Michael was hurrying across the empty campus to the building where the students took the Combat, Core and Elemental arts lesson. Entering the building, rushing down the stone hallway, maps clutched in his hand, eyes darting between it and the identical rows of wooden doors.
"This ain't the good rune, damn it, where's the sun?"
He skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a group of older students in gleaming uniforms. The shot him looks that ranged from amusement to disdain before brushing past. His face burned, he could feel the seconds ticking away, and each one reminded him he was about to be late.
At last, he found it: a broad oak door etched with a faintly glowing sun. The muffled sound of voices drifted from within. Michael swallowed, pushing the door open and making his way inside.
Nobody in the room even looked at him, nobody except the monk-like mage who turned. Regarding Michael with a gaze as soft as wind but as piercing as ice, he did not raise his voice, yet it carried through the room like a church bell.
"So", he said, folding his hands behind his back, "our new student has finally arrived."
Michael flushed under the weight of the newfound stares of the dozens of first-year students sitting cross-legged on meditation mats and of the tall, bald man in a plain robe standing in the center of the room. His posture was straight as a sword, and his eyes calm as the sea.
Looking at his feet, Michael opened his mouth, but the monk-like figure raised one hand.
"The boy who fought a Chieftain" staring deeper at Michael, he lifted an eyebrow, "and with no core, no less. They whisper of you already, but tell me...." his tone taking an authoritative turn, "is it your habit of making your elder wait?"
Reeling back a little bit, "I... no, Sir." let out Michael.
"Good, the name is Iroden Veln." Iroden gestured to a vacant mat near the back. "Then sit, let it be the last time you're late."
Michael bowed his head quickly and slipped to the mat, the eyes of the students still burning into him. He had barely settled when the door creaked again.
"Uh, sorry! I overslept!" Nick burst in, hair a wild mess, grease still smudged across his cheek, and a coil of wire peeked from his satchel.
The silence was deafening. Iroden's gaze did not waver. "Two late arrivals in one day." His voice was calm, but the disappointment in it hit harder than any shout. While writing down his name on a piece of parchment, he pointed a mat, "Nick Alburn, Sit."
Nick darted to the open spot beside Michael, whispering, "Nice timing, huh?"
Michael camouflaged a chuckle while pinching the bridge of his nose to hide his face.
Iroden turned back to the class. "Discipline", he said, voice loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him, "A mage without discipline is a flame in the wind, a flood without banks. Today, you will learn to breathe. To still your body so that mana may flow without chaos."
He lowered himself to a meditative stance, back straight, hands resting lightly on his knees. "This is the posture, shoulders loose, chest open. Breathe with the world, not against it. Inhale, count four, hold. Exhale, count six, and again. Feel your blood flow through your veins, feel the oxygen fill your lungs, let go of your thoughts and focus on this feeling. The feelings of your organs contracting on each other, healing each other."
Students followed, Michael tried to mimic them, but his breaths came ragged, uneven. He would get cramps in places he didn't know he could feel, his mind wouldn't quiet. And the ticking in his head grew louder, faster.
Iroden's gaze swept the class, resting briefly on Michael, then moving on. "You will stumble; it is to be expected. The core listens not to strength, but to patience. A rushing river cannot reflect the sky, and you can't breathe when the wind is too strong. You can't eat what won't fit in your mouth; that is why we take small bites."
The lesson flowed on, the steady rhythm of breathing filling the hall. Some students slipped easily into focus; others twitched and fidgeted. Michael tried, but every time he began to settle, the image of a phantom clock seemed to always pop into his consciousness, as if mocking his attempts at meditating.
At last, Iroden rose. "This is enough for today, great job everyone."
The students were trying to flex their legs and arms, trying to bring back the blood flow.
"No mage should live only in their core; to lean on magic alone is to invite death." Iroden's tone became sharp, though still calm. "When your mana fails, when your breath falters, when the world strips you bare... What remains?"
His eyes swept across them like a blade. "Your body."
One student began to mumble, "Here goes the monk bringing hand-to-hand combat again."
Without warning, Iroden clapped his hands. The meditation mats dissolved into the floor, replaced by a polished sparring circle etched in faintly glowing runes.
"So the heir of one of the lost kingdoms in the south wants to go first, let's see... Keegan is against our new arrival, Michael."