The plain field stretched wide under the morning sun, greener than ever, with only a few scattered trees breaking the horizon. Beyond the distant stone wall, the shadowy tree line of Wolf Grove was barely visible. A breeze whispered over the grass, crisp and clean, untouched by city smoke or forge heat.
Caleb stood in the open, breath steady, heart full of expectation. Today was supposed to be the day. After years of studying boring, repetitive magical theory, he would finally learn how to cast a fireball.
He glanced around the empty field. No sign of Master Dareth yet.
Unwilling to wait, Caleb raised his hand and began circulating mana. He focused on his palm, imagining a flame—just a small one, even a flicker. He knew the first stage lacked consistency; the flames would be wild, chaotic, often refusing to hold shape.
Mana flowed from his core to his fingers in irregular waves. Sometimes the amount was right. Other times, it was barely a trickle. The effort made his hand shake with strain. Still, he imagined the flame: circular, red, steady.
The shaking intensified, and he stopped, lowering his hand with a frustrated sigh.
A familiar voice snapped through the quiet. "Have you finally grasped how hard it is to control mana, let alone cast spells?"
Caleb jolted, spinning around. Master Dareth stood behind him with that same unreadable expression, arms crossed.
"Took you long enough to get here," Caleb muttered. "What were you doing, anyway?"
Dareth smirked. "None of your business. Shall we begin?"
"Gladly." Caleb flexed his fingers, still twitching from the strain.
"To start," Dareth said, walking past him toward the center of the field, "you should know that constantly pushing mana into your hands won't work yet. Your reserves aren't large enough."
Caleb raised an eyebrow. "That's how it works in theory. What else am I supposed to do?"
"There are two ways to progress," Dareth said. "The easy way is increasing your mana capacity. The hard way is improving your efficiency. Which one would you choose?"
Caleb paused, thinking. It seemed obvious. The best mages in the kingdom weren't just strong—they had control.
"The hard—"
"Too bad. You'll be doing both."
Caleb blinked. "Wait, what?"
"It's the best of both worlds," Dareth continued. "Greater control and a larger pool. You're aiming to be one of the best, like your siblings, aren't you?"
Caleb straightened. "Right. I like that plan. How exactly?"
"To expand your capacity, you'll need to use a lot of mana daily—near exhaustion. The body adapts over time. The closer to empty, the more growth."
"And my control?"
"That's your focus during the day. Practice until you can't. Then recover slowly and repeat. You'll train two to three times per day at most."
"That's not enough," Caleb said. "Can't I train more?"
"You can. Remember those monster cores?"
Caleb shivered. "Hard to forget. I nearly died."
"Your fault. Still, purified cores help speed recovery—if used carefully."
His eyes lit up. "So I can train twice as much."
"I hope you're this eager once we begin. Even Rhydian—"
Dareth's words faded as a memory struck Caleb: Rhydian, face pale, barely able to stand after training.
"Hello?" Dareth waved a hand in front of his face.
Caleb blinked. "Let's just start."
"Good. Sit. Cross your legs. Begin circulating mana."
He obeyed, closing his eyes and drawing on his core. The mana moved unsteadily, slipping from his grasp. Frustrated, Caleb tried a breathing exercise his mother had taught him as a child to calm himself.
He matched his breathing to the rhythm of the mana flow—though it fluctuated wildly. Still, over time, he noticed a pattern: faster out of the core, fast returning. In those moments, he could sync his breath and gain a slight sense of warmth.
A comfort, like his mother's embrace.
"Good," Dareth said. "Now look."
In his hand was a lit candle, the flame dancing chaotically.
"Study it," he said.
Caleb frowned. "It's random. What am I supposed to learn?"
"Study it."
"That makes no sense."
"Good."
Caleb's eyes narrowed. "Why are you like this?"
"Replicate it."
Oh. That made more sense.
Still annoying.
Caleb stared hard at the flickering candle flame, its chaotic dance defying rhythm or predictability. Fine. He'd use his frustration as fuel if he had to.
He drew in a slow breath, matching it to the pulse of mana that had become almost familiar. He'd learned enough now to sense it moving, faltering, returning. He let it circulate again, unstable but guided. The warmth built in his core and spread down his arm.
Then—flicker.
A small, sputtering flame curled into his palm, wild and trembling.
It was barely there, a spark of life trying to hold shape. But it was real.
"Again," Dareth said. "More control this time. Less raw output, more intent."
Caleb exhaled sharply and tried again. The flame died with the motion. Gritting his teeth, he centered his breathing and focused again. This time, he didn't force the mana forward. He let it spiral from his core, following the rhythms he'd begun to understand. The flame returned, slightly more stable. He held it for a few seconds.
"Better," Dareth noted. "Now make it flicker less."
"That's what I'm trying to do," Caleb muttered under his breath.
For the next hour, he repeated the process. Over and over, breath synced with mana, posture adjusted, grip relaxed then tightened, flame summoned and extinguished. Sometimes it lasted a second. Other times it vanished before it even formed.
His shoulders started to ache. Sweat trickled down his back. His hands trembled from overuse, his mana pathways fraying under the strain of constant channeling.
"Again," Dareth said calmly, observing like a hawk.
Caleb cursed beneath his breath but complied. Another flame. This one wavered, then surged outward suddenly, uncontrolled, and singed a few blades of grass near his feet.
"Too much release. Dial it back. The goal is control, not power."
Caleb growled. "I know that."
"Then prove it."
He grit his teeth and tried again. And again. Until his arms felt like lead and his fingers refused to steady. He could barely feel the grass beneath his knees as he sat, gathering what little strength remained.
"Come now, Embercrest," Dareth said, walking a slow circle around him. "You were so confident this morning. Where's that drive now?"
Caleb grunted, refusing to give up. He forced the mana to move again. A weaker flame bloomed. He held it for a full six seconds. Then eight. Then ten.
"Good," Dareth said. "Now shape it."
Caleb groaned, shifting his position. His entire body resisted, muscles stiff and sore, but he obeyed. The flame twisted slightly under his will, faltering like a candle in the wind.
"Again."
This time, the flame stabilized in the shape of a teardrop.
Again.
A sphere.
Again.
A jagged spiral.
He could barely breathe.
Finally, Dareth crouched beside him and raised his hand, revealing the candle still burning steadily.
"Study it one last time."
Caleb's eyes narrowed. His vision swam, but he focused. Every twitch, every ripple of that tiny flame—it was now etched into his thoughts.
"Now replicate."
He summoned everything. Breath. Mana. Focus. His core pulsed weakly, giving one last push. The flame leapt into his palm and, for a moment, it held. It was nearly identical to the candle's shape—irregular, but balanced.
"Stop," Dareth said quietly. "That's enough."
Caleb exhaled, chest heaving. He tried to answer, but the world tilted. The light dimmed.
His legs gave out.
And the last thing he saw was the sky tilting above him as he collapsed backward into the grass, the warmth of his own flame still fading from his hand.
***
Weeks passed in grueling repetition. Training drained him, rebuilt him, shaped him. And finally—finally—Dareth said the words he'd longed to hear.
"It's time to learn a new spell."
Caleb's chest surged with pride and relief. "About time."
"You've made real progress," Dareth admitted. "Your control is improving. Now, let's see if you can handle the spell that makes a fire mage recognizable—the fireball."
Caleb stood ready in the field. Mana flowed. He breathed steadily, centering his thoughts.
"Begin," Dareth said. "The same flames we practiced."
He focused, summoning heat to his hands. A flicker of fire began to form.
BONK.
A sharp sting flared across his head. A small rock dropped at his feet.
"What the—?" He looked up, confused.
Dareth sighed. "If you can't concentrate through minor distractions, you'll never survive a real battle."
Caleb rubbed his head, biting back a retort. He restarted.
Flames flickered into his palms. He kept focus.
Thwack. A second rock hit his shoulder. He staggered but held the flame.
"Better," Dareth said. "But not good enough."
Caleb growled softly, restarting once more. This time, the flame grew larger, steadier. He shaped it, guided it—not forced. It hovered, a living sphere of heat and light.
"Now," Dareth said, pointing to a wooden target. "Launch it."
Caleb hesitated, then shifted his stance. He extended his arms. The fireball moved, sluggishly, before fizzling out short of the target.
"Not enough intent," Dareth called. "Commit."
Again.
This time, Caleb threw with purpose. The fireball arced forward and struck the target, leaving a scorch mark.
A grin spread across his face. He did it.
"Finally," Dareth said. "Now again. And again. Until it's second nature."
Caleb groaned, but obeyed. Fire after fire, throw after throw, until the sun dipped low in the sky and his arms trembled with fatigue.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He would master this.
Eventually.