The forest was silent save for the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the crunch of Malric’s bony feet against the forest floor. He had walked far enough to be certain he was alone, a clearing deep within the woods offering a shroud of shadows from the overgrown canopy. Malric halted, standing still as though frozen, his skull tilted slightly down to study his ribcage. The presence of the goblin shaman’s spine was a foreign sensation. It hummed faintly, pulsing with a power he did not fully understand.

Malric’s skeletal hand traced the base of his spine, where the shaman's gnarled, enchanted vertebrae now fused with his own. Every movement he made seemed accompanied by a strange resonance—a faint vibration as if the magic it carried was trying to stir itself awake.

He clenched his fists, focusing.

What is this power supposed to mean for me? he wondered, the thought laced with both curiosity and a flicker of unease. The shaman had wielded magic so easily, warping the world with his staff and chants. Yet now, with that same source in his possession, Malric felt like a child clutching a weapon he did not know how to wield.

He extended his hand toward the forest floor, his focus narrowing on a single leaf. It was small and dry, trembling slightly under the weight of a breeze. A sharp mental command reverberated through his mind as he drew upon the magic in his spine. For a moment, the leaf quivered unnaturally—then shot upward in a burst of energy, twisting violently in midair before disintegrating into ash.

Malric staggered back as a sudden crack of energy shot through his frame. His ribs groaned with the strain, and he clutched his chest, his skeletal fingers tightening over the reinforced goblin bones.

"Too much," he hissed under his breath, though no sound came from his lipless jaw.

The magic was wild, feral—like an untamed animal clawing at the edges of his being. It did not bend to his will as he had hoped but lashed out unpredictably, a force with no regard for precision. He straightened himself, his bony spine clicking into place.

Control it, or it will destroy you.

Malric’s resolve hardened. He reached out again, this time more cautiously. A handful of pebbles lay scattered at his feet, remnants of an old streambed. He focused on one in particular—a dull gray stone, unremarkable in every way. The hum of magic surged in his core once more, and the stone trembled, rising into the air.

It floated gently at first, stable. Malric felt a moment of triumph, but it was short-lived. The magic suddenly spiked, as if defying his restraint. The pebble shot upward with a sharp whistle, disappearing into the canopy above and leaving a jagged hole in the foliage.

Birds scattered from the treetops, their cries echoing across the forest.

Malric let out a low, soundless growl of frustration. He glanced at his hands, now slightly trembling as the magic still coursed through him, unruly and impatient.

"This is no simple tool," he thought bitterly. "It is a curse that demands mastery—or ruin."

He turned his gaze toward the forest edge, where the faint outline of trees seemed to shimmer faintly. Malric could sense something shifting around him, though whether it was the magic itself or the forest responding to his experiments, he could not tell.

The skeletal figure remained motionless, his thoughts spiraling. He had survived for so long by being deliberate and methodical, a predator who knew when to strike and when to wait. But magic... Magic did not obey those rules. It was chaos incarnate, something far removed from the cold logic of his existence.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Still, the power it promised was undeniable. If he could harness it, refine it, the possibilities would be endless.

Malric raised his hand once more. This time, he tried nothing elaborate. He focused on a fallen branch—a small, unassuming piece of wood lying in the dirt. The magic stirred again, but this time he let it come to him instead of reaching for it. It swirled gently, pooling at the base of his spine before flowing outward like a dark tide.

The branch rose slowly, hovering just above the ground. For a moment, it was steady. Controlled.

Malric’s skull tilted slightly, his eyeless sockets fixed on his handiwork. His grip on the magic tightened, and the branch began to twist unnaturally, bending and splintering under an invisible force. He felt a grim satisfaction as he crushed it completely, the splinters falling back to the earth like brittle raindrops.

But even that small victory was fleeting. The magic surged again, unbidden. Malric stumbled as his own bones creaked under the strain, the enchanted spine pulsing with raw energy. He slammed his hand against a nearby tree to steady himself, leaving a faint scorch mark where the magic had spilled over.

"Enough," he muttered in his thoughts. "I must learn, but not here. Not recklessly."

The forest grew quiet once more, the echoes of his experiments fading into the distance. Malric straightened, his cloak falling around his frame like a veil of shadow.

He stood alone, surrounded by the aftermath of his efforts. Broken twigs, charred leaves, and the faint smell of burnt wood lingered in the air. The magic within him continued to hum softly, a reminder that it was far from dormant.

Malric turned away from the clearing, his movements slow and deliberate. His mind churned with plans—not just for mastering the arcane force within him, but for the next steps in his journey. The magic was not an obstacle; it was a tool, a weapon waiting to be tamed.

For now, he would wait. The power could grow, but only in the hands of a master.

Malric disappeared into the shadows of the forest, leaving the clearing silent and still once more.

Malric moved deeper into the forest, his skeletal feet crunching softly against the undergrowth. He sought a place of isolation, somewhere removed from the prying eyes of mortals and the distractions of the world. The shaman’s spine pulsed faintly, an insistent reminder of the power he had claimed—and the chaos it had nearly unleashed.

The forest around him thickened as he pressed on, the towering trees growing closer together and the canopy above blotting out the light. Shadows grew long and heavy, but Malric’s hollow gaze pierced them with ease. Eventually, he came to a grove, its edges marked by twisted, moss-covered trees that arched over a small clearing. The air here felt different—still, ancient, and faintly charged. It was perfect.

He settled in the grove’s center, his body still as the world around him. The silence pressed down like a weight, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Slowly, he extended his clawed fingers and focused on the faint hum of energy that lingered deep within his bones.

Malric began his experiments with deliberate caution. He picked up a small stone and held it in his palm, focusing the magic coursing through him into a single thread. The stone trembled as if it resisted him, then shot out of his hand with a sharp crack, embedding itself in a nearby tree.

“Hm,” he thought, staring at the trembling branches. “The power is volatile, like a restless beast. Forcing it will achieve nothing.”

He tried again, this time lowering his expectations. Instead of commanding the magic, he coaxed it gently, as though encouraging a hesitant ally. A pebble rose an inch off the ground before dropping back into the dirt. Success, albeit fleeting.

The next attempts varied. Some stones hovered longer, others jerked and spun erratically before the magic fizzled out. Malric’s body shuddered with each misstep as the magic rebelled against his control. He clenched his jaw, frustration mounting. Yet, he persisted. Each failure taught him something new about the unpredictable force he sought to tame.

Over time, Malric realized that he was becoming more aware of the magic itself. It wasn’t just a tool to be wielded—it was a part of him now, thrumming faintly in his bones and resonating with the air around him.

Exhausted but undeterred, Malric shifted his focus. Manipulating the magic was too unstable for now. Instead, he needed to understand it. To feel it.

Sitting cross-legged in the grove, he closed his awareness off from the physical world. His body became still, his senses extending inward. He felt the magic pulsing within him, a steady rhythm akin to a heartbeat. Yet there was something more—faint vibrations beyond himself, a whisper of power in the air.

He concentrated on this external presence, stretching his awareness outward. At first, it was like trying to see through fog, the energy indistinct and fleeting. But as he focused, the world began to shift.

The grove came alive with an unseen pulse. The air shimmered faintly in his mind’s eye, threads of magic weaving through the trees and soil. He reached toward them with his awareness, brushing against the energy delicately, like a predator testing the wind.

Suddenly, the sensation deepened. The magic responded to him, as though recognizing his touch. Malric felt it coursing through the moss-covered stones at his feet, the roots beneath the soil, the very fabric of the world around him. It wasn’t power to be taken but a current to be understood.

A faint smile crept across Malric’s skull. This was what the shaman’s spine had given him—not just raw strength, but a window into the unseen. He rose to his feet, the grove now feeling less like an unknown expanse and more like an extension of himself.

“The magic of this world hides in plain sight,” he thought, the faint glow of triumph sparking within him. “But it will not hide from me for long.”

And with that, Malric stepped deeper into the forest, his skeletal form disappearing into the shadows.