The flames licked along his fingers—too fast, too eager.
Caleb grit his teeth, forcing the mana downward, away from his palm. The fire sputtered, flickered—and flared back to life with defiance. He clenched his jaw, digging his heels into the stone.
"Control," he muttered under his breath. "It's just a flame."
He stood alone in the clearing behind the east tower—where moss-covered walls cradled a half-forgotten garden, long since repurposed for his solitary training. Ash stained the flagstones now. Three blackened scorch marks marred the wall in front of him. A fourth was still smoking.
With effort, he summoned the flame again. A flicker, a spark. It quivered in his hand, warm and golden. He inhaled slowly.
Then his thoughts caught up—what if I lose control again? What if someone sees? what if father's right—
The fire burst upward like a flare, spiraling from his fingertips and shattering against the wall with a sharp crack.
"Damn it!"
Caleb staggered back, his hands trembling. Smoke curled from his sleeves. He whirled around, half-expecting someone to have seen, to be laughing or shaking their head or calling for the guards.
But the garden was empty.
Just him. And the damn fire.
He exhaled hard and kicked a piece of stone across the yard. It clattered uselessly against the far wall.
It had been four days since the trial with his father. Four days of trying, failing, burning, seething. He'd trained every morning until his mana felt like cracked glass in his bones. He'd read scrolls, whispered incantations, walked breathing drills over and over. None of it helped.
The fire always burned too bright. Too fast.
Like it had a mind of its own.
Or worse—like it was his mind.
***
He slumped down on the edge of the cracked stone bench, head in his hands. He could still feel the heat pulsing in his chest. The embers were always there now, smoldering just beneath the surface. Waiting for a reason.
His father's words echoed in the stillness: "Control is the difference between a mage and a monster."
He wanted to scream. Not his father. At himself. At the fire. At the expectations it had lit inside him.
"I just want to prove I'm not a mistake," he whispered.
He looked at his palm. The skin was unburned, but the memory of heat lingered.
"I'm going to lose it," he said aloud, the thought suddenly real and terrifying. "If I don't learn control, I'll hurt someone. Or worse."
The wind stirred the ashes beside him. He stared at the way they danced—lazy, weightless, curling like forgotten smoke.
Then another memory stirred—one from a winter ago, long before his awakening.
Old Master Durnin, the wandering scholar who'd taught him some mana theory, had said:
"You can't conquer fire with strength, lad. You learn to live beside it. Fire listens to emotion before reason. If your heart's in chaos, your spells will be, too."
Caleb whispered those words now, barely a breath: "Beside it, not above it."
He sat straighter.
This wasn't just about raw power. It was about discipline. Emotional control. Patience.
All things he hadn't had these past days.
The fire wasn't the problem.
He was.
***
By the time the sky turned from steel gray to rose gold, Caleb stood again, shoulders squared. He gathered his cloak, rolled his training scrolls under his arm, and left the garden behind.
His boots echoed through the castle's eastern corridor as he made his way to the steward's chamber near the base of the main hall. The air was cooler here, scented with parchment, old steel, and sandalwood wax. Behind the steward's door came the soft scribble of quills.
Caleb knocked twice.
"Enter," came the voice beyond.
The steward—an older man with a scroll for a spine and eyes like measuring scales—looked up from his ledger.
"Caleb," he said, blinking. "Not often I see you outside the study hours."
"I need something," Caleb said, stepping inside.
The steward set down his pen. "What sort of something?"
"A path forward."
The old man leaned back. "Cryptic."
Caleb hesitated, then said clearly, "I want to register with the Adventurers' Guild. I know I'm not academy-trained yet. But I want to take on small missions—safe ones, to start. Errands, patrols, monster sightings. Whatever's available."
The steward raised a brow. "You're still a noble son, you realize. Hunting goblins isn't exactly in the curriculum."
"I'm not doing this for titles," Caleb said. "I need real experience. I need to learn what it means to use magic for more than just show."
The steward studied him a moment longer. "Your father might disapprove."
"He doesn't need to know. Not yet."
A pause.
Then the steward opened a drawer and pulled out a thin stack of parchment. "There's a chapterhouse three miles south of here. Woodland branch. They post minor quests every week. Nothing grand—escort work, forest clearing, border aid. Still dangerous enough for learning."
Caleb took the papers, reading the crest of the guild at the top—a compass framed by a roaring griffin.
"You'll need a sponsor to sign your entry. I'll do it," the steward added before Caleb could ask.
"Thank you," Caleb said, genuine.
The old man gave a rare smile. "Don't thank me yet. Most recruits wash out after their second spider nest."
***
That evening, back in his room, Caleb lit a single candle. He didn't use a spell. Just a flint.
He sat at his desk, rolled out a fresh scrap of parchment, and wrote a single sentence:
"The fire is not mine to master. It is mine to understand."
Then, below it:
"Before I enter the academy, I will be ready."
He folded the parchment and tucked it beneath his journal. Then he stood, moved to the narrow windowsill, and looked out across the moonlit horizon. The forest beyond the castle whispered with the wind.
Somewhere out there, something stirred. Maybe beasts. Maybe just shadows.
Either way, Caleb would face it.
Not to be admired. Not to be feared.
But to become someone who could walk beside the flame—and not be consumed.