Time-skip a few years later, and I was in school, learning the usual subjects: Math, English, History, Science, and Magic. Humans can only do magic via their connection to the Hearth Forge. We do magic by connecting our soul flames to the Forge, burning our Magic to "heat it up", and then force our will onto the world (like a blacksmith using themselves both as an anvil and as fuel for the forge to make a sword). The greater the spell, the larger amount of Magic you have to use up, and if you use too much Magic, you lose your flame and you die.
To do spells, you need imagination (you have to imagine the spell happening), will power (to control the spell), and Magic (to fuel the spell). If you lacked in any of those categories, you couldn't do magic.
Time-skip some more years later, and I was out of school, working for Mr.Servens, the local grocer. My family didn't have a lot of money. We never actually wanted for money, but every little bit helped.
"Kid, get these boxes downstairs," Mr.Servens said, annoyed. He pointed towards a large stack of cardboard boxes, probably filled with produce and some sort of freshening spell.
"Yes sir," I said, snapping a sloppy salute. Mr. Servens sighed at my antics and went back to counting the cash at the cashier. I imagined a few glowing hands coming to my disposal. A few seconds later, four ethereal hands popped into existence and I knew I used up 20 Magic and was using around two or three Magic a second. To those of you who haven't awakened yet, it's kind of like how I knew one plus one is two, or that the sky is blue.
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Snapping my fingers, I willed the hands to lift the boxes and follow me as I walked to the back and down the cellar door. Mr. Servens owned a small, but profitable, grocery store in the Eastern side of the city we lived in, ValHamar.
As I was in the back, lifting the cellar door, I heard Mr. Servens yell, "Get Out! Yer kind ain't allowed here," followed by a crash as something fell. Mr. Servens had a nasty habit of having a Western drawl whenever he was really mad. I dispelled the floating hands and raced out. Outside the door were two cultists banging on the doors, faces obscured by their hoods. Inside, Mr. Servens's face was twisted with rage and was waving his hands, forming a glowing blue seal on the doors of the store. After a few minutes, the cultists left.
"Stupid Vwarin," Mr Servens growled.
"Err, ah, Mr. Servers. What happened?" I asked, unsure of what to do.
"You saw what happened Cersin. Some, ah, cultists thought it would be a good idea to come harass a store owner. No, I can't say that, then I'd be no better than them. They came in, and I threw them out. I can already see the question on your face, so I'm going to tell you this way. One of the things about being a store-owner is this: you've gotta know about which people are gonna make trouble and which aren't. If they'd come without their robes, it would've been all fine, but they wore those robes, so they wouldn't have had any problem with slitting our throats and dancing on our graves," Mr. Servers said, his voice changing from tired to furious to apologetic.
"Ah. Ok," I said, not knowing what I was supposed to say.
"Great," he smiled tiredly, "now get back to work."