The wooden disc looked harmless.
That was partly because it was hanging at chest height from a practice rack, and partly because I hadn't touched it yet.
I checked the latch holding it still, then the instructions again.
Yesterday's rest had helped. The ache beneath my ribs was gone, and the old burn no longer pulled when I opened my fingers. I wasn't going to take either as proof that I had become healthy overnight.
I had spent the spare day reading the practice room's equipment notes instead of using the equipment.
Most of the devices were meant to take far more force than I could produce. I left those alone. This one was for beginners learning to recognize the surface of a simple ward.
A wooden disc. A fitted ward stone. A padded rim. A cord and latch that allowed the whole thing to swing once released.
At the lowest setting, the ward formed a thin layer over the front. A user could feel where an incoming force met resistance and learn how that resistance changed around the rim.
The notes warned against standing in the disc's path when releasing the latch.
I had underlined that part on my copy.
I turned the little control to its first mark.
A pale layer appeared over the wood. No roar. No rush of wind. The grain blurred as if someone had laid a piece of cloudy glass over it.
I stepped closer and held my hand in front of it. Nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened. I hadn't done anything.
Still, a part of me had hoped the name Null Touch would come with a little more instruction than that.
The Ledger listed the technique. My body remembered pieces of circulation. Neither had handed me a safe demonstration.
I touched the ward with one finger, without moving any Aether. It felt firm.
Not cold, exactly. The skin of my finger cooled where it met the surface, but when I pulled away, the sensation stopped.
I pressed again.
The cloudy layer bent slightly and held.
Good. Now I knew what normal resistance felt like.
I checked the latch once more, planted my feet, and began the circulation.
The familiar chill passed my elbow.
I guided less of it toward my palm than I had used on the day of the burn. When I felt it gather beneath the skin, I placed my hand against the center of the disc.
The ward resisted.
I let a small thread out.
A dark spot spread under my middle finger, no larger than a fingernail. The surface tightened against it.
Then the spot disappeared.
Heat stung the old mark on my palm.
I drew the flow back and stepped away. The disc hadn't moved. The ward hadn't broken.
I flexed my fingers once, slowly.
Less than a breath of contact, and my hand already disliked the lesson.
I wrote down the attempt before doing anything else.
Center. Brief darkening. No collapse. Heat at palm.
After resting, I approached the disc without Aether and ran one finger along the edge of the ward.
The surface didn't feel equally firm everywhere.
Near the top, it curved smoothly into the padded rim. At the lower left, just above a narrow line in the fitted frame, the resistance changed.
The instruction sheet showed the join. It was where the simple ward returned to the stone that maintained it.
The diagram marked the join clearly. I should have checked it before putting my hand against the center.
I moved my hand away and tried releasing a trace of Void Aether toward the join from a finger's width out.
The chill left my skin.
Nothing reached the disc that I could see. The ward stayed cloudy and firm.
I stopped before feeding more into it.
Touch meant touch, then. At least with what I could manage.
I added the failed gap test to the page and sat on the bench.
Two attempts. One of them had barely deserved the name, but my core didn't care what I called it. I waited longer than I wanted to.
Through the window, I could see part of the garden path. A servant carried a basket past it, stopped to shift the weight, and continued.
I counted my breaths without drawing on the cold.
The room remained mine for another hour. That didn't mean I needed to fill it with failed attempts.
I checked my hand.
No new red mark. A lingering sting, but no heat spreading toward the wrist.
One more. Small, at the join. Then done, whatever happened.
I wrote that down before standing.
For the third attempt, I rested my palm against the edge first.
The join sat beneath the base of my fingers.
I began the circulation slowly, letting the cold take the easier path around my chest. When it reached my hand, I resisted the urge to hold it there and inspect it.
Contact. Release. Ease the pressure.
The ward pinched against my skin.
Pain flashed through my palm.
Then my hand touched wood.
I froze.
The pale layer had vanished.
A tiny light beside the stone went dark, leaving the disc hanging from its locked support as if it had never been anything more than a piece of training equipment.
I pulled my hand away. "Okay."
My voice sounded too loud in the room. I looked at the disc, then at my palm.
The skin beneath my fingers was red. My hand shook when I held it open.
But the ward was gone.
I had done it.
For a few seconds, I let myself enjoy that without planning the next attempt.
Then I sat down, because my knees suggested it.
The result wasn't impressive by any standard I remembered from the game. It was a beginner's ward at the lowest setting, and I had used the join shown on the equipment sheet.
It was also the first time I had wanted magic to do a specific thing and watched it happen.
I wrote the successful position down carefully.
Palm in contact before release. Lower-left join. Brief flow. Ward lost. Hand painful afterward.
I added: Do not assume this works on a stronger ward.
Then I put the pen aside and waited until the shaking eased.
The temptation to reset the disc was there. I could check whether the same movement worked twice. Maybe the first two attempts had only failed because I didn't understand the join.
I looked at the line I had written before standing.
Then done, whatever happened.
I had already decided to stop. I left the control alone.
I turned the control fully off and prepared to put the equipment away.
The instructions said to release the disc and let it hang freely before lowering the rack.
Simple enough.
I stood slightly to the side, steadied the padded rim with my good hand, and lifted the latch.
The weight dropped farther than I expected.
Wood swung forward, pulling my hand with it.
I tried to stop it, too late and with my feet in the wrong place.
The padded edge struck the inside of my forearm.
"Ow."
It swung back. I stepped clear before it could offer a second lesson.
For a moment, I watched it move between us.
No light on the stone. No cloudy layer over the front. Nothing magical left for my palm to interrupt.
The disc was still heavy.
I rubbed my arm, feeling stupid in a way that was at least familiar. I had underlined the warning. I had even stood to the side.
Then I had put my hand in the path because the ward was off and the test was over.
A sword would still be a sword after its coating vanished. A falling stone would not ask whether I had successfully removed the spell around it before hitting my head.
That thought made the small ache in my arm feel cheap.
I waited for the disc to settle, then lowered the rack according to the instructions, this time keeping my hands where the diagram put them.
At the desk, I added one last line beneath the result.
Removing the ward does not remove the object or stop its movement.
I read the whole page twice.
Close enough to touch. Correct join. Small burst. A hand that needed rest afterward.
Useful, if I chose the moment carefully.
The forearm would probably bruise. The palm needed cool water. Tomorrow's practice would depend on how both felt after sleep, not how pleased I was right now.
I folded the notes and stood.
The attendant was waiting in the corridor with a folded towel.
His gaze caught on my hand.
I had forgotten to lower it.
"Water?" he asked.
"Cool. In my room."
He stepped aside to let me pass, then looked through the open door at the practice rack.
"Should anything be replaced?"
"No. It's put away."
He nodded and went to fetch the water.
I walked back slowly, keeping the folded page in my good hand. The room had looked the same when I left it as it had when I arrived. Anyone inspecting it would find a beginner's fixture, switched off and hanging where it belonged.
I was grateful for that.
In my room, I unfolded the notes on the desk and checked the description of the join once more.
Lower left. Palm resting first.
I could picture the exact place now.
When the water came, I set the page well away from the bowl before lowering my hand into it.