Erik's studying of the cellar's books led to many skills unbefitting of a child to possess, in a short amount of time due to his intelligence. Upon finishing one book in only a matter of days, he would pick up another, discovering a new subject at which to be exposed to. The next book his finger tips would dare grace, were those of a large black and hardcovered tome, thick and heavy enough for him to muster strength in dragging it off the shelf. It was filthy, requiring heavy wiping just to reveal the title: Forboden Galdorcræft - V. Translated into Common, it was forbidden magic. The mere mention brought about an expression not seen upon Erik's often stern, expressionless, if not cold face, an expression that lifted his eyebrows and flared his nostrils. Quickly, he opened the book, discovering written words that he had never seen before mixed with words he knew translated to acts of black magic.
He smirked, his eyes quickly darting and jerking from line to line, word to word, page to page. The more he read, though, the more his face stiffened. Halfway through, the learned the unfortunate truth on the matter. The books explained nothing on how to learn magic, but rather, to enact. They were intermediate books for those who already knew how to wield magic, and upon discovering this, Erik felt frustration. His fingers locked and he crumpled a page, tearing it slightly. He was swift to snap out of it, taking a breath and trying to fix his mistake by flattening out the parchment.
He continued to read, but the next book he chose from the few that remained, he instead looked into first, hoping to find another on magic. He found another on the subject of torture through means of intense heat and burning, which mentioned runework and instruments that could be magically enchanted to sear flesh, but little else on magic.
He made attempts to enact the same processes that the books entailed, but to no success. Copying their incantations, the runework which he scraped into a dagger, the offering of bread to conjure a simple spell, all failures in bringing about any scrap of magic to reality.
Regardless, this was but a mere obstacle. Erik understood that there was a means of using, that even great wizards in the past discovered long before magic was understood.
He pondered greatly when training his swordsmanship, swinging repetitiously as he lost himself in thought. For some, peace was achieved through silence and beauty, others on a full stomach or after victory, for Erik, he felt most clearheaded when he was holding a sword and swinging with all his strength. He did so out in the field and underneath the shade of the tree, far to the back of the manor, where he always trained. The air was fresher and the feeling of dirt beneath his sabatons was simply comfortable, compared to the hard stone ground in the sparring room.
The stories he read on historical wizards and mages often showed their great feats and accomplishments, hardly ever their youth or roots. If ever such stories were mentioned, they were simply facts about their lives, like the great Wizard, Alcopash, being from the town of Quen and leaving to join the Cleric's Temple at the age of fifteen, before discovering his aptitude for wizardry. Thus, Erik's understanding of magic was that it came easily to those who were born with an aptitude for it. He knew not if he did, and that thought of not possessing such an aptitude, or in his mind, being inferior and incapable, was enough to anger him to the point of swinging his sword into the trunk of the tree that offered him shade. His sword struck the bark hard enough that a quarter of the steel stuck itself a few inches into the wood, which only seemed to anger him more as he attempted to and struggled to pull his sword out.
He growled, yanking one more time and finally managing to obtain his sword once again, as he shouted in slur, "Wretch!!" His chest bloated heavily. He threw down his sword and dropped to the ground. "I refuse..." he muttered, again and again, "I refuse, I refuse, I refuse," with each utter becoming more hissed through his teeth as he went on. He leaned upon his knee, gritting his teeth and pondering. "It does not make sense.