Wait, did you say Something about never being used again? Of course, I will use it whenever I am here. I plan to visit frequently after my internship at Snow Dwelling is over."

          The Will-o'-the-wisp blinked rapidly for several seconds before it began to slow, and then it sped up again for several more seconds until it finally stopped.

          "I do not see what is so amusing about what I said."

          There were several minutes of blinking and flashing lights. Some were long flashes, while others were short. While this happened, Norric's face went from cherry pink to ashen grey.

          "This is a permanent assignment. No chance of being transferred out? A one-way Ring?"
          After a bit, he asked the Will-o'-the-wisp, "Why? What did I do?" but the Will-o'-the-wisp left as soon as Norric stopped talking.

          Norric needed time to think. He needed to talk to someone, but who? None of the Proctors would be available, and they were unlikely to know why this assignment was permanent.

          Erissa. The faerie who had given him the original orders. She may know why this was a permanent assignment. She is the elf in charge of all the work assignments and receives her orders straight from the Seelie Court.

          Some questions may not have answers, such as how the Seelie Court would have known about him and why they sent him to the Liaison Front Office. Were all assignments permanent? No, Paeris talked about applying for a transfer after two seasons. Why was he different?

          The sound of the solemn chime startled him. It was mid-of-night, and his appointment at the Ring was nearing. He has spent most of his time thinking, yet he has yet to discover any answers to his questions. He needed to talk with Erissa before he left.

          Although running is forbidden at the academy unless necessary, he believed this was an exception. He arrived at the Central Mound, where the Administration Elves are assigned. Here is the spot to find out where Erissa will be. He went inside and stopped by the nearest Acorn hub. He saw an abundance of flowers growing on and around the intersection as he approached. Sitting on a rose cushion was a Pixie.

          "Excuse me. I beg your pardon."

          "Greetings. My name is Periwinkle. What's yours?"

          "Well, yes. My name is Norric. Could..."

          "Hello, Norric. I am incredibly pleased to meet you. You're short for an Elf.

          "So, I've been told. Repeatedly. Could you please tell me where I could find Erissa?"

          " Erissa?"

          "Yes. Erissa, please."

          After a brief pause of looking through her tome, she closed the book and looked directly at Norric, smiling, "Sorry, I can't."

          "This is rather urgent. I promise not to take up much of her time.

          "I'm sorry, I just can't."

          "Why? Isn't this the Information Acorn? Is there someone else I can talk to?"

          "Yes, this is the Information Acorn. Yes, there are many others with whom you can talk. However, they can't tell you either."

          Getting very frustrated. "Why?"

          "Erissa was called to the Ring before mid-of-night last night."

          "Can you tell me where she was assigned?"

          "I'm sorry. We're closed now." With that, she flew away rapidly before Norric could protest.

          Norric was about to go to another Acorn for assistance when a horn blew in the distance. The Time of the Ring was rapidly approaching.

          "Oh, faery farts. I forgot about the Ring and the meeting with Paeris. I need to catch this. Not knowing the answers, I will have to wait. I can find some answers at the Snow Dwelling when I arrive."

          The Place of the Ring was in a separate Mushroom Circle from the academy. The ground is more sacred than the academy's because it requires older and Divine Magick enchantments. Its guardians are varied because all races use the Ring and are held to a strict code of honor: Light and Dark Elves, the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, and all other manner of the fae.

          As Norric drew closer to the entrance, he felt his skin prickle from the intense flow of Light and Dark magick. Two towering ogres stood in front of the gate; their hands covered in leather gauntlets, holding iron pikestaffs. All they would need to do is touch any fae not adequately protected, and instant death would occur.

          "Halt. State your name or begone." Both ogre guards declared in unison as he drew close.
          "I am Norric. I am due for the Ring Ceremony."

          "Are you here in your own free will? The first guard intoned with an unwavering stare.
          "Yes, I am," Norric responded.

          "Do you accept what the Ring commands?" the second guard asked.
          "Well, I do. But..."

          "Do you understand the Ring is fulfilling its required responsibility? And in no way responsible for your future?"

          "What?"

          "Only 'yes' is accepted." The first guard intoned.

          "Only 'yes' is accepted?" the second guard repeats.

          "The applicant answered, 'Yes.'" Both guards say in unison.

          Before Norric could protest, a sudden flash occurred, and he found himself in a giant Ring surrounded by Brownies, Pixies, Elves, Kobolds, Leprechauns, Devas, Dryads, Gnomes, Wood Nymphs, and Silent Banshees. All eyes were fixed on him.

          A woman's voice spoke, its source unknown. "Norric, the Ring has chosen you to be its Liaison to the Seelie Courts while at the Snow Dwelling."

          "A what?"

A Beginning

          A blinding, whirling flash of multi-colored lights swallowed Norric. Vertigo overwhelmed him as he felt the floor beneath him drop away. He had no idea how his body was oriented: up, down, sideways, or even inside out. Scenes flashed all around him.

          Time stopped.

          Time started.

          The instant defied definition. It was not a tick, nor a flicker, but the absolute, cataclysmic arrival of existence itself.

          Before this moment, there was only the cold, silent possibility. Now, there was time, and the impossible weight of now.

          Time began.

          The pressure exerted upon him was not just physical, but perceptual. His lungs--if they could even be called that--burned with air that was simultaneously plasma and vacuum. Unbelievable eruptions of fire, heat, dust, and melted rock slammed into the proto firmament, a symphony of destruction so loud it threatened to shatter the very fabric of hearing.

          He stood upon a crust that was barely seconds old, a scab forming over an infinite, churning furnace. Below, matter raged, a molten ocean that swallowed light and spat it back out in incandescent bursts. The ground under Norric's bare feet was a patchwork of obsidian that liquefied the moment he placed his weight upon it, only to solidify violently into razor-sharp glass the next.

          All around him, colossal, swirling white masses hurtled through the periphery. These were the raw ingredients of infinity, condensing and collapsing, generating fields of energy that whipped everything away from the epicenter of creation, the unbearable heat and light he stood within. These swirling streams of nascent gas and dust were too fast for the eye to track. Yet, Norric saw them, a dizzying ballet of cosmic construction that offered no comfort, only the terrifying knowledge of his own fragility. He was a single, insignificant anchor in the typhoon of genesis.

          Norric shielded his eyes, though the action was futile. The light was not external; it was internal, searing through his eyelids, vibrating in the bones of his skull. He was bathed in the raw energy that would later be diluted into suns.
          He forced himself to look up. To look away was to surrender.

          And looking up toward the sky, he saw the unbelievable: the embryonic heavens, thick with the detritus of the primal void, yet ordered by gravity that had just, perhaps, learned its name. Arrayed above him were multiple moons of assorted colors, each spinning on its own erratic, newborn axis.

          There was the dominant sphere--a massive, churning orb of deep, bloody crimson that pulsed with such terrible rhythm that Norric felt his own heartbeat attempting to synchronize with its violent rotation. Opposite it, a sphere of vibrant emerald spun rapidly, trailing crystalline dust that rained down upon the landscape like cool, chemical snow. Nearby, a pale, sickly yellow moon hung low, its face scarred by impacts that had occurred mere nanoseconds before. They were not tranquil satellites; they were competing forces, wrestling for gravitational dominance, their combined light painting the chaotic surface below in overlapping hues of impossible violet, rust, and acid green.

          The ground beneath him groaned, a long, tearing sound like cloth being ripped from horizon to horizon. Norric witnessed accelerated time--eons compressed into moments.

          Mountains emerged from the flat, cracked plains like gigantic, liquid teeth. They rose hundreds of feet in a single, silent surge, only to be sheared down by unseen forces--the invisible pull of the emerald moon and disappear back into the earth, their material reforming into low-lying, steaming plateaus.

          Then came the water.

          An ocean, vast and terrible, appeared not as a gentle condensation but as a catastrophic deluge, spilling up from geological fissures. It was not the blue or clear water of later ages, but a thick, opaque mix of metallic salts and scalding vapor. This deluge engulfed the land, rushing over the cooling basalt, the steam rising in blinding clouds that momentarily blacked out the colored moons.

          Norric scrambled up a newly formed ridge, the water licking at his heels. He thought he would drown in this first, furious tide. But before the ocean could claim him, the momentum shifted. The waters, as suddenly as they had arrived, began to ebb, pulled by an unbelievable vacuum or a rearrangement of mass in the cosmos above. The land was reformed into something new--jagged, volcanic spires and vast, flat basins steaming under the triple moonlight.

          The realization settled over Norric like a shroud: he was not merely observing creation; he was existing inside the explosion. Every movement, every formation, was a life-or-death gamble with the laws of nature that had yet to be stabilized.

          He took a desperate step forward, trying to find ground that held firm, but the structure was breaking down again. The foundations were dissolving.

          Ground shakes arose, not merely tremors, but full-body convulsions of the land's infant core. The roar was deafening, canceling out the sound of the exploding dust clouds. Norric lost his balance, his arms flailing as the segment of the ridge he stood upon split cleanly away from the central continental mass. He felt the terrifying lurch of gravity asserting its dominance over unstable rock.

          He tumbled backward.

          His fall was not smooth. He bounced off jutting shards of newly cooled iron, scraping his skin until the primal blood that flowed through him mingled with the dust of the forming world. He was sliding down a steep, treacherous slope, accelerating toward a deep, utterly black ravine--a wound in the earth that did not reflect the light of the crimson moon, but seemed instead to drink it.

          The edge rushed up to meet him. Norric twisted his body, desperate to claw hold of the crumbling rock, but the ground beneath his fingertips dissolved into a flow of hot ash.

          He plunged over the lip.

          The sensation was terrifyingly complex. The air above the ravine was chaotic and hot, but as he fell deeper, the temperature unexpectedly plummeted. The light of the multi-colored moons was cut off instantly, yet the darkness was not absolute. Below, something glowed a deep, patient blue, unlike the frantic reds and yellows of the surface.

          As Norric descended, the sound of the surface chaos faded, replaced by a low, consistent thrumming, a vibration that was the pulse of the planet's eternal future. Suspense coiled in his stomach. The ravine was not empty air; it was the crucible.

          He braced for impact, but the descent seemed endless. Looking down, Norric saw the blue light resolve into a dense, crystalline mass of massive, geometric structure growing slowly from the deepest point of the fissure. It was the first stable thing he had seen.

          Just before he hit the structure, he understood: this ravine was the place where chaos was gathered together, where raw energy became matter, and where the first law of the emerging universe was being carved.

          Norric did not crash. He slammed into the blue light, and instead of shattering, the crystal matrix received him. The impact was swallowed, the pain momentarily absolute, then gone, replaced by a chilling, profound sense of stillness.

          He was suspended within the matrix, the blue light flowing through his veins. Above him, the screams of the erupting world continued. Still, here, deep in the ravine, Norric experienced the terrifying moment when the universe ceased purely exploding and began to listen. He was trapped, utterly alone, in the cold, blue heart of creation, waiting for the newborn world to decide what its purpose, and his, would be.

          Time began.

          The pressure exerted upon him was not just physical, but perceptual. His lungs--if they could even be called that--burned with air that was simultaneously plasma and vacuum. Unbelievable eruptions of fire, heat, dust, and melted rock slammed into the proto firmament, a symphony of destruction so loud it threatened to shatter the very fabric of hearing.

          He stood upon a crust that was barely seconds old, a scab forming over an infinite, churning furnace. Below, matter raged, a molten ocean that swallowed light and spat it back out in incandescent bursts. The ground under Norric's bare feet was a patchwork of obsidian that liquefied the moment he placed his weight upon it, only to solidify violently into razor-sharp glass the next.

          All around him, colossal, swirling white masses hurtled through the periphery. These were the raw ingredients of infinity, condensing and collapsing, generating fields of energy that whipped everything away from the epicenter of creation--the unbearable heat and light he stood within. These swirling streams of nascent gas and dust were too fast for the eye to track, yet Norric saw them, a dizzying ballet of cosmic construction that offered no comfort, only the terrifying knowledge of his own fragility. He was a single, insignificant anchor in the typhoon of genesis.

          Norric shielded his eyes, though the action was futile. The light was not external; it was internal, searing through his eyelids, vibrating in the bones of his skull. He was bathed in the raw energy that would later be diluted into suns.
          He forced himself to look up. To look away was to surrender.

          And looking up toward the sky, he saw the unbelievable: the embryonic heavens, thick with the detritus of the primal void, yet ordered by gravity that had just, perhaps, learned its name. Arrayed above him were multiple moons of assorted colors, each spinning on its own erratic, newborn axis.

          There was the dominant sphere--a massive, churning orb of deep, bloody crimson that pulsed with such terrible rhythm that Norric felt his own heartbeat attempting to synchronize with its violent rotation. Opposite it, a sphere of vibrant emerald green spun rapidly, trailing crystalline dust that rained down upon the landscape like cool, chemical snow. Nearby, a pale, sickly yellow moon hung low, its face scarred by impacts that had occurred mere nanoseconds before. They were not tranquil satellites; they were competing forces, wrestling for gravitational dominance, their combined light painting the chaotic surface below in overlapping hues of impossible violet, rust, and acid green.

          The ground beneath him groaned, a long, tearing sound like cloth being ripped from horizon to horizon. Norric witnessed accelerated time--eons compressed into moments.

          Mountains emerged from the flat, cracked plains like gigantic, liquid teeth. They rose hundreds of feet in a single, silent surge, only to be sheared down by unseen forces, the gravitational pull of the emerald moon--and disappear back into the earth, their material reforming into low-lying, steaming plateaus.

          Then came the water.

          An ocean, vast and terrible, appeared not as a gentle condensation, but as a catastrophic deluge, spilling up from geological fissures. It was not the blue or clear water of later ages, but a thick, opaque mix of metallic salts and scalding vapor. This deluge engulfed the land, rushing over the cooling basalt, the steam rising in blinding clouds that momentarily blacked out the colored moons.

          Norric scrambled up a newly formed ridge, the water licking at his heels. He thought he would drown in this first, furious tide. But before the ocean could claim him, the momentum shifted. The waters, as suddenly as they had arrived, began to ebb, pulled by an unbelievable vacuum or a rearrangement of mass in the cosmos above. The land was reformed into something new--jagged, volcanic spires and vast, flat basins steaming under the triple moonlight.

          The realization settled over Norric like a shroud: he was not merely observing creation; he was existing inside the explosion. Every movement, every formation, was a life-or-death gamble with the laws of physics that had yet to be stabilized.

          He took a desperate step forward, trying to find ground that held firm, but the structure was breaking down again. The foundations were dissolving.

          Ground shakes arose, not merely tremors, but full-body convulsions of the planet's infant core. The roar was deafening, canceling out the sound of the exploding dust clouds. Norric lost his balance, his arms flailing as the segment of the ridge he stood upon split cleanly away from the main continental mass. He felt the terrifying lurch of gravity asserting its dominance over unstable rock.

          He tumbled backward.

          His fall was not smooth. He bounced off jutting shards of newly cooled iron, scraping his skin until the blood that flowed through him mingled with the dust of the forming world. He was sliding down a steep, treacherous slope, accelerating toward a deep, utterly black ravine. A wound in the earth that did not reflect the light of the crimson moon but seemed instead to drink it.

          The edge rushed up to meet him. Norric twisted his body, desperate to claw hold of the crumbling rock, but the ground beneath his fingertips dissolved into a flow of hot ash.

          He plunged over the lip.

          The sensation was terrifyingly complex. The air above the ravine was chaotic and hot, but as he fell deeper, the temperature unexpectedly plummeted. The light of the multi-colored moons was cut off instantly, yet the darkness was not absolute. Below, something glowed a deep, patient blue, unlike the frantic reds and yellows of the surface.

          As he descended, the sound of the surface chaos faded, replaced by a low, consistent thrumming, a vibration that was the pulse of the planet's eternal future. Suspense coiled in his stomach; the ravine was not empty air; it was the crucible.

          He braced for impact, but the descent seemed endless. Looking down, Norric saw the blue light resolve into a dense, crystalline mass, a massive, geometric structure growing slowly from the deepest point of the fissure. It was the first stable thing he had seen.

          Just before he hit the structure, he understood: this ravine was the place where chaos was codified, where raw energy became matter, and where the first law of the emerging land was being carved.

          Norric did not crash. He slammed into the blue light, and instead of shattering, the crystal matrix him. The impact was swallowed, the pain momentarily absolute, then gone--replaced by a chilling, profound sense of stillness.

          He was suspended within the matrix, the blue light flowing through his veins. Above him, the screams of the erupting world continued, but here, deep in the ravine, Norric experienced the terrifying moment when the universe ceased purely exploding and began to listen. He was trapped, utterly alone, in the cold, blue heart of creation, waiting for the newborn world to decide what its purpose, and his, would be.

          Time stopped.

          Time began.

          Norric saw that the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape as the first stars began to twinkle in the vast, untouched sky. The rustle of leaves grew louder, as if the forest itself were waking from its daytime slumber. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the musky aroma of the damp earth, creating a perfume that could only exist in a place untouched by human hands.

          In the heart of this tranquil woodland, he spied on a young fawn that tentatively raised its head, its soft brown eyes scanning the surroundings. He surmised it had been born just moments ago, its mother's labored breaths now replaced by gentle nuzzles of encouragement. The fawn's legs wobbled as it took its first unsteady steps, each one a small victory against the gravitational force that had held it captive for so long.

          As the sound of trees bent, the cracking of branches broke, and the thud of slow, deliberate heavy footfalls was heard. Suddenly, a shadow fell across the clearing, the only interruption to the serene tableau. A giant creature emerged from the dense foliage, its features a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors that seemed to glow in the fading light. The giant was unlike anything Norric had ever seen, standing taller than the surrounding trees with shoulders that could span the breadth of a river. It moved with a grace that belied its size, stepping closer with a curiosity that seemed almost tender.

          A Treant. They haven't been seen since, well, they have never been seen. They were only myths and legends. Norric had read about them in his spare time. The etchings of them did not do them justice. This one was majestic.

          The fawn's mother, a doe with a coat that mirrored the shadows of the forest, stepped protectively in front of her newborn. Her eyes never left the Treant. The creature tilted its head, observing the scene before it with an intelligent gaze. For a moment, the clearing was silent except for the rapid beating of the fawn's heart. The air was thick with the tension of the unknown and the promise of an untold relationship between two beings from vastly different worlds.

          The Treant lowered its mighty hand, finger extended. The fawn's mother tensed, ready to charge, but the treant made no hostile move. Instead, it reached out and gently touched the fawn's nose with just the tip of its giant finger. The contact was gentle, almost affectionate, and the fawn felt a strange sense of comfort from the creature's touch.

          The Treant leaned back, watching the fawn with a curiosity that dispelled the fear that had gripped the clearing. The doe, still wary, allowed her muscles to relax slightly. The giant creature took a step back, as if giving them space. It then spread its mighty arms wide, radiating a shower of colors that danced like flames across the forest. As it slowly turned, it looked directly at Norric, acknowledging his presence, then turned and returned to the forest.

          Time stopped.

          Time began.

          Norric was sickened by whatever curse allowed him to know what he now saw. Somehow, he knew all the names of all the soldiers and the locations of everything he was witnessing. There were no whispers here, only the deafening chorus of slaughter.

          Kaelen knelt in the churned mire of the battlefield, the silver tips of his scribe's gloves momentarily useless. He was not a warrior; he was an eye, an ear, an uncomfortable chronicler. His neutrality was his armor, thin and easily pierced, yet maintained by an ancient, fragile pact revered by both the Seelie Court and the UnSeelie Court.

          A torrential storm had broken over the Veilwood an hour past, dragging down the dense canopy and transforming the mossy forest floor into a ruinous slurry of mud, broken boughs, and viscera. The air, thick and metallic, filled Norric's nose with the scent of earth and the raw, stinging tang of Magick-infused steel. This was the defining odor of the eternal conflict: iron mingled with ozone, wet soil, and the unmistakable, sweet decay of spilled fey blood.

          Kaelen recorded the scene in his mind first, a mental slate of horror --before daring to open the silver-bound ledger clutched under his cloak.

          The war between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts had always been a dance of attrition, a grueling test of patience and resource, fought not for conquest, but for the maintenance of a lethal balance. Today, that balance was a grinding echo of its former self.

          They were too evenly matched. When the emerald-clad warriors of the Seelie Court--the Light Fey--took the rocky outcrop known as the 'Stone of Sighs,' the Unseelie forces--the Dark Fey, cloaked in jet and iron, immediately seized the low, mist-choked valley, the 'Weeping Gullet.' An equal, terrifying retreat answered every advance.

          Kaelen watched the remnants of a skirmish less than twenty paces away.

          Blood from a dark fey--a creature of polished shadow power, its wings ripped and grounded--flowed down a shallow gulley. It mixed precisely with the iridescent, shimmering blood seeping through the trampled branches that had concealed a squad of desperate Light Fae archers. The resulting river was a hideous, pinkish-black sludge dissolving into the mud; a perfect representation of the deadlock.

          The tension was tangible, stiffening the survivors' shoulders. It was the suspense of mutually assured destruction, prolonged far past the point of sense.

          Kaelen dipped his quill, obsidian-tipped and non-aligned, into the inkwell and continued. The ink was made from the bark of the Elderwood, a substance that repelled enchantments, ensuring the veracity of his record.

          Fifth Hour of the Storm. Location: The Grave of Whispers, central sector. Casualties: High, equal. Strategic gain: None. The deadlock holds, yet the ferocity has escalated. The Unseelie Commander, a Dread-Baron known only as Veridi, is utilizing forbidden Shadow-Chains. The Seelie General, Lady Aerthos, counters Sun-Forged Runes, costing her three squads of frontline spearmen.

          He recorded the facts, suppressing the shudder that threatened to send his careful script flying. Veridi and Aerthos were fighting with a desperate abandon he hadn't seen in centuries of conflict. They weren't just taking ground; they were trying to annihilate the other's will.

          A piercing, guttural yell ripped across the battlefield. Kaelen looked up sharply.

          Lady Aerthos, recognizable even through the downpour by the fierce, cold luminescence of her silver armor and the great, crackling sword of solidified moonlight she wielded, had broken through a pocket of Dusk Fey. She moved with ruthless grace, driving her light-blade through a soldier's breastplate.

          But her momentary triumph was a fatal distraction.

          From the surrounding thicket, the Dread-Baron Veridi emerged. He was a terrifying silhouette, tall and whipcord-lean, wrapped in armor that absorbed the light. He carried a massive, two-handed scythe--a weapon typically reserved for ceremonial execution, not battlefield use.

          Veridi didn't move toward Aerthos; he moved toward the strategic high ground she had just secured, carving a path through the recovering Light Fae. He ignored the lesser soldiers, reserving his formidable speed and power for something else.

          Kaelen watched, his breath catching in his throat. This was not a typical maneuver. Veridi was usually the master of slow, choking encirclement. Now, he was acting like a guided missile aimed at a specific, localized target.

          The field, for a moment, seemed to acknowledge the shift. The thunder died down, and the only sound was the sickening hiss of magick and water meeting hot steel.

          Aerthos, realizing the flanking maneuver, roared an order, but it was too late. Veridi was already at the summit. He slammed the butt of his scythe onto the sodden ground where the Seelie standard had been planted moments before.

          A shockwave, not of raw force but of sucking void, rippled outwards. The ground did not shake; it drew inward, silencing the remaining skirmishes around the rise.

          Kaelen, forced to stand, felt the air grow impossibly cold, despite the adrenaline making his skin prickle. He recorded the incident hastily: Veridi executes non-standard action at the Stone of Sighs. Focus is excavation, not defense.

          He had to see what Veridi had found. If the Dark Fey had located a strategic resource the Light Fey were defending, the deadlock was about to dissolve into a bloody rout.

          Kaelen tucked the ledger inside his coat, his silver chain of neutrality swinging against his breastbone, and began to move. He maintained the observer's necessary arrogance: the belief that the warring parties would respect the ancient law that governed the Scribes of the Concord.

          He moved low, skirting the edge of the dense, waterlogged pines, stepping over bodies where the Light Fey and Dark Fey lay intertwined in their final embrace. The fear was a live wire in his gut. If he were caught too close, or if the Courts decided the law had become inconvenient, his life would be forfeited to the mud.

          He reached the base of the rise and peered up.

          Veridi stood alone amidst the ruin, his heavy, obsidian scythe now discarded. He was kneeling, not in piety, but in intense concentration. The void-Magick he had unleashed was dissipating, revealing a shallow, excavated depression.

          Aerthos's forces were trying desperately to reform, but the disruption had granted Veridi critical minutes.

          What he pulled from the earth was not a weapon, nor a relic of tactical defense, but a vessel.

          It was an orb of rough-hewn, iridescent crystal--the size of a man's head--pulsing with a deeply resonant internal light. It was the color of frozen starlight, but beneath its surface, Kaelen saw veins of dark, living shadow beginning to crawl.

          The Heartstone of the Veilwood.

          Kaelen knew the lore. It was the anchor point of the entire boundary realm, rumored to contain the essence of the Veilwood itself, its ability to obscure the Fey Realms from the mortal world. If the stone were activated by one Court and thoroughly corrupted, that Court would not merely win a battle; they would achieve total, irreversible dominion over the boundary, sealing the fate of the neutral lands and granting them a catastrophic advantage in the broader war.

          The suspense intensified to an unbearable pitch. The deadlock had not been a sign of equal struggle; it had been a calculated defense by Aerthos, designed to hide the Heartstone's location until it could be moved. Veridi hadn't been attacking the front lines; he had been exploiting a single, known vulnerability.

          Veridi lifted the stone. His armor drank its faint light, and the Dread-Baron's stature seemed to swell, charged with raw, untainted power.

          He began to whisper an incantational, deep, resonant rumble that shook the crystal. The shadow veins within the stone flared, threatening to choke out the starlight entirely.

          Kaelen's duty, as defined by the Concord, was to observe and record. He was the neutral lens, forbidden from influence. His ledger was the unchallengeable truth, meant to be read by the High Council of the Eternal Throne when the war finally paused.

          But what good was an accurate record of annihilation? If Veridi activated the stone here, it would not just grant the Unseelie victory; it would permanently darken the Veilwood, killing the light-reliant flora and fauna, and turning the neutral lands into an eternal, lethal winter.

          Lady Aerthos, battered and desperate, saw the stone and let out a keening cry of pure anguish. She recognized what Kaelen did: the war was over unless that ritual was stopped immediately.

          She charged, her remaining spearmen forming a desperate, pathetic shield wall behind her.
          Kaelen had ten seconds.

          He felt the heavy weight of the ledger against his chest. It contained the truth of three centuries of war--the names of the fallen, the record of broken treaties, the precise moment of every tactical blunder. It was his life's work, his only protection.

          To intervene was to violate the Concord and to invite immediate execution by the surviving Court, regardless of the outcome. His neutrality would be forfeit, and any future Scribe attempting to record the war would be deemed complicit, effectively ending any potential for moderated peace.

          But the alternative was the end of the balance, the death of the Veilwood, the death of the neutral path.

          Veridi's voice rose in intensity, the shadow reaching its zenith inside the crystal. The air surrounding the Dread-Baron turned metallic black.

          Kaelen moved.

          He didn't draw a sword. He didn't even drop his ledger. As he rushed the incline, the mud slicking his boots, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out the only non-recording instrument he carried: a small, smooth stone of deep blue lapis lazuli.

          It was an artifact from the outer, neutral realms, charged not with fey magick, but with the cold, dense energy of pure elemental earth. It was a geological anchor, designed to absorb and temporarily neutralize arcane flux. It had been given to him by the old Scribe before him, with the instruction: A record is useless if the world it describes ceases to exist.
          Aerthos was too far, her charge impeded by the dying guards.

          Kaelen vaulted over the body of a fallen Dark Fey, ignoring the searing pain of a glancing blow he took from a returning Shadow-Chain. He reached Veridi just as the Dread-Baron finished the final syllable of the summoning chant.

          The Heartstone flared, blindingly bright. The shadow threatened to consume all.

          Kaelen smashed the lapis lazuli directly against the crystal orb.

          There was no explosion, no flash of fire. Instead, there was a deafening silence.

          The elemental hearthstone acted instantly, sucking the volatile energy--both Veridi's raw Shadow-Magick and the crystal's inherent Light--into itself. The Heartstone went instantly, utterly dark.

          Veridi gasped as the immense power he had channeled suddenly vanished. He looked down, confusion warring with rage on his sharp features.

          He looked past the now-inert crystal, directly into Kaelen's eyes.

          "Scribe," Veridi hissed, the word laced with genuine hatred. "You have violated the Concord."

          Kaelen pulled back, the lapis lazuli fragmenting in his hand. He looked down at the inert, lifeless crystal. The deadlock was restored, but not by force of arms, only by the desperate, forbidden act of a chronicler.

          The momentary silence broke as Lady Aerthos's remaining forces surged forward, emboldened by the sudden failure of Veridi's ritual. The Dread-Baron knew his advantage was lost. With a snarl of frustration, he abandoned the Heartstone now too heavy and inert to carry, and retreated into the forest's shadows, his immediate goal thwarted.

          Aerthos reached the summit, her moonlight blade dripping blood, and looked at the desolate scene: the inert stone, the fleeing enemy, and the single, vulnerable scribe who stood between them.

          The battle raged again, the Seelie taking the rise they had paid for in blood, the Unseelie regrouping down in the Gullet. The deadlock had been reset, but the rules of engagement had irrevocably changed.

          Kaelen was standing in the open, the center of the fresh storm. He knew he had delayed annihilation, but at the cost of his own life and the integrity of the Neutral Concord.

          Lady Aerthos advanced on him, her emerald eyes cold, her immense sword raised.
          "You fought for us, Scribe," she whispered, her voice rough with exhaustion and simmering fury. "You broke the law for the Light."

          Kaelen did not flinch. The rain washed the blood and mud from his face. He held the silver-bound ledger up, protecting it even now as his executioner stood before him.

          "I fought for the balance, Lady Aerthos," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "And I did not fight for you."

          He opened the ledger. The ink on the last entry was still fresh. He turned to a new, pristine page, dipped his quill in the inviolable ink, and began to write the final, damning entry, knowing it would be the last truth he ever recorded. Aerthos's sword did not waver. The suspense of his fate hung heavier than the oppressive, blood-drenched air.

          Time stopped.

          Darkness and quiet.

          "Excellent, Liaison Norric, you're finally here. Welcome to the Front Office, Liaison Section. You are most certainly one of the luckiest elves to come through here. The Ring has been malfunctioning, and, well, let's say most of what's been coming through has been in pieces, parts, and puddles, several of which are unidentifiable.

          Patting Norric on the back, "We shall now begin your training as a Liaison to the Light and Dark Seelie Courts and Wizard's Apprentice training, where you will most surely become one of the most hunted wizards in recent history and eventually die an extremely horrible death. How lucky could an elf be?"

          "Shall we begin?"

Apprenticeship

          Still shaken from the visions, Norric addressed the acolyte, "There has to be a mistake. I am not qualified to serve as a Liaison to either of the Seelie Courts, especially both simultaneously. I know nothing about either Court except what we learned at the academy." Taking a slight pause to grasp what he just heard, finally, "And what do you mean I am to be a Wizard's Apprentice and hunted?"

          "Doesn't that sound exciting? No need to worry, young intern. You will have time to learn everything you need, plus the time required for your Apprenticeship." After saying this, the acolyte bowed, turned, and hurried away.

          "Wait! What Apprenticeship? I don't understand. Can anyone explain this to me in more depth? Come back here. What Apprenticeship are you talking about?" Before he could get an answer, a stern, very angry-looking female dwarf approached him, scowling.

          "What is all the noise about, weedling? Haven't you been assigned your new duties yet? Stop looking in that direction."

          Turning to address the newcomer, "Yes, but . ."

          "That is a negative. My name is NOT Butt. It is Sergeant Grunger. Do I make myself clear, recruit?"
          "What?"

          "I told you my name. 'What' is not it."

          "Sergeant Grunger?"

          "It is Sergeant Grunger, SIR."

          "Ok, Sergeant Grunger, Sir."

          "Elf, I don't know you, I just met you, and I don't like you."

          "I am just trying to go where I need to be. It is the Liaison Office."

          "Then get to where you need to be. You are no longer at the academy, newcomer. This is life, and until you prove yourself, you're lower than the belly of a dragon's claw scum. Now get!"

          Standing there dumbfoundedly, Norric states, "No one told me where to go, sir."

          The dwarf's face grew crimson, and her left eye twitched several times before it stopped. Through clenched teeth and using great restraint, she states, "Oh, I beg your pardon. Please forgive me, sir elf. Where were my manners? It is obvious you belong in the manor."

          "Really? That sounds wonderful. Can you show . ."

          "Listen here, you putrid pile of pixie parts. All new interns report to Niche 00-001. Do I make myself clear?"

          "Yes, but. "

          "I said, do I make myself clear?"

          "I said yes, but I have a question."

          Spittal was dripping down the dwarf's chin at this time. Her fists shook, and her working eye bulged out of its socket. Her left hand had made a fist, and her right hand was reaching for Norric's throat.

          "Sergeant Grunger, be a dear and go to the Pit and release some of your energy on Gmorks, the Black Dragon. She has been acting up again and has eaten three of her handlers. Run along. I will take care of this new Intern."

          After a long, hard stare at Norric, the Sergeant turned and left, creatively cursing loudly.

          The newcomer, in a black robe, was taller, with white hair and crystal-blue eyes that almost shone. The speaker looked momentarily at Norric before addressing him.

          "Greetings, Intern and Apprentice. I know you have many questions. Walk with me, and I will try to answer what I can."

          "I knew I was an Intern, well, I knew I was going to be an Intern, but not all the specifics. However, there is a big mistake about me being an Apprentice. No one told me I would be an Apprentice in a trade skill. I never requested such, either. I can see how my education prepared me to serve as a liaison to a court or a library. However, if I do say so myself, my education and high marks prove that I belong to a higher court or to the Lord Chancellor to the King. I could see myself as a liaison to a foreign country, where diplomacy and tact are required. But an Apprenticeship? That is something completely foreign to me."

          After a raised eyebrow stopped Norric from continuing, the stranger continued with her introduction, "Oh, you are serious? You don't know about your Apprenticeship, do you? We should find someplace for you to sit down."

          After walking for a few minutes, they found a bench under a tree. "Now, I am not sure how this happened without your knowledge; however, you're training as an Apprentice will begin concurrently with your training as a Court Liaison."

          "What trade am I apprenticing in? Cobbler, Tanner, Bowyer, Blacksmith?" Asked Norric. "I can see the others. Unfortunately, I don't believe Blacksmithing would be a good fit."

         With an amused smile, "How quaint. Why, none of those. You will be Apprenticing with the Wizard Danduil." She stated the name as if Norric would naturally recognize it.

         As a horrified expression passed over his face, Norric sputtered, "A wizard? Me? I don't know any Magick. I am the least Magickal person I know, and I know many people. Okay, there are a considerable number of people. Well, one or two at least."

         Ignoring Norric's protest, "You should be honored to be chosen by Wizard Danduil. His reputation is legendary, and his power is known in all the thirty-seven realms."

         "I beg your pardon, but there are only twenty-five realms. I have done extensive reading about this."

         "Non-Magickal beings are only advised of those lesser realms because to speak the names of the other twelve is to invite the Death Gods themselves to cross over and consume those living beings who dare focus on their existence."

         Paling considerably and changing the subject, "Oh, well, I am not from around here. I have never heard of this person. Why did he pick me?"

         "Were you not advised of your assignments before coming here? That is odd. I will look into that for you and get back to you. Wizard Danduil is a thirtieth-level Wizard, the highest-ranking Wizard in most other Sectors. His specialties are Conjuration, Evocation, Transmutation, Abjuration, and Demonology."

         Dismayed at the information and a loss, Norric asked, "I'm sorry. What was your name again?"

         "Oh, a thousand pardons. I am Cottonbrush. I am the House Matron."

         "Well, nice to meet you, Cottonbrush. How many apprentices does this Wizard have? If he is this good, scores of students must want to work for him."

         "Oh, they do. People offer to pay him a King's ransom to have their scions be his Apprentice. He refuses. He picks only one pupil a century or so. No one knows how he chooses. He trains them until he feels they are ready to pass the Wizard's trial."

         "I am sure you meant an exam. So, if the pupil passes, they become a Wizard? What happens if they fail? Do they study more and spend another year with him?

         "No. They are dead. A wizard trial is a combat to see if the apprentice can survive a Wizard's Duel."

         Visibly paling, "What is a Wizard's Duel? Do they duel him?"

         "Oh, no. Countless other Wizards in the world hunt Apprentice Wizards or Wizards weaker than themselves to try to claim their Essence. By claiming another Wizard's Essence, you gain their power, access their spells and memories, and become stronger."

         "So, what you are saying is if I become his Apprentice, eventually, another Wizard will try to kill me, and I could die. Is that what you are saying?"

         "No,"

          "What did I get wrong?"

"You said, 'If you became his apprentice.' You are his apprentice, and death is a

possibility. Or worse. It's all part of becoming a Wizard, I'm afraid."

          "Count me out. I didn't sign up to be a Wizard."

          "Wizard's Apprentice."

          Exhaling with exacerbation, "Fine, Wizard's Apprentice. This information is all new to me. I came here to be a Liaison. Even that changed right before I came here. I am now to be a Liaison to the Seelie Court."

         "You must have impressed some people at the Academy. Did you rescue anyone important? How about marrying into an influential family? You just graduated from the academy, didn't you? Did you happen to get halfway good marks?"

         "I received excellent marks. The highest received in an exceedingly long time. I . "

         "That's interesting. Did you take a course in Transcendental Magick and Knowledge Meditations?"

         Instead of being upset because he was interrupted again, he was excited to talk about one of his classes. "Oh, yes, I did. I found it very fascinating. The discussions during class were very stimulating and, if I may add, quite enjoyable."

         "How many others were in class with you?"

         "Three."

         "Three isn't bad for an advanced class."

         "There were three total. The Proctor, the assistant, and I," answered Norric.

         Cottonbrush continued, "Now, during the course Transcendental Magick and Knowledge Meditations, what did you discuss?"

         Norric's' eyes take on a faraway look as he begins, "Theories of how deep meditation enhances mental awareness and increases tranquility; the opening of a deeper sense of memorization in which a subconscious learning takes place; becoming one with the body so that mental and physical change is possible in unison with the Inner Self; and the increase and broadening of the senses to that of otherworldly beings."

          When finished, he looks directly at Cottonbrush and says, "That is all we covered. I can go into much more detail if you would like."

          "You did well, Norric. I know you are brilliant, as all incoming Wizard Apprentices must be of genius level or higher to even be considered."

          "I am not a Wizard Apprentice. Wait. Did you say I am brilliant and a genius?"

          Cottonbrush smiled, "Yes, I did. The Transcendental Magick and Knowledge Meditations course is there to find the most brilliant minds at the academy. If you remember, when you signed up, you were given a brief questionnaire about your previous schoolwork and pre-test questions. You were the only one to pass. In your memory, the class was held once a week for an hour a night during the school term. In reality, it was for eight candle marks every day. A false memory was planted to prevent you from panicking before learning the truth. Eventually, your brilliant mind would have discovered the deception and figured out what happened."

          "You keep saying I am brilliant and treating me differently. Why? So that I become a Wizard's Apprentice?" Norric asked irritably.

          Looking at Norric's eyes, Cottonbrush sighs and says, "No, Norric. I am telling you this because once a Wizard has tapped into their power, there is no going back. A Master Wizard can train you, or you can die."
          "Extreme range. Isn't it?

          "No. Without training only from a true Master Wizard like Danduil, you will go mad, and your brain will implode. You will die a painful death, and quite possibly take many innocents with you."

          "You are just trying to scare me. That can't be true."

          "It is. A Truth Gea's is in place here. No one can wittingly tell a falsehood without severe repercussions. I see the skepticism on your face. Go ahead and try."

          Norric thought momentarily, then stated, "While at the academy, I had several female companions." He looked at Cottonbrush and smiled, having just lied. He then fell over with severe abdominal convulsions. Before saying anything else, he began to disgorge all the previous day's meals, and every other meal since he was born, followed by excruciating stomach pain. When breathing became an option again, he blurted that he had lied about the girls at the academy, along with every other lie he had told within the past ten birth cycles.

          When he got cleaned up thanks to Cottonbrush, they decided it was best not to try that experiment again. He asked Cottonbrush if he could ask a question regarding his training as a Liaison.

          "What do you want to know?" asked Cottonbrush.

          "I understand I must be a Wizard's apprentice with Danduil, though I don't understand why; however, in what way am I supposed to train to be a Liaison for the Seelie Courts simultaneously? I thought I would be training to do both roles simultaneously. How is that even possible?"

          "That is a great question, Norric. We will need to ask Sergeant Grunger where she received her information."

          "Her? I have to speak to her again. I barely made it out alive the first time we met. What makes you think this time will be different?"

          "This time, you are Apprentice Norric, Wizard Danduil's new Charge."

          "Are you sure this is a promising idea? She didn't appear in a perfect mood the last time we met. Or was that her good mood? Anyway, she treated me like I was in the military. I'm not, am I? I don't think I am in the military. Is this a military base?"

          "No. Sergeant Grunger is, well, Sergeant Grunger. She has been involved in numerous wars, skirmishes, conflicts, and raids, undergoing significant changes in the process. She is always on alert now. This is not a military facility. Never has it been. She is responsible for all newcomers, whom she refers to as recruits. She is harmless and would not hurt anyone here. At least so far. We hope."

          They found Sergeant Grunger doing calisthenics by herself near Gmorks' pen.
          "Thirty-three thousand, seven hundred, seventy-five, thirty-three thousand, seven hundred, seventy-six, uh, Seven, eight, nine, ten, Two hundred and two, " seeing Cottonbrush and Norric walking toward her. "Stop right there, you two. You are entering a restricted area unless you are here to fight Gmorks. She barely beat me in nine out of ten brawls to the death earlier."

          Cottonbrush responded, "You look perfect for losing your match, Sergeant Grunger."

          "Well, I do try to keep myself fit and trim. I shave my beard twice in the morning and once in the afternoon to keep my girlish dimples visible. Now, what can I do to help you? Do you need to jog around the compound, climb the Creekside Mountain, or access the Swamp of No Tomorrow?"

          "That sounds promising, but we need information, and we know you are the person to ask."
          "Well, I know my way around a dragon's tail." Sergeant Grunger laughs loudly at her joke and then spits on the ground. "What do you need to know?"

          "As you know, this is Apprentice Norric, Wizard Danduil's newest Apprentice. He is also the new Liaison for the Seelie Court. As this is something we have never experienced, we wondered how he would do both simultaneously?"
          Sergeant Grunger looked at Norric, then at Cottonbrush, and then back toward Gmorks' pen. She scratched her chin several times and spat, accidentally, probably not, on Norric's foot.

          "I believe Wizard Danduil will be casting the Duplication Spell on Master Norric during his stay at our facilities. This enables Master Norric to be in two places at once. One to stay with Wizard Danduil throughout his Wizardly teaching, and one so he can learn his responsibilities as a Liaison for the Seelie Court. A side note: Wizard Danduil will also cast a Time Dilation Spell to speed up time because becoming a Master Wizard takes approximately 30 years, give or take a millennium. Master Danduil will need that much time to succeed. Are there any other questions you need to ask?"

          Norric and Cottonbrush stared at Sergeant Grunger until she finished sharing the information. They were speechless, not because of the content, but because of the delivery.

          "Thank you very much for the detailed information, Sergeant Grunger. It was very insightful."

          "You're welcome. Time for three of Gmorks' heads to get a bath." She walked toward the cage, leaving Norric and Cottonbrush looking at each other, astonished.

          "Well," began Cottonbrush, "I suggest we meet Wizard Danduil to start your Wizard training."          

          As they approached the towering turret, Norric realized thunderheads surrounded the top, with sporadic bolts of lightning springing forth. Below the thunderheads, gray clouds with snow flurries released vast amounts of white precipitation only to melt halfway into the air. They reached the bottom, and Cottonbrush stated, "This is where I leave you."

          "Wait. Aren't you going to introduce me to Wizard Danduil? How am I supposed to meet him? How do I get in?"

          "Oh, I have no idea. I am not a Wizard like him or even a Wizard's Apprentice like you. Not even Sergeant Grunger would know how to get into the tower. Well, good luck. After the Duplication Spell has been cast, I will meet the other you; however, you won't know the Magick."

          Looking up at the tower, Norric asks Cottonbrush one last question. He then discovers she is gone.

          After several attempts to find an entrance on his own, Norric recalls the Transcendental Magick and Knowledge Meditations course and tries to reflect on what was covered.

         He discovers that the harder he tries to recall the actual class, the more difficult it becomes to remember anything. He decides to sit and calmly address the issues at hand.

         "I've got to relax. When I practice my morning meditation, even on the worst days, I can work through my anxiety or illness, relax, and focus. I need to do that now." Norric sat down, crossed his legs, and began his routine of pre-meditation relaxation. He started by focusing on his breathing, relaxing his mind and body.

         He is an apprentice to a wizard. He is a liaison to both the Seelie and UnSeelie Courts. He will be training for both as two different spells will be cast upon him simultaneously.

          The final blockage dissolved as he began to forget the false information in his memory.

          He reached inner calm quickly because he had been meditating for quite some time. The class Transcendental Magick and Knowledge Meditations also taught several additional meditative chants to help calm the mind and regulate the Spirit.

          Wait. How did Norric suddenly remember this? His mind opened to many innovative ideas and thoughts he was unaware of. As he sat there, he began to see wondrous things all around.

          He looked up toward the top of the turrets to the lightning storm and saw blue dragons flying all around the turrets. Their flying acrobatics were wondrous to watch, and as each opened their mouths, a new bolt of lightning would emerge.

          Below the blue dragons, in the snow-filled skies, white dragons flew in and out of the snow clouds. More playful than their blue counterparts, the white dragons would chase each other around in circles, puffing great clouds of snow and ice-filled fog.

          Below the white dragons, and not seen before, was a rainbow-colored arch from the only window seen outside the tower. Within minutes of seeing the window, a black-winged horse flew out, quickly ascended into the clouds, and disappeared.

          When Norric looked toward the edges of the battlements, he saw lines of massive red beryl gemstones. He remembered that he saw nothing from the battlements' edges before meditating. These gemstones must be Magickal. Norric instinctively knew intruders would burn by Magickal fire if they crossed the battlement edge. He also knew this protection covered flying intruders as well.

          Norric was meditating and marveling at what he saw when he felt an unknown feeling in his mind. He immediately became overwhelmed by the magnitude of the other's mind to the point he became nauseous; Norric bit off the tip of his tongue; blood ran from his eyes, ears, and nose; he curled up into a ball, holding his head in pain; and his whole body was racked with multiple seizures.

          A voice coming from everywhere within his head intoned, "I see you survived, that's always an effective way to start your training. I am the Wizard Danduil. Your studies begin now."

          "You will call me Master."

The Theoretical Wizard

          At first, Norric tried to remember how many days had passed during his apprenticeship. He had attempted this mental calculation many times before, usually following a spectacular failure that required extensive cleanup. Was it ninety days? One hundred and twelve? He soon gave that up because his mind needed to focus on what he was doing or trying to do.

          What he was doing now was scraping hardened, violet-colored slime off the flagstone floor of the exterior training courtyard. This particular slime was the result of his attempt that morning at a simple Preservation Charm, a spell meant to keep fruits fresh for three weeks. Instead, it had instantly petrified the basket of apples, leaving behind this sticky, inedible mess that vibrated faintly with residual magical charge.

          "Good, you are done. I thought I would need to clean your mess again today. You still don't look so good." Observed the grinning halfling named Dhisorin.

          Dhisorin trotted closer, his sturdy boots crunching subtly on the remaining magical granules near the fountain. He was a creature of practical efficiency, a groundskeeper by trade, yet possessed of an innate, earthy magic that Norric envied with every fiber of his being. The halfling wore patched but impeccably clean overalls and smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and ozone.

          Norric, on the other hand, was currently speckled head-to-toe with violet residue and looked like a disgruntled rock gnome.

          "I am perfectly fine, Dhisorin," Norric insisted, though he sounded like he was trying to argue the point with a cough. He straightened, wincing slightly as his back protested. "It was a simple failure of component saturation. I misaligned the third nodal point of the incantation, leading to an inverse polymerization of organic structure."

          Dhisorin leaned against the handle of his rake, which was standing sentinel nearby. He had an uncanny knack for appearing precisely when the magic failed, usually with a broom already in hand.

          "Inverse polymerization," Dhisorin scoffed gently. "You mean it turned the apples into purple pudding that might give someone a nasty shock if they tried to eat it. And you were aiming for preservation, friend."
          Norric sighed. He knew Dhisorin meant no harm, but the constant contrast between Norric's vast theoretical knowledge and his pathetic practical output was wearing thin.

          Norric was a walking encyclopedia of arcane lore. He understood the fundamental physics of the etheric flow better than most senior Wizards. He could diagram the internal lattice structure of a Fireball spell, detailing exactly where and how to introduce a secondary energy conduit to maintain thermal expansion without risk of implosion. He knew that the commonly taught version of the Illumination cantrip was catastrophically inefficient, wasting 35% of its latent mana due to an ancient scribe's grammatical error in the core rune sequence.

          He just couldn't cast the thing.

          His entire magical existence revolved around the simple, maddening fact that he was incapable of performing anything more complex than a weak Air Gust, useful only for ruffling loose papers or extinguishing a stubborn candle. Even that usually took three dramatic attempts.

          "I need a change in methodology, Dhisorin," Norric said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Master Danduil is away again, chasing down some elusive tome, and I cannot continue practicing basic charms only to have them backfire into catastrophic messes."

          Dhisorin pushed himself off the rake. "You've practiced the basics for months. You know the theory of the basics better than I know how to plant petunias."

          "Exactly," Norric argued, stepping closer. "My problem isn't understanding; it's execution. The sheer simplicity of these basic spells fails to capture my focus, or the low mana requirement doesn't allow me to seat the amplified power properly I subconsciously draw."

          Dhisorin frowned, his slight, weathered face creasing. "Subconsciously drawing? Norric, every time you try to draw 'amplified power,' a nearby potted plant screams."

          "That was the potted Geranium that was already struggling!" Norric retorted defensively. "Look, I need to try something else. I have read the texts on the Minor Transmutation of Organic Fibers. It requires control, precision, and a sustained, focused output. It's complex, but not destructive. Will you teach me that one? Please. Just try a different approach, a different spell."

          Dhisorin rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. The request was genuinely tempting. He enjoyed Norric's company, and the apprentice was undeniably bright, if tragically cursed with practical incompetence. Besides, Dhisorin often felt guilty about the whole "I live in your Master's cottage because the last apprentice vaporized his old home" situation.

          "Transmutation of Organic Fibers," Dhisorin pondered, tapping his chin. "That's complicated, Norric. It requires visualizing the material's weaves. Many senior wizards find it fiddly."

          "But it's fiddly, not explosive," Norric pointed out, leaning in conspiratorially. "We worked on Sparking Minor Flame last week, and you had to hose down the sheep in the pasture. Danduil's reputation can't currently withstand a spontaneous flock of glowing merino sheep."

          "Fine," Dhisorin relented with a dramatic sigh, adjusting the strap of his overalls. "But if you accidentally turn my favorite wool vest into a petrified violet puddle, you are sleeping in the woodshed until it dries. We are going away from the house."

          Dhisorin led Norric to the old woodshed, a utilitarian structure tucked behind the main cottage. It was here that Dhisorin stored his tools, his seed packets, and occasionally, parts of his innards when Norric's spells went truly awry.
          The chosen test subject was a piece of ancient, frayed hemp rope used to tie bundles of firewood. It was thick, stiff, and bristled with broken fibers.

          "The goal of the Minor Transmutation is not to repair the rope through mundane weaving, but to temporally align the damaged fibers and introduce a stabilizing energy pulse that encourages the threads to mend
themselves back into their original, perfect state," Dhisorin explained, placing the rope on an upturned barrel.

          Norric nodded eagerly, already processing. "Yes, a localized chronomancy is influencing the structural integrity. The key is in manipulating the resonance frequency of the hemp molecule itself."

          Dhisorin rolled his eyes. "Doesn't matter what the 'hemp molecule' is doing, Norric. Think of it like this: the rope is sad and broken. You need to tell it, kindly but firmly, that it used to be strong and should be strong again."

          Norric looked at the halfling, utterly confused. "With all due respect, the ancient runic texts do not mention 'sadness' in the context of structural repair."

          "The texts don't mention a wizard apprentice who thinks with his brain instead of his hands, either," Dhisorin countered sharply. "Your brain understands the weave of the universe, I grant you that. But magic isn't theory; it's an extension of will. You push the energy, you feel the response, and you tell the universe what you want it to do."

          Dhisorin knelt beside the barrel, picking up the rope. He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. He didn't chant, nor did he make dramatic gestures. A faint, earthy green glow emanated from his calloused palms. The glow settled onto the frayed section.

          It took three seconds. When Dhisorin opened his eyes and lifted his hands, the section of rope was pristine. The fibers were tightly bound, the color uniform, and stronger than new. A low-level, effortless repair.

          "See? No inverse polymerization. No glowing sheep. Just a fixed rope," Dhisorin said, tossing it to Norric.

          Norric caught the rope, running his fingers over the perfectly mended section. It was flawless. His theoretical mind immediately began dissecting the output.

          "You're using an unusually low mana saturation index for that level of repair speed," Norric observed, pulling out his small notebook. "Did you rely heavily on the natural geothermal flow of the earth, using your innate connection as a halfling to--?"

          "I just told the rope to fix itself, Norric! Stop writing!" Dhisorin snatched the notebook away, tossing it onto a pile of kindling. "You've analyzed this spell fifty times in your head. Now, stand still. Close your eyes. Drop the theory. Feel the rope. Feel the rips and tears. Don't think about nodes or polymerization. Think about strength."

          Norric reluctantly complied. He closed his eyes, focusing on the stiffness and ragged edges of the hemp. He knew the incantation perfectly: "Structura Fibra Reficio." He knew the necessary internal mana visualization: a tightly packed, slow-moving column of energy, filtered through the body's lesser conduit points, released via the palm, a wave, not a blast.

          He felt the familiar surge of power he always drew when attempting a spell. It wasn't weak; quite the opposite. Norric's passive mana draw was monstrous, often overwhelming the delicate casting mechanisms required of simple tasks. It was like trying to fill a thimble with a waterfall.

          Patience. Precision. He visualized the fibers interlocking, the microscopic edges fusing.

          "Structura... Fibra..."

          He pushed the energy out. He felt the familiar resistance, the magickal equivalent of trying to push a square peg into a round hole. The colossal internal energy he naturally generated was trying to warp the perfect structure of the Mending spell.

          He tried to force the energy into the right shape, compressing the flow, using sheer willpower to throttle the output down to the necessary trickle.

          "Reficio!" he finished, slamming his will into the release channel.
          Instead of the gentle, green glow Dhisorin had achieved, a blinding flash of white light erupted, followed by a sound like a wet towel snapping. Norric opened his eyes, shielding them instantly.

          The rope hadn't been mended.

          It wasn't glowing.

          It wasn't petrified.

          It had turned into a perfect, scale-model replica of Dhisorin's gardening rake, entirely crafted from slightly damp, perfectly bleached hemp fiber. The miniature rake stood upright on the barrel, radiating an unsettling aura of meticulous craftsmanship.

Dhisorin stared at the tiny hemp rake, then slowly looked at Norric.

          "Norric. That was supposed to be a mending spell. You were aiming for structural repair."

          Norric blinked rapidly, trying to rationalize the result. "I... I see. The instantaneous re-sequencing of the organic material was successful, but the guiding intention was clearly misdirected. I focused too strongly on the
structure of the rope, rather than its integrity. My subconscious must have grabbed the most prevalent structural image in the immediate vicinity... your rake."

          "So, you can't mend a rope, but you can turn it into a tiny, perfectly formed, fully functioning gardening implement," Dhisorin summarized, picking up the miniature rake. He evaluated one of the tiny hemp tines. It was strangely rigid. "Why is it damp?"

          "Output residual moisture from the rapid mana saturation," Norric muttered, already scribbling notes feverishly in his retrieved notebook. "Fascinating. The transmutation process required a temporary localized hyper-saturation of the surrounding air, leading to capillary condensation within the new structure."

          Dhisorin slapped the tiny rake lightly against Norric's arm. "Stop. Just stop. You are trying to cast spells using mathematics. Magic doesn't care about mathematics, Norric. It cares about belief."

          "But the theory is sound! If I can create this, I can create anything! I need to fine-tune the intent matrix!" Norric argued vehemently.

          Dhisorin sighed, running a hand over his face. "Norric, you are an impossibly frustrating genius. You have the raw power of a war mage and the precision of a clockmaker, but they won't align. You keep trying to build the spell inside your mind, bolt by bolt, instead of feeling the current and letting it flow."

          Dhisorin paused, looking at the tiny rake with a newfound respect. It truly was well-made.
          "Let's try something simpler," Dhisorin said suddenly. "The simplest spell you know. The one you can cast, even if it's weak."

          "The Air Gust cantrip?" Norric looked horrified. "Dhisorin, I can already cast that! It's pointless! We need to practice control over complex outputs!"

          "No, we need to practice control, period," Dhisorin corrected. "Cast the Air Gust. But I want you to look at that tiny rake. And I want you to gently, barely, move only the second tine from the left. Don't blow it over. Just move the tine."

          Norric hesitated. This was madness. The Air Gust was primal and chaotic, a simple push of unflavored energy. It had no specific targeting matrix. It was the magical equivalent of a shove.
          "But the Air Gust cannot be used for selective targeting! It's an area-of-effect displacement spell."

          "I know what it is!" Dhisorin snapped, his usual good humor momentarily replaced by exasperation. "But you have too much power to rely on the complex spells to hold its shape. Your attempts always blow up because the spell design is too delicate for the force you apply. Try using the simple spell, but use the Mending concentration."

          Norric reluctantly knelt, holding his hand above the miniature, damp rake. He closed his eyes, ignoring the incantation for the Air Gust (he knew it by heart), and instead focused on the core intent he had felt moments ago while attempting the transmutation: precision, structure, and willful redirection.

          He didn't try to generate a gust of wind. He tried to create the feeling of a fix, a targeted, highly localized application of energy. He directed the raw, simple power of the Air Gust not to the air, but to the single, fragile fiber tine.

          He pushed the energy out.

          There was no flash of light. No snap. There was not even the sound of rushing air.
          Instead, the second tine from the left began to vibrate rapidly. It didn't move away like it had been blown; it moved inward toward the center of the rake, then settled immediately back into place. It was a movement of mere millimeters, controlled and contained.

          Norric slowly opened his eyes, surprised by the lack of destruction. Dhisorin was leaning in, scrutinizing the tiny rake.

          "It wasn't an air gust," Dhisorin whispered, impressed. "It felt like... a localized temporal twitch. Like you said, one fiber to briefly travel forward in time, then immediately regret its decision."
          Norric stared at his hands. He hadn't cast an Air Gust. He had cast a targeted, highly constrained pulse of pure kinetic force, shaped by the mental framework of the Minor Transmutation. He had channeled his overwhelming power through the simplest possible conduit but guided it with the intellectual rigor he usually applied only to spells too complex to cast.
          A wide, genuine smile broke out on Norric's face.

          "I didn't blow anything up," he said, his voice laced with amazement.
          "No, you didn't," Dhisorin agreed. He nudged the tiny rake with his foot. "But you still can't mend a rope either. You just gave one of its fibers an existential crisis."

          Norric laughed, a deep, joyful sound that hadn't been heard in the cottage yard in weeks--not since the Glowing Sheep Incident.

          "But the control! Dhisorin, if I can learn to apply my energy matrix to a simple spell while shaping its intent with the theory of a complex one... I don't need the complex incantations at first. I need to practice applying the theoretical shape to a blank canvas of mana!"

          "Ah, so we are learning to paint with a dandelion, then?" Dhisorin chuckled, picking up the miniature rake and tucking it into his pocket. "I'm keeping this. It might be useful for sweeping up miniature dust bunnies. But don't think this means we are skipping basic practice. Next, you are going to use that control to lift three blades of grass simultaneously, without disturbing the clover next to it."

          Norric stood up, suddenly energized, the violet residue on his robes forgotten. The sheer difficulty of the task required subtlety to separate grass and clover using raw kinetic force, which was exhilarating. It was precisely the kind of impossible problem his theoretical mind craved.

          "I will need to consider the difference in root density and the minor fluctuations in soil temperature to stabilize the focal point of the force," Norric mused, already pulling out his notebook again.

          Dhisorin watched him, a slow, patient grin returning to his face. Norric was still an accident waiting to happen --a magical dam threatening to break --but today, for the first time, he had built a surprisingly stable spillway.

          "Don't make the grass glow, Norric," Dhisorin warned, heading back toward the cottage. "Danduil would never forgive me if the grounds started illuminating themselves. I am going ahead. Catch up when you are ready."
          Norric didn't hear him. He was already deep in thought, dissecting the structural integrity of a single blade of fescue. He had a long way to go, but now, he finally had a path, a way to bridge the chasm between the intricate brilliance of his mind and the frustrating simplicity of his hands.

          And for the first time in his apprenticeship, Norric didn't need to try to count the days he had been training. Today felt like Day One.

         Being a Wizard's apprentice meant learning spells, lots of spells. Danduil expected Norric to learn spells as quickly as he taught them to Norric, which meant ten new spells every month, growing in difficulty exponentially. These also included all assigned chores, Magick and dueling practices, transcribing spells into his spellbooks, creating his wands, meditating, and eating when he had time.

          Norric looked wearily toward the stairwell. Norric wished his latest memorized spell, Ice Blockage, had worked. Within heartbeats, a massive, solid wall of ice blocked the entrance to the stairs. His spell worked.
          How did his incantation work this time when previously he couldn't even conjure a light breeze?

         Aquam, the Ogress cook, overheard the previous conversation and offered one of her helpful stories: "Aquam saw once an enormous bird try to get home to nest to feed almost big babies. Aquam is hungry. I used my mighty bow and shot down the big bird. Skinned it and what it carried. Also, got what in the nest. Had good stew."

          "That was . . interesting Aquam. What is the lesson I should take from this?"

          "What lesson? I want to tell you what you'll be having for lunch. You need to learn to wait."

          "Of course! That's what I have been doing wrong the whole time. I have been rushing through the spells and not letting them happen independently. When I cast this last spell, I was relaxed. I just cast the spell and let it go. You're a genius."

          "No, me ogre," Aquam simply stated and lumbered toward the kitchen to cook Bird Nest Stew.

          "Well, yes. Thank you, nonetheless. I must tell Dhisorin of this discovery and my recovery. He will be glad he won't have to practice with me anymore."

          After cleaning out his bile bucket, Norric changed his tunic, braies, or pants, depending on which launderer you spoke with. You received a broken nose and two black eyes if you talked to Nadioi about laundry services before a candle mark after sundown. However, he wasn't going anywhere until the ice melted.

Nadioi

          Nadioi was a Silver Dragonborn. After giving Norric a broken nose for his indecisiveness, she assisted him with his Magickal studies, ensured he received his laundry on time, and taught him self-defense using only his left hand. She gave no reason or explanation for those exercises.

          Nadioi moved with a grace that belied her size. Her scales, a gleaming silver, caught the flicker of torchlight as she glided through the castle's grand hallways. She was the Steward of Danduil's fortress, a title that had been bestowed upon her by Danduil himself. The castle was a bastion of order, a place where the chaos of the outside world was kept at bay. Nadioi's duties were many, and she approached each with a meticulous precision that was both admirable and slightly intimidating. Her eyes, pools of mercury, swept over the bustling staff, ensuring every task was performed to perfection. She took the training of new wizards to a new level.

          Norric hovered nervously in the corner. He was Danduil's apprentice, a title he soon learned held little weight in the grand scheme of things. His robes were stained with ink and faintly reeked of burnt herbs, evidence of the countless hours he had spent in the dusty library. His eyes darted around the room, searching for approval that rarely came. His nose, once straight and proud, now had a slight crook - a souvenir from an incident with Nadioi.

          The two had a peculiar relationship. Nadioi had taken an interest in Norric's studies, often pushing him to his limits. The dragonborn had an uncanny ability to spot a flaw in his spells before they even left his lips. It was a frustration that burned in him like a hot coal, fueling both his desire to learn and his resentment towards his mentor. Yet, he couldn't deny the progress he'd made under her watchful gaze.

          Today, she summoned him with a curt message. The castle was alive with whispers of an approaching storm, not of the weather, but of something far more ominous. Nadioi had felt it too, a tension that thickened the air and made the stones hum with energy. She needed his help, she had said, but had not indicated what was to come. As he approached her, the echo of his footsteps seemed to amplify the silence, his heart hammering in his chest like a blacksmith's anvil.

          "You've been practicing," Nadioi said, her voice rumbling low. She held out a scroll, ancient and fragile, to him. "Good. You're going to need it."

          Norric took the scroll, his curiosity piqued, trembling with his hands. "What is it?"

          Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. "It's your first true lesson, human. Don't disappoint me."

          With that, she turned away, leaving Norric clutching the parchment, his mind racing with questions. Unraveling the mystery of the scroll and the impending storm would be a challenge unlike any he'd faced before. And as he unfurled the scroll, he felt a strange prickling in his left hand, a sensation that sent a shiver down his spine.

          The scroll contained a set of cryptic incantations, each one more complex than the last. They were written in a language that was both ancient and eerily beautiful, with symbols that danced and shifted as he tried to make sense of them. His heart pounded as he recognized the runes of a powerful protective spell, one that could shield the castle from the dark forces that might be amassing outside.

          Days turned into nights as he pored over the scroll, his eyes straining and his hand cramping from the effort of memorizing each symbol. Nadioi had been faithful to her words; she didn't hover over him, but he knew she was watching. Her expectations were palpable, a weight that bore down on him with every passing moment.

          The tension grew with each gust of wind that howled through the castle's battlements, and with it, the whispers grew louder. The staff spoke in hushed tones of ancient prophecies and forgotten battles, of the time when dragons ruled the lands. Norric found himself drawn into their conversations, his imagination a whirlwind of dragonfire and epic clashes.

          Finally, the night came when the storm broke upon the castle with the fury of a thousand beasts. Lightning cracked the sky, and the very earth trembled beneath their feet. Nadioi's voice boomed through the halls, calling the staff to arms. As Norric took his place beside her, his heart thudding in his chest, he couldn't help but wonder if he was ready for what was to come.

          The scroll rolled tight in his left hand, and he felt the power of the spells resonating within him, a silent promise that he might just be able to hold his own. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, watching as Nadioi's scales shimmered, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination that was at once inspiring and terrifying.

          The gates of the castle groaned under the pressure of the unseen enemy, and as they began to give way, Norric knew that the decisive moment had arrived. The time for lessons was over; it was now time to fight.

          He stepped forward, the scroll in his left hand, his right hand already casting a shimmering barrier around the two of them. The incantations rolled off his tongue, each syllable a declaration of his resolve. The air grew thick with energy, and the symbols on the scroll seemed to pulse with life.

          The doors shuddered and then, with a deafening roar, they gave way. A horde of twisted creatures, their forms a nightmarish blend of shadow and malice, spilled into the courtyard. Nadioi raised her mighty sword, her eyes never leaving Norric's as she bellowed a battle cry that echoed through the night.

          The battle had begun, and in the heart of the fray, Norric felt the power of the scroll surge within him. His left hand, once weak and clumsy, now felt as if it held the very essence of the storm itself. And as the first creature approached, he knew that he had a part to play in the unfolding drama, a role that would define him as a mage and, perhaps, alter the fate of the castle forever.

          With a flick of his wrist, the first incantation left his lips, and the air around him crackled with energy. A bolt of lightning arced from his hand, striking the creature with a blinding flash. The creature's shadowy form dissipated into the night, leaving only the acrid scent of ozone. Nadioi nodded, a rare gesture of approval, and turned to face the next wave.

          The night was a dissonance of magic, the clang of swords, and the roar of spells. Norric's mind raced as he cast spell after spell, each one more potent than the last. The creatures fell before him, their shadowy forms no match for the power that flowed through him. Yet, the storm outside grew more intense, and with each moment, he could feel the dark energy pressing closer, seeking entry into the bastion of light and order.

          As the fight raged on, the dragonborn steward fought with a fierce elegance that belied her brutal efficiency. Her sword sliced through the night, leaving a trail of shimmering silver in its wake, and the creatures fell before her like wheat before the scythe. Yet, even in the heat of battle, she remained ever vigilant, her eyes flicking to him occasionally, ensuring he was still standing.

          In the eye of the storm, as the castle walls trembled with the impact of some unseen force, Norric understood the reason behind her unorthodox training. The spells he cast with his left hand were not just defensive, but a declaration of his newfound strength. It was as if Nadioi had seen this moment coming, had known that he would need to stand beside her in this moment of crisis. And as the last creature fell, the storm's fury abated, leaving the two of them standing amid the courtyard's wreckage, their breaths heavy with exertion.

          The castle staff emerged from their hiding places, their faces a mix of fear and awe. Nadioi surveyed the scene, her expression inscrutable. Then, she turned to Norric, her eyes gleaming with a newfound respect. "You did well," she said, her voice a low rumble. "But our work is not done. There is much to learn, and little time to do so. However, my time with you is done. Another will take my place. Be ready, for they will test you mightily."


         

Destrum

          Norric discovered that the seasons never changed; Spring was always the season. He attempted to question Nadioi several times regarding this phenomenon. Her answers ranged from 'No, it's not' to 'You're delirious' or another black eye.

          After an extended casting session using only his left hand, Nadioi advised Norric that a new instructor was arriving. The centaur's name is Destrum, and her expertise is in Combat Magick. It is rumored that Master Danduil is the only wizard who beat her in a duel.

          "When I am through with you, you will vanquish your opponents with little use of your Magick. Do you know why?"

          "You will be teaching me higher-level spells?"

          "No. At least not yet."

          "Because I will be holding a Magickal wand to aid in my spell casting? Or components' spell bag?" Norric offered.

          "None of those, to a degree. When I am thorough with your lessons, you will only need the Will, Word, and Motion. Most wizards are too lazy to do what it takes to become outstanding-they settle for proficient. Proficient equals dead. Or worse."

          "There is something worse than dead?"

          "Undead. Enslaved. Eternity in the Negative Zone. Do you want me to list more? We are wasting valuable time which could be used for learning." Norric begins to think of a question.

          "Whatever it is, it will wait. Tomorrow you will start training how to fight effectively and deadly."

#

          The air in the Obsidian Ring was thick with the scent of ozone and raw, unrefined fear. It was a sterile, circular expanse carved into the granite heart of the academy mountain, designed to absorb and dissipate chaotic magical energies, a necessary feature when the instructor was Destrum, the Centaur of the Iron Hoof.
          Destrum was not merely a master of Combat Magick; she was its merciless executioner. Her upper torso, draped in practical black leather armor, was defined by lean, corded muscle; her equine half was a study in powerful, kinetic motion. She stood anchored in the center of the Ring, radiating an intensity that made the chill mountain air feel incandescent.

          Norric was panting, his lungs burning from exertion and his mind reeling from the constant barrage of critique. He had just attempted a standard deflection spell against a summoned shard golem, and the results were unacceptable.

          "Arcana wasted," Destrum's voice boomed, sharp and resonant, echoing off the basalt walls. She didn't yell; her tone carried the undeniable weight of absolute decree. "You sprayed power like a broken faucet, Norric. The objective was neutralization, not theatrical fireworks."

          Norric wiped a streak of sweat and residual magickal soot from his brow. "But the surge worked, Master Destrum. It stopped the fragment."

          "It stopped the fragment," Destrum agreed, her tail twitching once, a sign of her simmering impatience. "And in doing so, you expended enough energy to fell a small fortress. When you face an opponent, especially an efficient one, you have three tools, and only three tools: the Will, the Word, and the Motion. Anything utilized beyond those three necessary vertices is a drain on your reservoir and an invitation to death. Recite the Law."

          Norric straightened, forcing the fatigue from his posture. "The proper way to defeat any opponent is with the Will, Word, and Motion. Anything else is a waste of valuable time and energy."

          "Then apply it, fool," Destrum commanded, her front hooves scraping the grit of the Ring. "Today, we distill competence into lethality. You will face four scenarios. Fail to adhere to efficiency, and you pay the price in raw stamina."

Test I: The Economy of Intent

          The first challenge was deceptively simple: The Ring floor shimmered, and a single spectral assassin, a pure, focused malice, materialized fifty feet away. It moved with unnatural speed, silent and seeking the softest target.

          Norric immediately dropped into a ready stance, preparing the complex verbal formula for a heavy kinetic shield.

          "Stop!" Destrum roared, shattering the silence. "Watch your Word! You are fighting a ghost, Norric, not breaching a citadel wall! Where is the efficiency?"

          The spectral assassin was closing the distance, its hand molding into a wickedly sharp scythe. Norric's heart hammered. He felt the panic, the instinct to over-cast.

          "The Will, Norric! Focus the Will!" Destrum urged, yet her tone offered no comfort.
Norric realized his error. He was planning a defensive incantation when he needed an offensive projection of pure intent. He slammed his Will forward, condensing his fear into a needle of conviction.

          I reject this form.

          He stripped the spell down, discarding the full, multi-syllable Word. He only uttered one syllable: "Cease!"

          His Motion was minimal, a sharp, almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, like shooing a fly. The effect, though dramatically reduced in visual flair, was devastatingly precise. The silent command, backed by absolute Will, struck the spectral form not as a blast, but as an immediate cancellation. The assassin evaporated, leaving only a puff of cold smoke.

          "Improved," Destrum judged, pacing slowly. "But still lagging. Your Motion was a third of a second too slow. If that had been a living creature, it would have pierced your heart before your Word solidified. Next!"

Test II: Sweeping the Field

          The second test escalated rapidly. Destrum activated a series of rune-plates hidden on the floor. Three Iron Drones, large constructs designed for suppressing civil unrest, clanked into the Ring, positioning themselves in a tight, flanking triangle around Norric. They were slow but heavily armored, built to absorb multiple blows.

          Norric recognized the trap: if he committed to fighting them sequentially, he would be exhausted before he defeated the second, leaving the third to crush him.

          He began the complex chant for a sustained chain-lightning spell. Destrum's shadow fell over him.

          "Waste!" she thundered, stamping one hoof. The sheer percussion shook Norric's teeth. "You seek to boil the ocean to catch three minnows! Combat is defined by economy of scale! One Motion for three targets! Where is your unification?"

          The drones began their slow, rhythmic advance, pressurized steam, which was hissing from their joints.

          Norric scrapped the chain-lightning. He needed an area of spelling effect, but one that didn't require him to expend the complex Word required for complete structural collapse.

          He centered his Will not on destroying the drones, but on unifying them under a single physical law: radical inertia.

          The Word was a guttural, four-syllable declaration, focusing the energy.

          The Motion was the key. He didn't point or cast; instead, he drove his hands downwards and outward in a single, broad, encompassing sweep, a movement so wide it included all three drones within the arc of his visualization.

          The magick flowed, not as thunder, but as an invisible, compressive force. All three drones seized up simultaneously. Their complex gears ground to a halt; the sudden imposition of static force violently arrested their internal mechanisms. They remained standing, technically unharmed, but utterly immobile. The threat was neutralized.

          "Better," conceded Destrum. "You grasped the concept of unified Motion. But the Word was too long by two syllables. When facing a field of five or ten, that excess time is death multiplied by five or ten. Rest is denied. Test three: immediate interdiction."

Test III: The Deadly Interruption

The third scenario was designed purely to break Norric's focus and test the speed of his Word.

          Destrum didn't summon an enemy this time. Instead, she triggered a hidden mechanism, and from the wall directly behind Norric, a focused stream of corrosive, acidic blight erupted, silent, instant, and moving too fast for physical evasion.

          Norric had been facing Destrum, preparing for the subsequent construction. The attack came from his blind side. His mind screamed for the immediate, absolute defense.

          His Will flared, a raw, instinctual desire for survival.

          He didn't have time to turn; he didn't have time for a complex Motion. He had a microsecond to react.

          His first instinct was to panic and reach for a shield spell, but a thousand hours of Destrum's training instantly rejected the wasteful effort. The shield required too long a Word.

Norric compressed his entire being into a single impulse of rejection. He didn't use his hands; his Motion was a simple tightening of his core, driving the power outward from his solar plexus.
          The Word, the shortest possible declaration of counter-existence he could muster, was not a syllable but a sheer, psychic gasp of negation. He didn't speak it with his throat; he spoke it with his Will.

          The stream of acid, mere inches from the back of his neck, didn't deflect or dissolve; it simply halted, suspended in the air like frozen water, its kinetic energy completely arrested.

          Destrum let the silence settle, her gaze piercing. Norric stood trembling, covered in the fine mist of delayed blight, his muscles twitching violently from the shock of the reaction.

          "That," Destrum stated, her voice a whisper, "was adequate. You recognized the critical constraint of the scenario: time. You reduced your Motion to zero and allowed the Will to become the Word. You survived. But you should have been able to reverse the flow. Adequacy is a grave insult to lethality. We move to the final test."

Test IV: The Synthesis of Exhaustion

          The final and most grueling test was designed to pull Norric apart, straining his physical endurance while demanding absolute adherence to the Will, Word, and Motion principle.

          Destrum did not use constructs. Instead, she summoned a small skirmish group of five Grolak Shadow Soldiers, nimble, fast, and capable of phasing in and out of the material plane. They were designed to harass, frustrate, and never stay still.

          "The goal is simple, Norric," Destrum instructed, her expression harder than granite. "Neutralize all five, one after the other, with non-overlapping techniques. Maintain the efficiency of the Will, Word, and Motion triad. Use only the necessary power."

          The five Shadow Soldiers spread out, circling like sharks in a murky sea. They began to attack simultaneously, a flurry of sudden strikes, requiring Norric to shift between defense, counterattack, and adaptation constantly.

          First Shadow (The Flank): Norric was spent, favoring his right leg. A Shadow darted in low. Norric didn't use a blast. Will: Pinpoint removal. Word: A high, resonant "Shatter." Motion: A flick of the foot, driving focused power into the ground they shared. The Shadow's legs were atomized, and it collapsed, screeching.

          Critique: "Still too much power on the projection, Norric. Think of it as tailoring a jacket, not dropping the entire bolt of cloth."

          Second and Third Shadows (The Crossfire): The remaining Shadows attacked in tandem, forcing Norric to move laterally. He combined the Will, Word, and Motion. Will: Absolute separation. Word: A whispered, singular command, "Divide." Motion: A sharp, defensive elbow check that didn't hit the Shadows, but projected two separate fields of repulsive force. The Shadows were flung violently apart, slamming into opposite walls and neutralized by disruption, not destruction.

          Critique: "Excellent unification of Will and Motion. The Word was precise. The separation was clean. But you breathed too heavily afterward. Physical fatigue breeds magical slop."

          Norric was sweating profusely, his chest heaving, his muscles screaming. His mind, however, was clearer than it had ever been. He was no longer thinking about survival, but about efficiency. Destrum had pushed him past instinct and into the realm of pure, streamlined methodology.

          Fourth Shadow (The Ambush): The fourth Shadow dissolved into the ground, preparing for a subterranean strike. This required full, vertical interdiction. Norric didn't waste energy tracking it. He focused his Will on the entire Ring floor. Word: "Solidify." Motion: A rapid, crushing clench of both fists.

          The energy didn't blast the ground; it hyper-compacted the soil and rock beneath, trapping the phasing Shadow as if it were encased in hardened resin. It thrashed weakly, immobilized.

          Fifth Shadow (The Escape/Endurance Check): The final Shadow, learning from its brethren, began to phase and flee, aiming to drain Norric's remaining power through sustained evasion.

          This was the final test of Destrum's training: Can the student maintain Will, Word, and Motion when the tank is near empty?

          Norric looked at the blurred, shifting form. He had no energy left for a grand spell. He didn't need one. He didn't need to destroy the creature; he needed to stop his ability to be.

          He drew the last reserves of his Will, focusing on the feeling of pure, exhausted finality.

          Word: Silent. He opened his mouth and let raw intent escape, a single, soundless exhalation.

          Motion: A final, trembling extension of his hand, pointing at the Shadow.

          The spell was a simple, focused drain. It wasn't kinetic, elemental, or force based. It was the precise siphoning of the Shadow's animating arcana. The creature didn't explode or collapse. It simply flickered, dimmed, and winked out of existence, leaving behind absolutely nothing.

          Norric stumbled, his knees hitting the obsidian dust. He had nothing left to give. The silence in the Ring was absolute, broken only by his ragged breathing.

          Destrum stood over him, her iron gaze searching his face, looking not for pain, but for the clarity behind the effort.

          "You are still alive," she finally stated.

          Norric managed a painful nod.

          "You fought five opponents, each requiring a different, precise application of power. You successfully utilized the Will, Word, and Motion in ways that maximized neutralization while preserving your scarce resources upon the brink of collapse."

          She stared down at him, and for the first time, the censure was absent, replaced by a cold, challenging approval.

          "You wasted only seventeen percent of your total available arcana during the four scenarios," she continued. "That is still too much. Seventeen percent is the difference between surviving the next battle and falling to the one after that."

          She stepped back, her haunches flexing, ready for movement.

          "But you understand the law now, Norric. You have grasped that Combat Magick is not about power; it is about efficiency. Rest for five minutes. Then, we will rerun the Synthesis. This time, we aim to reduce waste by 16%. The path to lethality is paved with absolute precision."

         Tomorrow you will have a new instructor.

         The following morning, before sunrise, Norric arrived. Excited about meeting Ubarin, he finished his chores faster than usual. As Norric arrived, Ubarin was waiting for him.