Beck never really liked the feeling of getting his mind probed. At best, it was like an invisible rod prodding up from the bridge of his nose, up to the space between his eyes; at worst, it was like getting stabbed there. But it never hurt – that’s what made it so uncomfortable.

The Administer continued probing, taking the shining-blue translucent orb-shaped thing on the table, poking it around the sides, twisting it at the top, prodding here, jabbing there. Wherever the hooked tip of that wand went, shimmering swirls and clouds of mana followed, rippling out and colliding; drifting and settling. Sometimes the wand flickered, barely shining a brief yellow; other times, the light persisted for much longer.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” The Administer said between half-closed eyelids, smiling meekly. She looked only a few years older than Beck himself, but far past her years; messy hair put up in a bun, strands sticking out like the shell of a Dainfruit, with sunken cheeks suggesting she hadn’t indulged in the taste of one for ages. “Why’s your Reservoir always so hard to find?” She sighed. “Look, if you want, we could–”

“No!” Beck said, albeit with a bit more energy than he’d liked. “My bad, Yuna. This is the most accurate way, isn’t it? You can keep going.”

Yuna raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? If you like, I could set you up with someone else. I might not be… er… at my best right now.”

“It’s fine. You can keep going.” Beck repeated. The orb flashed a faint red. She snorted; his thoughts betrayed him. Yuna shrugged and continued probing, the wand’s tip transforming into the shape of a small teardrop. This time, it was like getting a deep massage on his head – with a rock. Beck sighed. The first parts of the Chaebra tests always went well for everyone else. Hell, with Kellin, it was usually done in a couple of seconds! Before him, the longest he’d heard a Probing drag on for was seven minutes.

He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. No good. Even with them closed, he could feel his mind being pushed around, sliced through, hooked; it was hard to go numb from the feeling when it changed every minute or so. But as long as it didn’t take up half the day, like last time. He pulled out a pocket watch: maybe once the steel shined, but as of now, the rims and backplate of the watch were caked with rust and dirt. The glass pane, though grubby, fortunately didn’t have any cracks; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to see the marks laced across the bottom. A small puff of flame and a droplet of water collided within the clock, filling the inside with mana and steam; once it disappeared through a small pore in the side, one of the marks on the bottom blazed a bright blue, then two more in a bright red. Four-o’-eight. They’d been at it for an hour now.

“There you are!” Yuna proclaimed suddenly, prompting Beck to shove the watch back into his pocket. He felt a gentle tugging in his chest, gripped at two points: His reservoir. She had it held gently by the tip of the wand, which was now oriented like a small dish. “Jeez, that took a while. And for good reason, too – I swear, this thing just keeps shrinking each time I see it.” Her eyes flitted to Beck, almost as if noticing him for the first time. “Oh. No offense, really. Really!” She plucked it out of the orb, and immediately the mass disappeared, save for the Reservoir.

Beck sighed, shifting to the edge of his seat. “I take full offense. I should get you fired for that.” Yuna suddenly tensed, almost dropping the Reservoir – or at least, the copy of it – onto the floor. It was like a dull pearl: no luster, no shine. Just faint bits of mana swirling around the outside – a small star, glowing with the intensity of a dying ember. “I’m joking! Hey, wait. I was only kidding. Sorry.”

Yuna gave him the stink eye. “Say shit like that again and I’ll chuck this at the wall. Then we can see who’s joking.” She sighed, pulling some papers out from the drawer. She slid them over to Beck, who formalized them without a moment’s notice. He’d been through this routine a lot in the past couple of months. “I can’t lose this job. Well, I could. But it’d be a pain to find a new one.”

“Anaestra’s always looking for new professors.” Beck couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Yuna as a teacher. “I wouldn’t mind having you for Cognitoscopy.”

“Like hell.” Yuna scooted over to an apparatus in the corner of the room – a Grader. An onyx platform covered almost the entire surface of a small tabletop, four concentric circles radiating out of each corner, each one different from the other. Rising from the center was a small pedestal, about the size of her wrist, surrounded by a few layers of flat stairs, with a small divot where the peak would’ve been. She placed the Reservoir inside the divot; at once, an array of engraved patterns and lines shone across the platform, filling the room with a meager bit of light. Yuna quickly scooted back to her table, hands hovering over pages, pens, bottles, before snatching a piece of parchment tucked under an open book, muttering under her breath.

As the Reservoir rolled to a halt on the pedestal, Beck barely kept on his seat, craning his head for a view. The anticipation made him shed a few beads of sweat a little; maybe this was the day he could finally graduate from–

“Egra.”

“What?”

“Egra.” Yuna scrawled something onto the piece of paper before plucking the Reservoir from the apparatus, where it promptly vanished with a faint shimmer.

“No, that can’t be right.” Beck’s lip quivered slightly. “I mean, come on! You barely even looked at it. Can you at least look one more time?”

“Beck.” She slipped the paper over to him. Several categories were printed on the left-hand side of the paper: Reserve. Influx. Transience, Resonance; save for one, all were marked with that dull, drab E. “I’m certain. And if it helps — I’m sorry that I’m certain.”

Beck sucked in his teeth, letting out a heavy sigh. Lips pursed, he crudely folded it and put it inside his robe-pocket. But even so, he couldn’t help but crack a small, defeated grin. “At least Resonance went up a grade. That’s a step up from last time.”

Yuna nodded slowly, silently. A pervasive quiet hung in the air for some time. “Beck. I’m sure if you wanted, you could aim for one of the higher families as a Cogniscoper.” She said. “At that level, you wouldn’t be able to spend all the money you’d make. At the very least, you wouldn’t end up like me. Why do you even want to be a Surveyor in the first place?”

“It’s what I want to do.” Beck shrugged, rising from his seat. “Who said the Chaebra tests were the end-all-be-all?”

“The recruitment guidelines for literally every Band out there.” Yuna got up, taking papers and books and shoving them to the shelves. “Think rationally. Would you want an Egra in your band?”

Beck hesitated, turning away from Yuna. “Why not?” He said after a long pause. “It’s not like they’re some rare occurrence.”

“If you’re talking about the low-life ground-level bands, then yeah. They’re not a rare occurrence. But would you really join one of those?”

“Only if they’d take me to the Horizon.” A slight grin spread across his face. “What, you seriously think those ones’re my only options? I didn’t know you thought so lowly of me!”

Yuna couldn’t help but return his smile. It was infectious, in a way. But as soon as it appeared, it left, replaced with a flippant scowl. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you die out there.” She motioned him out, and he promptly took a step out the door.

…

He took the assessment paper out from his pocket as he walked aimlessly down the school halls. It was raucous, bustling with people; some celebrated as they bragged to others about their scores, but others seethed alone in disappointment. He’d made sure to book his appointment for his test at the earliest possible time, but it seemed that that wasn’t enough to escape the crowd. His eyes wouldn’t break away from those E’s in each category, those graphs with tiny peaks – but hey, he had an N in Resonance! That was something to be proud of. At least, for him. Sure it took half a year to get that level – half a year of sleep-deprived days and restless nights – but what’s to say he couldn’t do the same for the rest?

If I cut down on the time I spend eating, and cut down even more on the time I spend doing work, then I could probably focus on Amplification next. He folded the paper gently, tucking it back into his robe. Worst comes to worst, I’d have to cut down on my classes. He shuddered. Anyone could do without another Arcane Theory class, especially those taught by Scholar Elrod. Those were the worst.

He would’ve continued like that, absentmindedly fantasizing about how much he could sacrifice for more practice, but he felt a sudden tap on his shoulder. However, when he turned his head no one was there; no one he knew, anyway. He jerked his head to the left – no one still. He furrowed his brow, irritated.

“If you want my attention, just say so straight up, Killen.”

“You noticed so soon?” A voice chimed from above. Suddenly, Beck wasn’t walking alone. Shimmering into view from his peripherals, as if manifesting from thin air, appeared a familiar, tall countenance. Beck huffed expectantly as more came into view: Long, wavy black hair curtaining a darkened, chiseled face and narrow brown eyes; a perfect, dustless mantle trimmed with gold – the hallmark of an Alphrodia – covering a clearly ironed, buttoned up shirt; if Beck didn’t know better, he would’ve thought he was some sort of model from the Higher Ends. “And I thought I’d gotten better at that trick.”

Beck snorted. “Maybe if I were blind it would’ve worked.”

“Maybe.” Killen shrugged. Beck felt the sudden urge to elbow the man, to which he indulged in. “Ow.”

“At least say something back! It’s not fun if you just take it lying down like some…” He paused for a moment. “Like some mangy, dead dog!”

Killen raised an eyebrow. “That was all you could come up with?”

Yes. “No.”

“If you say so.” They passed by some people, Killen offering a small wave, Beck facing straight forward, hands tucked into his robes. “You haven’t asked me the question yet.” Killen said after a while. “I’m surprised.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need to ask to know how it went. Not like you’re flaunting it around your neck or anything like some lunatic.”

“Aw. But it’s the nice thing to do, right? If anything, it keeps us from walking in silence.”

“Rather silence than your yapping.” Beck grumbled. “Alphrodia? Weren’t you only Norra, like, a year ago?”

Killen’s mouth curled into a smirk. He entered as a Norra, only a grade above Beck himself; he couldn’t begin to fathom how quickly he rose through the ranks in such a short time. Most took years to even reach the baseline for advancement. Some never did at all. His eyes fell back to that mantle falling around his shoulders, the edges lined with rose-gold and silver embroidery, connected around the neckhole by a translucent opal chain that glowed softly in the light. Tacky.

“What’s with this, anyway?” Beck said, pinching a part of the mantle.

“Is that envy I sense?”

“‘Course not. But d’you see anyone else wearing theirs?”

Killen scoffed. “Since when have I cared about anyone else?”

“I don’t know, maybe, just now when you were mewling for me to ask you your rank. Or did you already forget?”

“Was only wondering when you’d catch up. If ever.”

“Hmph! I’ll be up there soon enough anyway.”

Killen’s lips curled into an inquisitive frown. “You’re Tulria? Already?”

His words were like a punch to the gut. “No.” He maneuvered his way between two people, barely weaving himself through them. “But it’s only a matter of time before I am!”

“So you’re Egra still.”

“No!” Beck looked away indignantly. “If I were, though, what would you do?”

“You think I’d be able to do anything?” Killen said gruffly. “It’s your Reservoir. There’s only so much I can do aside from half-hearted cheering.”

“‘Half-hearted?’” Beck said. “Didn’t realize you hated me now.”

Killen looked down at him with a fake coldness. “Beck Danor, I despise you with the core of my being. I hate waking up in a world where you’re alive.” He started to raise his voice. “I touch myself at night at the thought of–”

Beck elbowed him again before he could say anything further, his face contorting in disgust. “I was joking, you fool! Cut that shit out!”

“I wasn’t.”

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “With how irritating you are, it’s a wonder that you’re still in Dangrief’s lab.”

“Do you want my spot?”

“I’d rather take Elrod again.”

Killen eyed him curiously. “I was under the impression you liked that class. Made me wonder why you were so into theory when you hardly put it to use.”

“You’ve got it mixed up.” Beck sunk his hands deeper into his pockets – an idle habit of his he’d picked up forever ago. “I don’t care about the theory, not one bit. The only reason I pay it any mind is ‘cause it’ll help my casting.”

“Does it?”

“Not yet.” He kicked an invisible rock, but almost tripped over someone’s shin. “Not entirely, anyway. Resonance went up a grade, though. That’s gotta say something!”

“You’re not trying to get into a Band, are you?”

“And if I were?”

Killen’s brow furrowed slightly. “Egras hardly get into decent bands, nevermind one connected to a family. And before you start about the ones who do get taken in–” Killen said as Beck tried to interject. “Those ones usually either end up dead, or as pack mules. You should know this better than I do.”

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Beck crossed his arms. “I already knew, no thanks to you.” It was true. Lower level bands didn’t even have the authority to turn over to the Horizon; their very bodies couldn’t handle the strain. In the end, they either resorted to grunt work-type requests or worse, crime. But there had to be one out there – one that, on the off chance, would accept him, and take him to the World Border, where he could cross over himself. “What about you? You’ve got anything lined up after Anaestra?”

“Dangrief wants me to keep working in his lab,” He began. “They’re offering me a nice sum to keep doing research here. I got an offer from Illis to start doing R&D there, though. The Yuran Knights want me to join their mage division, but that’d mean another Chaebra test – I don’t feel like going through another one.”

Beck frowned slightly. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, huh?”

“And that’s not even the tip of it. But there’s really only one that I think you’d be interested in.”

“Which is?”

“Liar Court.” He let those words hang in the air for a second. “They contacted me. It appears they’re interested in my talents.”

Beck looked at Killen straight in the eyes, dumbfounded. In his astonishment, he stopped in the middle of the hall – though fortunately, the crowd began to thin as they approached the end of the corridor. “They did?!” He shouted, but as some passerby turned to look, swiftly covered his mouth with a hand. “They did?” He repeated in a whisper.

“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s only for the first round of recruitment, after all.”

“Killen, no one’s gotten an invitation from Liar Court in our year. Hell, I’m not sure if anyone’s gotten them in the higher years either.”

Killen shrugged. “You mistake me. It’s not that big of a deal for me since I might not even show up.”

“Are you insane?” Beck hissed. “Stupid? Did the herbs in Dangrief’s lab finally seep into your skull?” He knew that Killen was joking – or at least, he hoped he was – but Beck couldn’t bring himself to meet that impish expression he knew would be plastered across Killen’s face. Or worse: cold apathy, as if Liar Court was such a thing that could be brushed off like lint on a shirt. “I can’t believe you’re taking this so lightly. You’re going. I won’t let you skimp out on something this huge.”

“Mm.” Killen rubbed his nape, tilting his head dismissively. “Liar Court’s a bit of a reach though, isn’t it? I don’t want to look like a fool there. It’s better not to show up. Besides, what’s to say that the invitation wasn’t an accident?”

“Bands that prestigious don’t make mistakes.”

“If you say so.” He said. “Why are you taking this more seriously than I am, anyway?”

Beck glared at him, watching the expressions on Killen’s face twitch with slight amusement. Of course. “‘Cause someone’s got to. And it sure as hell ain’t you.” He broke away with a sigh, slightly rubbing his temple. Liar Court. Liar Court. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“Funnily enough, no. You’re the only one who’s had the privilege of knowing.”

“I wish I didn’t.” He groaned quietly, rubbing his eyelids. “But I guess it was only a matter of time for you. I just wish you realized how crazy that is! It’s rare enough just to get accepted into a Band at nineteen, and Liar Court invited you. Un-fucking-heard of.” He clapped Killen on the back, partly congratulatory, partly annoyed. “Great work.”

Killen was unfazed by the hits. “I can’t help but wonder about the sincerity behind that.”

“I mean it. Because I know you would’ve done the same if it were me.” His mouth shifted into a meager smirk. “Unless you wouldn’t have?”

Killen paused, looking slightly surprised. But before long, he gave a nonchalant response, playfully nudging Beck in the arm. “I would have.”

…

The ferrous scent of Steelweave residue filled the air as Beck paced down a hidden channel in the walls. He carefully passed over dusty remnants of boxes, the splintered remains of barrels and tables; his robe caught onto a teeth-like set of edges from a wooden plank, likely the remains of a chair; he could taste the age of the air with every new inhale of dust and microscopic debris.

Most of the channels were blocked, with exits leading to nowhere. He’d read that before Anaestra was seized by Nalin, it had been an impenetrable fortress of stone and iron. The channels in the wall were only discovered after a few mischievous daredevils decided to ditch an Alchemy final, and after more and more began to notice students missing from attendance during exam days – that’s how the legend goes, anyway. The Scholars found sealing them to be more work than it was worth, since they’d always be cracked within a month or so. Fake exits worked better; the story of that Norra who’d gotten lost in the channels made the hairs on Beck’s skin stand up for a couple of days after he’d heard it. But he didn’t need to memorize all of the paths – just one.

Occasionally, the sounds of thumping footsteps echoed from overhead; from the side; a garbled fog of voices from all over – today, dinner seemed to be the subject of conversation. Beck pulled out his watch again. The burning numbers were like a beacon in those tiny, dark corridors. Five-o’-two. Another missed dinner. It was fine. He’d just sneak into the back of the cafeteria after he finished. Cold food was still food, after all.

He brushed his hand over the walls, letting his thumb trace the cracks where each stone met, feeling the dust build over his finger before brushing it off on his pant leg, only to put it back shortly after. When he felt the wall end, he turned right, then left, descended down a narrow staircase, minding his step so as not to fall. Eventually, he reached his destination: A dead end.

Beck took a deep inhale, trying to align himself with the silence. Yes – the chatter of the school was only a dull afterthought. The dust in the air hung still, suspended in frozen motion. His quickening heart and his racing mind were; No. He shouldn’t focus on that. That could wait.

Kneeling down to the floor, he pulled out a stub of chalk and started tracing the outlines of a ritual circle onto the floor. It was crude, since he could barely see in the dark, but he’d memorized it after countless instances. Eventually it took up the entire floor – not that there was much floor to begin with – with calculations, circles, and axioms in white. He closed his eyes. He took a step back. He steeled himself.

“Spatia.”

At once, it was like the space around him began to collapse on him, crush him; as if he were being compressed through a tiny hole, squeezed into the floor. In the dark room he could see the stars – hazy, shining with deep shades of purple and blue and red – and feel the energy in his body leak out from his body, as if someone poked a thousand fist-sized holes into him. He was in the walls, in a classroom, on the tallest spire, but each passing scene looked as if it were put through a veil, a filter, of incandescent, coalesced color. Hazy but clear, clarification in chaos: It was a storm of everything, nothing, and everything again. His thud to the floor was only a passing thought.

“I heard they’re making Leuswine Stew today!” A voice reverberated in his mind. “I’m beyond tired…” Another. “Asta changed the due date of our paper. AGAIN. It’s…”

His hands flailed over his head, clutched to his scalp. “Magical Principle revolves around three main tenets…” “Of Senbaris, only four ever made friendly contact with the Wro’tsun Peninsula…” It barely helped. If anything, it hurt more– but then, why did he feel so weightless? So unbound?

But then, the sensations; those savage oppresses; ceased. Beck collapsed to the floor, sprawled against the ground. No longer was he in the castle. If he could turn his head, he’d see it far in the distance, the setting sun a hazy halo around the skyward, grasping spires.

He lay on the ground for a bit, feeling a soft wind brush gently against his cheek, flowing through his hair. As his face rested on verdant green blades of grass, he felt the evening dew drip onto his brow, coagulating with globular beads of sweat forming before dropping into the dirt like some overripe fruit. Rolling over to his back, he held a hand towards a canopy of massive multicolored trees overhead as he breathed in the crisp air. Eventually, with the rise of a birdsong, he sat up, though not without difficulty. Every fiber of his being wailed with soreness; even ones he didn’t know existed beforehand.

This was why he hated teleportation. Shifting through space, though novel, was something only the most established magicians could stomach easily, just because of the sensory overload. It already required a great surge of mana; Beck was only lucky that the dead end somehow had enough vestigial mana to offset the cost. The ritual circle he drew offset it further. But that was the worst cast he’d had in years – the spot was surely being drained, and it’d serve him well to find another one sooner rather than later.

With an aching body he raised to his feet as he took in his surroundings. He was at the base of a hill, a great forest surrounding it – trees climbing as high as a watchtower, rustling with the passing of a lazy zephyr. At the top of the hill was a gazebo, made with the considerations of a style unknown, or rather, forgotten. It could’ve been stark white at some point, but time was an architect more privy to duller tones. Most of the pillars holding it up had faded to a sagely gray, vines and flowering blooms coiled around them. Nature seemed to take a liking to the roof’s left side; stems and blossoms and leaves coalesced into a mass of green at the top, supplanting bygone shingles and wood. An Arch-Florologist could spend days – no, hours – poring over the flowers blooming from that spot alone: a green ocean dotted with vermillion, cyan, violet, emerald, white. Beck wasn’t an Arch-florologist though. He only dabbled.

He made his way atop the hill, letting the floral scents fill his lungs. Which he sorely regretted; alone they were sweet, spicy, succinct; together they were sickly. His hand brushed over the side of a fallen pillar, covered in moss, as his eyes swept over the interior of the gazebo until it landed on a single flower hanging from overhead: A Yenzana. Holding it by the stem – or rather, stems, since a blossom was attached to seven different stems – he plucked a petal from it, cupping it tenderly in his hand. But without a moment’s hesitation, he shoved it into his mouth, swallowing it in one go.

It felt like his body was on fire, but not in a way that hurt. Rather, all of his aching seemed to burn away – his soreness, his fatigue – all were reduced to scorched memories. Once the sensation faded, he felt like he’d just woken up from a full night’s sleep; energized, alert, but most importantly: He was ready to work.

“Honn’uo.” Beck uttered. After the command, thin streams of teal energy began to join into a point in front of him. It grew, grew some more, until it was about the size of his head: It shifted in the air, pausing for a moment – as if it had to remember what it was to become – before it contorted roughly into the shape of a glowing book. At Beck’s touch the energies dissipated, leaving behind only a browned, aged grimoire. Innumerable amounts of paper slips jutted out from the pages, like the flat teeth of some animal. The title was barely visible, even after brushing the cover off with the cuff of his robe: The Principles of Spellcasting: Vol. 1. For a time, Beck wondered if he still needed to refer to the book – he’d memorized everything in a frustration-induced fervor within two nights, spurred on by a humiliation in a duel – but once each minute theory began to bleed into the next, he knew that even his mind wasn’t capable of being such an archive.

He flipped to one of the opening chapters of the book: Basics of Projection. His eyes settled onto a particular passage:

Dwarves have steel. Elves, the spirits. Orcs, spears and swords. But humanity? Throughout human history, never have we carved a niche for ourselves in the world – until we learned of the code behind the ground we walk, the air we breath; the water we drink and the fire in our hearths. The first spells were mere projections of will, given shape by our minds; however, that was thousands of years ago. Nurezh, Ulfgar, Janey and Morris; Onodera, Ryuuzin, Jacobs and Lorey; along with the countless contributions of magicians today; constantly challenge and push the boundaries of what we know as ‘magic.’

That being said, one cannot hope to reach the frontier of the field without fundamentals; Projection is learning how to swing a sword, invoke a spirit, shape iron. It is the most ubiquitous, fundamental form magic may take.

Numerous arguments and theses have imposed the idea that Projection is at the center of magic at large – and for good reason. At its core, projection is imposing one's will on the mana around oneself, giving it shape, form, properties. Enchantment is the art of imbuing the inanimate with magic; blessings and curses, though the devout vehemently deny it, are merely direct projections of magic onto another being.

Theoretically, a toddler could cast a fireball. Yet, most cannot even conjure an ember. Why? Because, unless that toddler had an absurd control over the Tetral Divisions, he wouldn’t even begin to comprehend the compressions, amplifications, modifications and calculations he’d need to form one. His metaphysical mind would hemorrhage from the inside, leaking astral blood, until he’d end up permanently cut off from the Wellspring – or perhaps worse, dead. So the problem arises: with all considerations to be made, how could one process a spell despite the myriad information involved?

We credit Dr. Yunul Nurezh for the genesis of modern magic. With the discovery of the magic circle – Cirun, or Cirae, plural – everything could be processed in a singular, elegant fashion. Dr. Nurezh was…

The rest of the text was a history lesson. Beck read ahead, reviewing the details of the magic circle, and how they were derived from the Tetral Divisions; and how the Tetral Divisions were to be taken into account during spellcasting. Reserve, Input, Exertion, Resonance. The core four, as his peers liked to call it.

He set the book down onto one of the wooden posts, walking back out of the gazebo. Now then – what would be a good target? A pillar? The ground? A bunny? He toyed with the last thought before realizing how morbid it’d be, instead turning his attention towards the bark of a nearby cherry tree. Now that was a target.

Focus. He held his hands out at his sides, letting the charge of the air invigorate his being. Exert your will onto the world. Clutch that mana, and control it. A tingling sensation spread from his index, then to his palm, then all around his hand before it stopped at the wrist; energy surged and pulsed and danced across his fingertips, bouncing, darting, breaking. He grit his teeth; now came the hard part.

He struggled for control over the forming spell, reciting calculation after calculation in his head: Fighting for the correct amount of input, perilously sieving for resonance; wrestling as much as he could to stop it from breaking free, supplementing leaks with mana from his own Reservoir. Sheer will only altered mana into a usable form; calculations were what gave magicians agency over it. Bringing his hands together at his chest, he allowed the two orbs of energy to absorb one another, creating a larger, more volatile mass of magic; he stumbled as it was birthed, digging his heels into the ground, as sudden gusts of wind began to swirl around him.

“Keep it… together.” He groaned to himself. The words hooked into his brain, but came loose as soon as they dug in. “KEEP IT TOGETHER!” This time they were a desperate roar, ringing out in the growing tempest, but only for a moment. They faded with a rising whirring from the spell, the whipping of the wind; his heart beating in his throat, the clamoring of calculations in his mind.

Suddenly, the winds calmed. The spell ceased its efflux of energy, stabilizing, shrinking, until it was no more than the size of his face. It thrummed calmly as he cupped it between his palms, only now conscious of shallow breaths and his trembling hands. Like paper-thin circlets, Cirae coiled around his wrist and forearms, unfamiliar symbols and characters etched into the flickering edges of each one. Silver sparks leaked from the borders as the magic circles turned at snail’s pace, as if they were itching for release; or, more accurately, a command.

He barely reeled back control of his breaths. Keep it together, Beck. Focusing in on himself, he allowed his mind to cool, making an effort to maintain some semblance of control. It’s all good. Concentrate.

But as he did, he felt a break in the spell, and the panic surged back. Did he miscalculate the intake? A vulnerability in the membrane? A chink in the integrity? His mind raced through a thousand different scenarios of what went wrong, and even more of what could be done. Though physically, he was still frozen, idle; and in that moment of hesitation, the mana slipped through his fingers like water, the Cirae sputtering out with a meager flicker.

“Wh–” He cut himself off with a gasp. His eyes darted between both of his hands, still trembling, but without any trace of magic within. Beck tried to call the remnants of the spell back to himself, reaching out with the sparse amount of effort he could spare. Yet it was too late. The magic was long gone.

As soon as he realized, he brushed his hand through his hair, clenching the top with a tight fist. Slack-jawed, mouth agape, eyes in exasperated disbelief – he was so close. So close. But no; just when it came into view, his goal, to cast a single spell on his own, zipped back out of view. He shook his head, clenching his teeth in bitter disappointment.

He took a knee to the ground, eventually taking a seat as he reclined onto the slope of the hill. Attempt whatever-number-this-is: Failure. Beck sunk into the grass, his head nestled by a small bed of flowers. As his gaze turned to the sky – the clouds retreating to the horizon, partly shrouded by the forest’s canopy – he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of envy seep into his mind. Killen could’ve done that in his sleep. Hell, anyone else, even from the lower years, could’ve done it. Natural Egras were as exceedingly rare as natural Alphrodias, but not because they were prodigies; because they were the opposite. The worst Norra still had a greater Reservoir than the best Egra. Even they would’ve closed out the spell with ease. They probably wouldn’t need a magical circle, either. He’d seen innumerable amounts of his peers forgo Cirae Theory just because their Reservoirs were more than capable of supplying mana alone. Must’ve been nice.

A petal landed on his lip, which he blew away after letting it sit for a second. Was it because I couldn’t handle the Resonance? He wondered, trying to take his mind off of the envy. No. Then, was it the– No. That couldn’t have been it. Answer after answer flooded his mind, all revealed equally unfeasible with a moment’s inquisition. But before long, he stopped posing answers; he stopped posing anything at all, really. For a time, he lay there, at the foot of the hill, the shadow of the gazebo across his face, watching vestiges of night creep into the evening sky. Then, a question: What would Killen have done?

Beck snorted. The answer was simple: He’d have just… cast the spell, no questions asked. If he wanted, he could probably do it in his sleep with his hands tied behind his back. Meanwhile, what could Beck do? Conjure, but not cast? It took all he had just to stabilize the magic, and even then it failed.

He turned over in the grass, letting the blades prick against his cheek. Killen already managed to secure an audition with Liar Court. And if he wanted, he could probably make it in; the first from Anaestra in years. But what about Beck? When he left the academy, could he even make it into any band at all? Lower-level bands would find more value in his possessions than himself, nevermind any of the mid-level ones. It’d be a miracle if they even batted an eye in his direction.

He rose from the grass, making his way back to the gazebo. At the end of the day, these thoughts were meaningless – just self-imposed doubts. He’d get there eventually; maybe not Liar Court, but in a band; and then, the Horizon. He needed to.

All I need is more time. Beck touched the still-open grimoire, causing it to flicker and disappear in a swirl of light. He felt some of his energy return. Night had yet to fall; maybe he’d take another shot.