Efrain smiled with knavish self-satisfaction at the girl’s stunned expression. The sound and light was enough to make the guard step forward, his brow creased with concern. However, there was no danger to any of them. Save perhaps whatever poor soul would have to swab the table.

“Fun, no?” he said, casually.

“Uh,” Aya said, her eyes still trained on the place where the feather had been.

“And you begin to see that magic is not a toy to play with,” Efrain said without malice, “there are nasty consequences for those who don’t pay attention.”

The girl took that as directed to herself, and endeavoured to look more engaged in the lesson.

“Can that… Can that happen to people?”

“Oh yes,” Efrain said, dusting off the sleeve of his robe, “it would take a great deal more power, but yes. Burning you from the inside out. Now.”

He turned back to the copper wire still on his desk, and held it up. Aya cringed back from it, which earned her a wry chuckle from Efrain.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that twice. That’d be boring. And the last thing I need is to splatter my desk with molten copper.”

His mind flashed back to that paladin, Sphrent, and the way she’d flooded her sword. Perfectly good waste of both magic and metal.

“But, I do want you to show you something,” he said, flooding the material with as much magic as he safely could.

Lines, emitting light, criss-crossed the metal, growing brighter with the magic suffused into the material.

“Look familiar?” he said.

Aya squinted, then nodded, casting a glance down at her covered arms.

“Curious, him?” Efrain said, setting down the copper wire, “something tickled my mind when I first saw you. I thought that, combined with these strange visions, you were engaged in anametic etching. Quite rare. But it was both more simple and more bizarre.”

“My body was… flooding?” she said, her eyes drifting back to the soot stain that comprised the feather’s remains.

“Not quite. There’s a preliminary stage,” Efrain said, “‘venting’. You saw how little fissures opened in that wire and the feather?”

She nodded, rubbing at her arms with discomfort. Efrain could understand the feeling - he’d once channelled a little too much magic through one of his arms. Two of the finger bones that had comprised his hand were now someone else’s. It was most likely his imagination, but he was almost certain that they were creakier than the other ones

“Principle six. Magic tends to seek the centres, of any shape. Then it radiates, or is drawn outwards. One of the things that makes it different from heat. You pump that ‘core’ full of magic, and the strain on the material is immense.”

He indicated the core of the metal wire to Aya, who was sitting in rapt attention.

“Push it farther, and hundreds of tiny fractures will bleed magic. You know what magma is?”

She didn’t, and Efrain decided not to push the metaphor on her.

“In any case, that ghostly light is your magic, bleeding into the environment. Now we get to the real interesting part of your condition.”

“Which is?” she said, eyes focused stolidly on her arms now.

“Your flesh should begin to char before you vent. Your deepest structures, bones, blood vessels, should be suffering grievous injury, and yet you can vent relatively safely. Even resilient materials, like metal, will be damaged by venting. If it’s not outright broken, the fractures will weaken it. I collapsed a cave doing that.”

“A cave? Why?”

“I was being chased by a monster. Long story,” Efrain said, thinking back to the fiery power he’d held for a brief moment.

If Innie hadn’t helped direct and channel that, I wouldn’t be much more than dust now, Efrain thought, looking down at his own arms.

Just before Efrain was preparing to move on to the next and final demonstration, she looked up.

“Could I flood someone? If I had to?” she said, frowning at a fly that was buzzing just behind Efrain’s head.

Efrain paused for a moment to consider both the question and her reasons for asking it.

“I suppose it’s possible,” he said, “though it would be extraordinarily difficult. You’d have to effectively force your magic into someone, which is hard enough, then build it up enough to injure them.”

She nodded slowly, thoughts churning behind those dark blue eyes.

“For instance, our little friend here,” Efrain said, indicating the black insect, “I could probably flood him, given a little time. But even a fly would be hard. Most living creatures possess magic which will unconsciously counter yours. Doing it to a person… it’d take immense precision and capacity. I’m not sure I could even if I tried. Your reasons for asking?”

She hesitated, notably, and glanced back at the guard.

“Legionnaire?” Efrain called, the man standing to attention, “would you mind stepping outside for just a moment? You can guard the door. I need to have a private word with my student.”

The man paused, but upon receiving a nod from Aya, took a glance around the room, then left, closing the door behind him.

“I assume you have a reason beyond just curiosity. I hope no one’s offended you.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Aya didn’t laugh, indeed she wore a grim, almost hunted expression.

“I don’t want to be caught off guard, not again,” she said, “and…”

Once more, she hesitated, looking around the room, and finally leaning in and dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Grandmama is talking about fighting Angorrah. For my sake.”

Efrain laced his hands, feeling a little tremble pass through them as he leaned back in the chair. He remained in that posture as she relayed to him the conversation that she’d had with her grandmother that morning on the city wall. Efrain filed away the information, some things beginning to click his mind that he still had not full consciousness of.

“Do you think… Do you think it’s possible? To fight the empire and win?” Aya said.

There was an odd, conflicted expression in her eyes, and Efrain guessed the gesture of self-sacrifice she contemplated. He sighed, trying to divine the correct way to deliver the conclusion that had formed almost instantly at the question.

“There’s two answers, one short, and one more complex,” Efrain said, “When I left Angorrah, I had some vague idea of their forces. With the additional lands that they’d brought in under Helgacite, they had a standing army around… oh, eighty-thousand when I left.”

The number set her reeling, though she managed to maintain her composure fairly well.

“But that was four hundred years ago or so, Aya. I have no doubt with their growth they’d be well over a hundred thousand strong,” Efrain added, watching what slim spark drain from her eyes, “so, the flat answer is no. Barring the most extreme fortune, it would be a losing fight.”

“And the more complex answer?” she said.

“I’m no strategist,” Efrain said, looking past the girl out the window at the afternoon light, “but I’ve read a fair share of history and logistics. Your grandmother is gambling that you wouldn’t be valuable enough for the full might of Angorrah. Getting even a small army out this far east is tremendously expensive. As for by sea, Karkos is even better defended on that front.”

Aya waited patiently as he collected his thoughts, trying to recall what he could of military history and warfare.

“With the city walls and a well-trained, well-armed troop, along with these new spring-cannons, an assault on Karkos would not be easy, even for a large army. What’s more, Karkos can get resupplied by ship, so Angorrah would have to blockade them, and I have no idea if they even have enough sea power to do that. The more complex answer then is perhaps, with a smaller army and luck.”

Efrain’s non-existent tongue felt funny after giving such a long dry delivery. It’d been centuries since he’d given a proper lecture.

“So then, there’s hope?” Aya said.

“Hope!” Efrain laughed, “my dear girl, you sound like the axes of your executioners were above your neck. There’s no talk of war, and even if they declared so, it would take months to get an army here. I have reason to suspect that you wouldn’t be of much value to Angorrah.”

“Oh?”

Shit, Efrain thought, I went too far.

“Not compared to the value they’d lose destroying one of the largest trading cities on the continent,” Efrain shrugged.

She seemed unconvinced at the diversion, but she left it well enough alone for now.

“What’s that?” she said, nodding towards the ceramic ball on the desk.

“A fire extinguisher,” Efrain said, picking it up.

“It’s filled with water?”

“No, sand. There are some types of fire that are resistant to water. Mages and alchemists are wont to do experiments that sometimes get a little energetic. If something gets a little too angry, you smash this on it.”

He tossed it to her, letting her feel the weight.

“Best hope you have no expensive glassware between that ball and the fire,” he chuckled grimly.

“I see,” she said, “and what does that have to do with magic?”

Efrain cocked his head, hoping to try something, but unsure if she’d learned enough to have a fighting chance.

“Think about the principles I’ve taught you so far, and watch,” he said, taking the ball from her.

In a few moments, he set it back on the desk, where it began to roll from side to side, then rotate.

“What do you think I did to make this ball spin?” Efrain said.

“Well, you used magic,” she said.

“Obviously. But how?” He said, “try your best guess.”

She held the now still sphere, pursing her lips as she thought about the problem. Efrain watched with mounting excitement as an understanding grew on her face.

“Eggs,” she said.

“What?”

“Eggs. You know, when you boil an egg, and test to see if it’s done. If it’s still raw, it’ll shake, if it’s cooked, then it spins smoothly.”

Efrain sat and stared at her for a moment.

“That is right, isn’t it?”

“Well, no… it’s…” Efrain said, the beginnings of a laugh vibrating up his rib cage, “of course you’d come up with a cooking metaphor.”

She stared at him expectantly, and he had to fight hard to keep the sound down.

“What I did,” he said, mastering himself, “was create a magical charge. One side has higher concentration than another. The sand began to follow, backwards and forwards, like a wave. Then I spun it, again, then again, and here you are.”

“So, not like eggs,” she said, a bit disappointed.

“No, but it was a novel idea,” Efrain mused, “you came quite close. In any case, I think that’ll be enough for today. You’d best return to your grandmother. I’m sure the both of you will be quite busy tonight at the celebration.”

“Oh, that,” she said, reddening, “I was… I hope I don’t have to go up on stage again.”

“I doubt it. It’s the dancers tonight. You’ll likely just be watching and enjoying food.”

Aya got up, and bade him a farewell, turning to leave through the door she’d come through. Just before she stepped over the frame, she paused for a single moment, and looked back.

“Do monsters speak?” she said, hesitantly.

“Monsters?” Efrain said, playing with the ball as she spoke, “elaborate.”

“You talked about monsters earlier, didn’t you?” she said, “about having to collapse a tunnel on top of them when you were… somewhere. Do they speak?”

Efrain drummed the ball with his fingers, trying to gauge the deeper meaning behind her words.

“Well, Aya, it depends what you mean by monsters,” Efrain said, “there are many magical creatures who do indeed speak, in one form or another. You’ve met several - both my companion Innie and the creatures in the hollow could communicate. As for monsters…”

Efrain’s thoughts flashed to the malformed beings that had hounded their steps all the way from the deep mountains. Perhaps Aya was beginning to suspect something about their origins. Perhaps she’d heard something from them that disturbed her greatly and couldn’t be explained.

“There are some that can, some that are intelligent enough to, but don’t have the parts for it, or simply don’t deign to, and there are some that can’t,” Efrain said, trying to be as truthful as possible.

She looked thoughtful, then thanked him for a second time, and left the building, her guard closing the door behind her.

“Well, that was… interesting,” Efrain said to himself, staring at the ball spinning on the table before him.

He stopped it without even a gesture, and considered Aya’s metaphor for the process.

Carefully, with precision, he began to solidify the sand as much as possible, holding it so it pressed up against the sides of the vessel. It took him one or two tries without it collapsing back to its normal shape. Then, holding the delicate balance in place, he created a slight disparity, and the ball began to turn.

The process, while finicky, took less decidedly time and power than the method he’d been using previously.

It’s not just whatever condition she has, Efrain thought, she has quite the natural eye and mind for things.

He called in the student who apparently had been appointed to take care of his needs, and directed them to clean up.

“Say,” he said, scribbling away at his corrections, “do you know about the development of spring-based weaponry?”

The student, looking glum as the prospect of scrubbing ash out of the carpet, immediately perked up.

“Well, Mentor Efrain,” he said hastily, “It does happen to be a topic of special study of mine, actually.”

A ‘mentor’ already? Efrain thought, My, my, Avencia.

“Do tell as you clean,” he said mildly, moving over another page, “I’m particularly interested in these weapons I’ve heard about. The one’s mounted up on the city wall.”

As it turned out, while the student had not been working on the construction of the weaponry, he’d been involved in some of the design work. From the sound of it, it was mostly number crunching and creating tables of values for different spring strengths and displacements and so on. Still, it revealed to Efrain that they were being created in partnership with several local workshops.

I’ll have to go investigate, Efrain said, his temple itching as he started another line of corrections.

The light was starting to fade in earnest as Efrain began to wrap up his endeavours, looking this way and that. The student had long since left, having cleaned the room satisfactorily. As Efrain reorganised the papers, he thought about attending the festivities. Dancing had always been his favourite art that the Karkos had championed, and the yearly displays were rarely trite.

Soon, he was on his way in an academy longboat, his thoughts turned to another issue within the city. The suspicious death of that young man, and the reactions of his parents. The matriarch had said it would wait for the end of the festival, but somehow Efrain suspected that it wouldn’t be so simple. To distract him from these thoughts, he happened upon one of the listed workshops.

The building was alive with the pleasant ring of hammers, the flickering of embers and the driving of bellows. A half-dozen apprentices worked the floor while the master himself showed Efrain the various devices commissioned.

“Of course, we have the wall cannons,” said the rotund man, his Karkosian muffled by a prodigious black beard, “and many of these are prototypes, but oh ho! Here’s a beauty I’m proud of.”

He picked up a heavily modified crossbow, using springs to complement its drawforce. When Efrain inquired as to its effectiveness, the man gestured to an armoured dummy, with several holes in its breastplate.

“Can rip right through thin plate and mail,” he grunted in Karkosian, “by the Bloody-Handed, it’s hard to load. Still trying to solve that. But if you’re in the mood for something gentle, take a gaze.”

He indicated a strange, small cylinder with a pointed tip and a strange button at the other end. He pressed the button three times with an audible click, and drew a squiggly line on a nearby piece of parchment. Efrain was fascinated.

“The spring builds up air pressure, and forces ink through a semipermeable membrane,” crowed the craftsman, with the definite tones of repeating what had been explained to him.

“I’ll have to keep an eye on that,” Efrain said, imaging note sheets pristine of spills and splotches.

There was something niggling at the back of his mind, something that the design had triggered in his imagination. Knowing better than to question his intuition, he followed that train of thought.

“Say…” he said, slowly at first, “why haven’t you thought of using the air pressure to launch projectiles?”

“Funny,” the man sniffed, “you’re not the only one to ask that question.”

“Oh?”

“Well, to launch anything substantial,” the man said, with a note of smugness, and one of repetition, “the amount of pressure you’d need to build would take far too long. Your men have been over it with those calculations.”

“And something insubstantial?” Efrain said.

“Maybe,” the craftsman said, “we did it with the pen after all. Haven’t had any orders for something like that though. Check the other workshops.”

Efrain thanked him, and hurried on to the festival, sensing he’d come frustratingly close to a conclusion.