The fire in the dining hall burned low, casting long shadows across the dark-stained stone. Smoke from oak logs curled upward in lazy spirals, catching in the beams and disappearing into the gloom above. Caleb stood at the threshold of the chamber, uncertain for only a moment before stepping inside.
His boots echoed softly on the polished floor.
Garron was already there.
He stood at the far end of the hall, dressed not in courtly robes, but in travel leathers—scuffed at the edges, storm-gray, with the faint glint of steel beneath. His gloves were folded neatly on the table beside a half-drained goblet of wine. He didn't look up when Caleb entered.
"I hear you've taken an interest in the Adventurer's Guild."
The words were soft, but the weight behind them pressed like a blade point against the ribs.
Caleb's mouth dried. "...Who told you?"
Garron turned, finally. His expression was unreadable—neither anger nor amusement, only stillness. "Does it matter?"
"I was going to tell you," Caleb said, stepping closer. His voice held its footing, though his heart thudded like a war drum. "I just needed time."
"Time to decide whether training under the finest mages at the academy was worth delaying a few tavern bounties?" Garron asked, moving toward the fire. He poured another measure of wine into his cup but did not drink.
Caleb stiffened. "That's not fair."
"No," Garron agreed, swirling the cup. "It isn't."
He took a slow sip, eyes on the flames. Caleb stayed rooted by the doorway, unsure whether to defend himself or simply listen.
"I'm not doing this for glory," Caleb said at last. "Or coins. I know I'm not trained. That's why I need real experience. I want to see what it's like—to face something that isn't a straw dummy nailed to a post."
"And what exactly do you think you'll learn from a dying wolf that you can't from your instructors?" Garron asked, tone cool.
"Fear," Caleb said. "Urgency. Mistakes that matter."
Garron turned to face him fully now. "Mistakes that matter," he repeated. "You believe dying in a ditch is an educational opportunity?"
Caleb bristled. "That's not what I—"
"You want to prove yourself," Garron cut in, calm but sharp. "I know. It's written on your face. But this isn't the time. You're a fire mage who can't yet temper heat. You have power, yes—but fire answers emotion. And yours are as steady as wind through grass."
"I've trained—"
"Against targets. Not corruption. Not beasts that think. Not spells that rend flesh."
"I'm not asking for permission to fight dragons," Caleb snapped. "I want to take basic patrols. Escort work. Quests that let me learn before the real danger arrives."
"It's already here," Garron said, voice hardening. "You think the Veil weakening means you'll be lucky enough to find only goblins and wild boars? No, Caleb. It means what lies beyond that ancient wind barrier is beginning to seep through. Creatures born of mana storms. Spirits bound by rot. Your fire will not scare them. If anything, it will attract them."
The room pulsed with silence after that.
Caleb looked away, jaw tight. "Then what do you expect me to do? Wait? Watch from a tower while others bleed?"
"You misunderstand the purpose of waiting," Garron replied, returning to the fire. "It isn't cowardice. It's a strategy. Your training at the academy will give you more than spells—it will give you discipline, insight, and history. You'll learn what came before, what failed, what survived. That knowledge has kept our walls standing far longer than sword arms ever could."
Caleb closed the distance between them. "Then what's the point of power if I never use it?"
Garron looked up. "To keep it ready. Until the moment demands it."
The fire cracked behind him, throwing orange across his lined features.
"I used to think like you," he said, more softly now. "That strength was meant to be tested at the first opportunity. That courage was a flame to be shown, not stoked. And then I buried comrades who believed the same."
Caleb's breath caught.
Garron didn't look away.
"They died believing they were ready. But readiness isn't bravado. It's precision. Awareness. Patience."
"I've seen monsters, Father. The forest—"
"And I let you see it," Garron interrupted. "Because you need to understand that courage alone will not save you. The wilderness doesn't care about our bloodlines, or our dreams. It swallows untrained magic as easily as it swallows sound."
Caleb's hands clenched at his sides.
"I just want to help," he said. "The Veil is failing. Something's coming."
"You will help," Garron said. "But not by dying young and proud. You'll help by surviving long enough to be worth fearing."
The words weren't cruel—but neither were they kind.
They were true.
A beat passed.
Garron stepped forward and placed one gloved hand on Caleb's shoulder. The grip was steady—not forceful, not dismissive.
"When the time comes," he said, "you won't need to ask anyone's permission. The fire will answer because you're ready to speak its language."
Caleb felt his throat tighten. He nodded once.
No more protests. No more pleading.
Just understanding.
***
That night, back in his chamber, Caleb stood at the window with a candle in one hand, watching the wind pull at the tree branches below. In the distance, the edge of Wolf Grove blurred with mist and moonlight.
He could still feel the heat in his chest—always there, waiting. But for the first time, it didn't feel urgent. It didn't feel like something to prove.
It felt like something to prepare for.
He turned back to his desk, opened the small chest beneath it, and pulled out his parchment of vows. The ink had faded slightly where he'd written them weeks ago.
—Before I enter the academy, I will be ready.
He stared at the words.
Then, slowly, he struck a line through the next sentence.
—Even if I have to do it alone.
And in clear, bold script beneath, he wrote:
—I will listen. I will study. I will become the flame's master, not its fool.
He set the quill down, closed the lid, and let the candle burn low beside him.
The fire inside was still burning.
But now—finally—it waited with him.