"My love? Where are you? My love...?" I call out as I leave the bulb. I was already eager to return to his side and into his arms, but now I'm desperate for his touch. Having already lost him once, I cannot go through it again. Where is he? Where did he go...?

There's a pile of carved wood and many trees that have been uprooted since last evening-

My hands move close to my chest and tenderly collide and rub. With my knees almost doing the same, my points sink into the softened, dew-covered earth. I spot his cloak, hat, and mask lying on their own. Worry injects into me.

"My love!?" I call out loudly, but still with some restraint. Picking up his clothes, I bring them close to my face for the reassuring comfort. The smell lingering in the fabric and interior swells my nose. Relaxing me only slightly and it makes me long for him more.

The ground booms behind me and I twist sharply, minding my wounds. Excitement replaces the negative emotions and I watch him rise. His entrancing voice breaks the brief quiet and I drop his clothes. A slight hiss escapes me and I run as fast as I safely can.

"Huh?" he lets out as I gently crash into him, my arms wrapping around his torso.

"Mmmmmm!" I squeak without opening my lips.

"Something wrong!?" he calls out as I come to terms with his exposed face. I return to the hug, my true-voice glowing softly. So I can both show my joy and hide his features...

"No, everything is all right." I eventually coo, one of his hands slowly finding its place in my hair. He ruffles and I shake my head away to preserve its natural shape. A shiver goes down my spine at the feel of his hard, osibindah shell.

He looks around, his body shuffling its shoulders.

"Where did you go?" I ask, breaking the hug so I can see what he's bringing up. My eyes look at his item and then back at his face. Is that a piece of the sadroobell's jaw? He seems to have made a point of cleaning it, but I can still see how wet it remains.

"You said about how proof of its death might be useful. So, I went and got it after sorting out some branches for you and made sure there was nothing dangerous in the area."

"You left me on my own!?" I almost scream and flash.

"Only for a short moment! I've barely been gone," he explains, hands as palm-showing as they can be.

"That's not the point!" I want to snap on my reproach. But, I find myself putting his empty hand around mine.

"Uhm..."

"Please don't do that again, please..." I plead as I come to terms with how wet my eyes are getting. Never mind the risks of the wilderness. I don't like the idea of spending time away from him so close to only just having got him back.

"Alright, alright," he tells me in a tone that heavily hints at a lack of conviction to what I want. It doesn't matter if I am asleep and he only does it then. The principle, it's all that matters. Frankly, if I begin to have reason to suspect that is what he is doing, I'll never catch another night's sleep again. Not when such ideas are so poisonously seeded into my dreams.

"My love..." I beg, my grip tightening, "Please..."

My eyes keep the pressure on his, not leaving even for a blink. He sighs and slips away towards the bulb to grab his clothes and put them on. Even masked, I can tell his gaze is lingering on my hurt expression. His head twitches.

"Oh! The pile reminds me. Look!" he lets out with growing excitement and he brings over one of the branches. Smooth enough in cut to almost be mistaken for a limb of furniture.

Not knowing how to take the shift in topic, I try to put on a smile to match his joy, "It's a nice branch...?"

A short-lived laugh from me keeps the awkward silence at bay.

"No, no, no, no! I did this using magic!" he lets out and my prior thoughts vanish down the smallest imaginary speck of dust. I perk up with the same kind of excitement and joy he's showing. Only to stumble into a small pit of disappointment. I was never the one able to finally get a spell out of him. He probably picked this up during his time with the gods and goddesses.

But these thoughts do not invade my expression. His learning to use magic is too good. Very good. Superb, even!

"Can you show me?" I ask with my words while my heart screams its demands to watch. Maybe I had just the slightest bit of influence on him? I hope I have. If a simple carved name can appease the pride of builders and more, traces of me in his spell craft will suit me in turn.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

He presents his free hand, and my eyes focus on his palm. The usually oppressive nature of his unchecked aura is disturbed and a solid form appears on the inward curve of a finger. It's like he's coated the digit in a bubble of magic. He then uses it to cut into the bit of wood without ever properly digging his finger into it.

While I am glad for him, I am disappointed. I cannot see any notable influence from me. No signs of anything an ivy-mother could teach him. Yet, still, I am proud of what my precious love has accomplished.

His very first step in becoming a fully fledged witch!

He'll truly be able to live up to the future the divine imbued into his blood. My love for him grows, as does my love for the thoughts of the strong seeds he will put in me. Such steamy, passion-ridden thoughts come from such a simple step being taken. Growing stronger from here on out is all my love can accomplish and I will be able to watch it so closely!

"Well...? Is this how it is meant to be done?" he asks, his finger clearing up of its arcane manipulation.

"Meant to be? If that is how you figured out how to do it, then yes. Magic casting is not the same for everyone. It is much like life in that regard. It can be similar, but never the same." I explain, passing on the basics of how magic works. Something that not even spell-traditions and other lines of education can ever really ignore and get around. Despite my people's conservative approach to training new ivy-mothers, we all add something new to what we are capable of doing.

"I did it wrong?" he asks despite what I just told him and my head shakes clear and true.

"No, of course not!" I speak clearly, so he is aware.

Bringing up a hand, I let some of my external-magic flow from it.

"You very much did it right. You just will not be able to rely on others for help if that is what you were expecting. Magic, despite my efforts and that of the Valkinvar's, is not something that can be taught, like writing or sport. You may find a teacher, but they'll never be able to do it as a conductor or elder might." I explain, using various topic references so that he might be able to grasp how truly unique magic is.

"I sure hope I haven't just cut off my nose to spite the face..." he lets out with low-tone worry and I almost laugh caringly. It's cute he's so bothered by the idea he's largely on his own from here on out. What I've known for years is only what he's just learnt. I wish I could help him more, but how he's learned is so very different from how I first learned to cast.

Tutored from start to finish, whereas he has only been influenced.

Noting how it's lingering on in his mind, I shift my head to his pile and repay the favour, "So are these all for me to try?"

"Y-Yeah. I tried to make them as easy to grip as possible. Getting rid of anything in the way, you know, lumps and branches on the branch..." he lets out, a hand slipping under his hat to rub his head. Simply smiling, the awkwardness goes away. He hands me one over and I take it into my hands to find the best spot to grip. It's no staff of an ivy-mother, but it'll do.

Finding my place on the magically carved wood, I let my external-magic flow through it. One hand comes off to catch the droplet of pistachio green magic. As weak as I can make it while my body heals. As the orb solidifies seemingly, the branch falls apart like long dead and dried driftwood. The loss of the conduit puts a sudden burden on my body, but it's manageable, and I dismiss the weak magic.

"Anything thicker than that?" I ask my love as one of my naked points takes up the role of pointing at what remains. A pale coating of shards and splinters of wood slowly turning brown as they drink in the morning dew.

"That pile there is the thickest lot," he tells me as he starts to throw away the pile my last staff drew its lineage from. They fly off across the valley, bouncing or snapping on impact.

Nodding in thanks, I go to the pile he pointed at and pick up one of them. I place the narrow end into the dirt to ground it and add some additional mass to conduct my power through. Its thicker end sways in the air as I get used to the weight throwing my wound-minding focus off. Turning to his pile as it vanishes more and more, I smirk a little and aim.

He leaps away with a flinch as the pile explodes outwards. I laugh to my heart's content and he stares back. One of my hands gestures to the pile I am by while I try to find my words. My true-voice glows, answering him, but I am fully aware he doesn't hear me at all.

"These ones will do." I finally manage to answer and I inspect the branch for any obvious wear and tear. Nothing is standing out to me and what I can reliably cast without a conduit is not picking anything up either. But, still, maybe I should use a thicker branch, just in case? What I am casting right now as tests are not particularly strong and would not stop a descending sadroobell at all.

Finding what appears to be the thickest stick, I step a good distance away from anything else. Steadily, my magic approaches the glow and scale of what I cast to save my precious love back during the tournament. I'm certain I cannot cast such a powerful spell with such a meagrely crafted conduit. But its breaking form is giving me some idea of how powerful I can be.

Grass flattens and whatever debris catches on the tails of my swirling magic orbit me. Focusing the power, I aim at one of the trees he didn't uproot or damage. The spell lances from the branch's thick tip and breaks as it full leaves my control. Despite the issues, however, my magic still finds its mark and guts it of its integral trunk.

What I was aiming for would still fall if I were to do something this strong. Healthy oaks and thick iron aren't breaking to this kind of power. But, a sadroobell or wild animal around here most certainly will be thinking twice about this strength. Now comes a different question: how many branches can we take and how do we carry them?

This test just now is leading me to believe they'll only be good for one proper spell each...

"See'ya, I blimmin' told'ing ya that there'sa some folk this way!" a thickly accented man whines as the sound of many feet comes to a halt. Turning to the sight, I spot and watch a young human man and his kelbalid companion approach. Nin comes to my side and I watch his eyes lock onto the four-legged reptilian. Or maybe he's watching their weapons?

A gun for the human, seemingly traditional javelins for the kelbalid.

The pair stops and the human raises his hand, "Excuse me, you two! Have you perhaps seen a sadroobell flying down this way? Me and my dad are trying to hunt it!"

"Me'ya and my'ah dad are trying to hunts it." the kelbalid mimics mockingly only to receive a gentle stock to the nose. The pair go at it quietly, their armour making the most noise as their erratic gestures move the plates about.

"Do you happen to mean this!?" my love asks with a raised voice to break through their bickering.