The light around Hageawn pulsed violently, tendrils of silvery mana seeping into his skin. His back arched as a sharp gasp escaped him, his hands clawing into the earth beneath him. The dirt gave way, crumbling under the tremor of his fingers.

“No!” Thery ran forward, her eyes wide. “What’s happening to him?”

Hageawn writhed on the ground, his breaths ragged and uneven. The light intensified, casting his face in stark relief—his features twisted with pain.

She turned to the Archmage, her voice trembling. “What did you do to him?”

Trevis didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Hageawn, his expression sharp and calculating. But a moment later, he turned sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Mages! Contain the storm!” Trevis’s tone was commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. “Anchor the outflow. Stabilize the mana before it spreads.”

The gathered mages, who had been frozen in stunned silence, immediately sprang into action. Hands rose, and threads of glowing mana began weaving into a protective barrier around the area. The storm of loose energy whipped at their cloaks and sent ripples through the air, but the mages held firm, their collective efforts forming a glowing lattice to corral the mana.

As the storm began to abate, Trevis stepped forward, the glow of mana rippling subtly around him. In the dim light of the Glade, his presence seemed to grow, commanding the very air around him. The faint shimmer of mana gathered at his feet, threading upward in soft, radiant wisps that clung to his robes like morning mist.

“He has gained control,” Trevis said, more to himself than anyone else.

“Control?” Thery echoed, barely audible over the hum of restrained energy. “Of what?”

“Mana,” Trevis said simply, his gaze unwavering. “The Agrestal state awakens raw potential, but it is chaos—a storm of mana without mastery. To gain control is to change. That is Spellcraft.”

Hageawn let out a strangled groan, his body convulsing as though some unseen force was tearing him apart. Beads of sweat slid down his face, his eyes squeezed shut. The air around him rippled with mana, its intensity warping the space. His limbs jerked unnaturally, his body contorting as though resisting the transformation.

Trevis took another step closer, his movements deliberate, his every gesture carrying the grace and precision of someone who had long mastered the flow of mana. His presence seemed to fill the space, commanding attention without effort. His robes, intricately embroidered with shimmering threads of light, shifted subtly with each step, as though they, too, were alive with mana.

“Hageawn,” Trevis said, his voice calm yet resonant, carrying a weight that silenced the air around him. “You must accept it. Who are you? What truth anchors you?”

“I don’t… know!” Hageawn rasped, his body arching again, the light flaring so brightly that Thery had to shield her eyes.

“You do,” Trevis countered sharply, his expression unyielding, his tone carrying both command and wisdom. “Stop fighting the truth. Accept it, or this will destroy you.”

Hageawn’s breaths came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving. “I don’t want this!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

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“But you took it,” Trevis said, his voice low but cutting, like steel wrapped in silk. “You reached for control. This is the path you’ve chosen. Let the chaos go, Hageawn, or it will consume you.”

With a strangled cry, Hageawn’s body collapsed into stillness. The light surrounding him dimmed momentarily, then surged forward in a blinding flash.

When the light finally receded, Hageawn lay motionless on the ground, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His skin glowed faintly, his features sharper, almost otherworldly. His ears—Thery blinked. Were they longer?

Trevis stepped closer, his towering form framed by the lingering shimmer of mana in the air. His silver-blonde hair caught the faint light, cascading down his back like liquid moonlight. His eyes, a deep, unearthly blue, glowed faintly with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the veil of reality itself. He stood not just as a man, but as a symbol of mastery, of a power that surpassed mortal understanding.

“Rejoice, Hageawn,” Trevis said, his voice both solemn and awe-inspiring. “You have glimpsed Spellcraft.”

The words hung in the silence, vast and full of meaning. Thery’s breath caught, her gaze darting between the Archmage and Hageawn, who still lay on the ground, struggling to process what had just happened.

“I don’t understand,” Hageawn rasped, his hands trembling as they pressed into the earth for support. “What… What is Spellcraft?”

Trevis’s lips curved faintly, a shadow of a smile. “It is the foundation upon which I achieved mastery,” he said. “But mastery is not the end—it’s only the beginning. Spellcraft isn’t about control, Hageawn. It’s about understanding.”

Hageawn blinked, his brow furrowing. “But I don’t—”

Trevis raised a hand, stopping him with a gentle motion. “You’re not meant to understand it yet. Spellcraft is a journey. A deeply personal one.”

The Archmage stood, his movements deliberate, and raised his hand again. Hageawn’s confusion deepened, but before he could question further, the air around Trevis shifted.

It was subtle at first—a faint stirring that prickled at the edges of Hageawn’s awareness. Then the glow began: threads of light weaving into existence, delicate and fluid, as though they were alive.

“This is my Spellcraft,” Trevis said softly. The threads shimmered, coalescing into an intricate pattern that hovered around him. It wasn’t like any spell Hageawn had ever seen. There was no incantation, no sharp command, no flick of a wand—only the effortless flow of mana, responding as if it were a part of him.

Hageawn stared, his breath catching. The threads didn’t just shine; they pulsed with meaning. He could feel it—calm, deliberate, unwavering. It wasn’t power for the sake of power. It was something far greater.

“You think I can teach you this,” Trevis continued, his voice low but steady. “You think there’s a formula, a set of instructions, a way to learn it like any other spell. But you’re wrong.”

The threads of light shifted, twisting into a new form—a reflection of something deeply personal, something that was unmistakably Trevis. Hageawn couldn’t describe it, but he felt it: the Archmage’s essence, his truth, laid bare in the glow of the mana.

“Spellcraft isn’t something I can give you,” Trevis said. “It’s yours to discover. Yours alone. This is my truth, my mastery, my journey. But your path will be different.”

He closed his hand, and the light dissolved, leaving only the faintest warmth in its wake. The air fell still, heavy with the weight of what Hageawn had just witnessed.

“You’ve already taken the first step,” Trevis said, his tone softer now. “You’ve felt it—the truth within you. Even if you don’t yet understand it.”

Hageawn stared at his hands, at the faint, fading traces of mana that lingered on his skin. He clenched his fists, his heart pounding with questions he didn’t know how to ask. Slowly, he looked up at Trevis, his expression growing resolute.

“Can you help me find it?” he asked, his voice steady despite the trembling in his limbs.

The Archmage’s lips curved faintly, a shadow of a smile. “No,” he said. “But I can show you what lies ahead. And when you’re ready, you won’t need me to show you anything.”

Hageawn’s gaze didn’t waver. For the first time, the weight of what lay before him didn’t feel impossible. It felt… right.

Trevis extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come, then. Let us see where your journey begins.”

Thery bit her lip, hesitation flickering in her gaze as she watched the Archmage pull Hageawn to his feet. The air around him pulsed with a subtle, commanding energy, and the sight of Hageawn’s transformation made her chest tighten. She clenched her fists, took a shaky breath, and then steeled herself.

She forced her legs to move, and stepped forward to follow.