Not many Artists can pride themselves to have reached the stage of a Wielder. While a User might also be able to control the Arts, a Wielder’s control and finesse are on an entirely different level. The awakening of an affinity is commonly associated with an instinctive control over it, enabling the Wielder to react both faster and more efficient than a User.

However, even between Wielders there may be a large discrepancy regarding their power, as a Wielder may awaken any number of affinities before breaking through to the next stage. The more affinities awakened, the more versatile their use of the Arts. Jyvur, a Wielder so talented the Archmage himself lowered himself to teach him, has been known to have awakened four different affinities. Sadly, Jyvur perished by the hands of the Bane during a field trip in the south.

Excerpt from The Stages of the magical Arts: Wielder by Zakaria Bates

Tip of the spear held high, Silas put his weight on the back of his foot. Three arrows shot at him, each one from a different direction. Reaching out to two of them, he willed them to slow down, easily ducking under the third. Two of the projectiles turned in mid-air, now pointing at his master as they floated beside Silas.

Silas crouched, spear held firmly in front of him. The snow crunched under his feet as he bolted forward. Tom remained expressionless, one hand behind his back. Both arrows began to vibrate before shooting forward with explosive power. From atop Silas’ shoulder, two wooden needles launched themselves at Tom. The spear in his hands struck in rapid succession, each one aiming at a different spot. The old man calmly slapped the arrows with the back of his hand and bend his torso to dodge each of Silas’ strikes as well as Gnarly’s needles.

“Too slow. Your moves are too predictable, and your eyes and the position of your feet betray your intent. Again,” the old man said, another arrow joining the three already circling him.

Silas moved his shield to the right to prepare for another barrage of attacks.

Nowadays, their spars took up most of Silas’ time. Sometimes, his master used his spear, sometimes his bow, and other times, such as today, nothing but his bare hands. Not once had Silas managed to graze the old man’s coat. And each time, their spars became more intense.

Silas winced as he remembered what Tom had called “a spontaneous lesson in field surgery”. Pulling the arrow out all by himself had been very painful. To think that he had once complained to the old man about the pain from their earlier spars, back when they had still used blunted weapons. That was a long time ago, though. Even if the grumpy old man would not admit it, Silas knew he had gotten better, especially so during the last few fortnights. His Inner Landscape felt like a pot that was just about to boil over, and he sensed his Art clearer than ever.

Yet despite his apparent progress, Silas had been unable to awaken his affinity. While controlling multiple objects became easier with time, trying to force his affinity into his Landscape felt like trying to pull a rope with greasy hands.

“But how do I awaken my affinity, master?” Silas asked after Tom called an end to their spar. “Whatever I do, it just keeps slipping away.”

“Awakening one’s affinity is not something that can be forced, apprentice. Try to understand your Art first. Envision how it would fit into your Landscape, and let it follow its natural course.”

Silas gritted his teeth. This was basically the same thing the old man had told him a moon ago, just worded differently.

“Imagine it as a river you need to free from a dam. While you want the river to flow, you cannot force it to flow in a different direction than it is meant to already. Open yourself to your Art, and the river will flow through you.”

The old man and his stupid comparisons. Why could he not just tell Silas what he needed to do to break through and become a Wielder?

A while later, the two sat around a small fire, a bowl of rabbit stew in their hands. While the winter had been harsh, the first crocuses were already fighting their way through the thin blanket of snow, their purple petals filling the clearing with color. Raising the first spoon to his mouth, Silas enjoyed the familiar taste as he momentarily closed his eyes. Through his Artsight, he noticed a branch that suddenly sped towards him from his left. Silas smirked.

The branch stopped a foot away from him before falling back down. Gulping the food down, Silas slowly opened his eyes and regarded Tom with a cocked eyebrow.

The old man let out a dissatisfied grunt. “This was more fun back when you didn’t see them coming.”

“I thought this was a training exercise.”

“Never said such a thing,” Tom replied as he finished his bowl. “Don’t let your frustration influence your training. Awakening your affinity can only be achieved with a calm heart.”

***

Silas concentrated on the fog within his Inner Landscape. Letting the air fill his lungs, he guided the energy through his lungs and into his heart before breathing out again. After finishing with the bones, Tom had instructed him to infuse his lungs and heart. Silas still didn’t understand where his master had learned this technique. While Silas did see the results in his bones, he wondered what effects it would have on the other parts of his body. Besides, why had he never heard about this odd method before?

He rested for a bit afterwards, waiting as his Landscape recuperated. His senses locked onto the piece of wood in front of him. For him to become a Wielder, the only step left was to awaken his affinity and incorporate it into his Inner Landscape as his first real Art. However, his previous attempts had been nothing but a failure. The Art eluded him every time, almost as if it didn’t want to be part of his Landscape.

He glanced at Gnarly. His wooden friend lay to his right, playing with a few wooden sticks that circled slowly above his head. Using the Art was so easy for him. It seemed natural, like the Art was already a part of him. But was the same not the case for Silas as well?

Controlling wood was way easier than stone or earth, so the Art had to already be inside him, somehow. Yet, something seemed to be missing. Something important. There was a certain sense of familiarity whenever he probed into the stick. The deeper he looked, the more intricate the stick became to his senses.

There was so much more to it than what his eyes could perceive. The stick vaguely hinted at connections to other Arts, some clearer than others. Earth and Water were likely to be present, yet other Arts seemed so vast, so complex the Art of wood felt like a speck of dust in comparison. Even though he could not get a grasp on them, it seemed to him they unified many other, smaller Arts beneath them.

Silas delved into the wood. It began to resonate with parts of his Inner Landscape. Like two magnets, his Landscape and the Art slowly started to attract each other. He concentrated on his breathing, wary to disturb the sudden insight. Instead of using force, he carefully guided the Art toward his Inner Landscape. Invited it. The elusive feeling tugged the borders of his Landscape, and the Art of wood met the white and dense mist. The Art momentarily shied back, the attraction waning.

With a calming breath, Silas carefully created an empty space in his Inner Landscape. Ever so tentatively, the Art crept into the open space, nudging its way back in. Now came the most difficult part: assimilating the Art into his Landscape. While the two had come close before, they had always separated the moment they touched. A thin tendril of white mist probed the Art, gently touching it.

Silas shuddered.

The Art quivered, and Silas felt how it slowly flowed along the tendril and into his Landscape. Light, but sturdy. Impactful, yet calm. Another tendril joined the first, and the Art suddenly began to shake with tension. One of the tendrils snapped off. The second barely held, stretched thin as the Art continued to quake. Silas covered the tendril with white fog, strengthening it as the Art gradually calmed down. Letting the connection solidify, Silas carefully attached a second tendril to it.

A light hum reverberated through his Inner Landscape as more parts of the Art moved along the two tendrils. The fog gained a slightly brownish tint, and a third tendril latched onto the Art. The humming intensified, and an odd pressure began to build in his lower chest. The breath got stuck in his lungs, and his eyes began to water. His muscles cramped. Until suddenly, like a cork released from a bottle, the pressure vanished. The Art flooded into his Landscape, and Silas took a deep, shuddering breath as he opened his eyes. He sat there, heaving and sweating, the patch of earth around him bare in the otherwise white and silent clearing.

Stolen novel; please report.

Three large branches flew to his side. A slow smile crept upon his face. Never had establishing a connection and using his Art been so easy. The branches shot away, thudding into the hard soil. Wood had always been the easiest to control, but now it finally was a part of him. Within him, where it belonged.

Silas turned his perception inwards. Apart from the slight discoloration, his Inner Landscape felt different. More solid, and vivid. But there was something new as well, something he hadn’t noticed before. Somewhere in his Landscape, he sensed other Arts. Did he perhaps have more than one affinity? Silas plunged deeper. He frowned. This felt completely different compared to the Art of wood. Not sinister, but obscure. Dark.

However, it was way too vague for Silas to discern. Besides, he was way too content with his success to continue training. He had made it—after all the struggle, after all the countless fruitless attempts, he had finally become a Wielder. Gnarly creaked with enthusiasm, bumping one three-fingered fist into the air. Happiness. Pride. Silas was momentarily overwhelmed by the raw amount of emotions that seemed to radiate from his little friend. Had their bond gotten stronger again?

“Creak!”

Anticipation. Curiosity. A desire for adventure. Scooping Gnarly up, he held his companion up to eye-level, amber eyes staring into him.

“Creak,” it voiced, booping Silas’ nose.

The boy smiled, his face soft as he looked at Gnarly. How big he had gotten. Within barely a year, the spriggan had grown from a little finger-sized creature to being well over a foot tall. “Don’t you worry my friend, we will…”

The door to the cabin slammed open and Tom stepped out, his long dark cloak fluttering behind him.

“Boy, your archery needs to... huh.” He suddenly stopped. “Glad to see you finally paying attention to my advice. Took you a while, though.”

“Master, I just awakened my first affinity through! I’m a Wielder now!”

“Uh-huh. But that doesn’t make you special, at best it makes you a little less ordinary. Now go get your bow, we need to work on your archery. If you are so intent on leaving, you need to at least learn how to properly infuse your shots.”

Despite his master’s gruff tone, Silas sped to get his bow from the cabin. While he had taken quite a liking to his spear, archery was still his favorite discipline. Tom waited outside, hands clasped behind his back.

“With your newfound connection to your Art, infusing your shots should become easier as well. Remember to make your energy support the trajectory of the arrow rather than trying to push it forward. The latter will only result in the arrow wobbling and steering off-course. Do three normal shots, and then infuse them.”

Silas nodded, the bow already in his hands. The thick tree in front of him had three small circles drawn onto it. Focusing his gaze on one of the circles, Silas pulled the first arrow out of the quiver hanging at his hip.

The bow was drawn back with relative ease, and the first of the three arrows hit its mark. In rapid succession, each arrow was shot off. Silas grunted as he saw that one of the arrows had barely hit the intended circle.

Silas took a deep breath. Connecting the bow and arrow to his Inner Landscape, he slowly let the energy flow along the connection. He gradually increased the flow as he drew the bow, gently pushing more energy from his Inner Landscape into the bow and arrow.

He could feel his control wavering the further he drew the bow, nervous sweat starting to accumulate on his brow. After a couple of heartbeats, both bow and arrow were completely infused with energy. Just before the strain from keeping the bow drawn for so long would cause his hand to start trembling, he fired. The sudden release of force caused him to stumble backward, one arm flailing as he desperately tried to regain his balance.

The arrow hit the tree with a heavy thunk, a series of sharp cracks immediately echoing into the clearing. Tripping on a branch behind him, Silas winced as he fell on his arse. His eyes went wide as he looked at the thick tree. A small hole now replaced the painted circle he had aimed at.

All that was left of the arrow was a small stick. The rest of it was nowhere to be seen. Silas grinned as he touched the hole his shot had made in the tree. It had taken a lot of energy from his Inner Landscape, but the result spoke for itself.

A gruff voice from his back brought him out of his reverie. “You need to work on properly infusing your arrows, boy. Otherwise, you’ll run out of ammunition soon.”

“But how? The arrow couldn’t take any more energy, and I almost lost control.”

“Instead of simply shoving the arrow full of energy, you need to weave it into the tissue of the wood. It’s not a matter of how much you can cram into the arrow, but how deeply you can infuse your energy. Try to only slightly empower the arrow and work your way up from there. No need to use as much energy as you can with each shot.”

Silas frowned, thinking back on when he had infused the arrow. This was way more complicated than he thought it would be.

“I guess that’s what practice is for, right?” he mumbled.

“Creak!” Gnarly stood somewhere to his left, staring intently at two pieces of wood under his feet. They started to wobble, raising the spriggan into the air. Eyes glowing with delight, he willed the sticks to move forward. Which they did, but without its passenger. Gnarly let out a surprised creak as it fell back down, the sticks coming to rest a few feet in front of him.

Silas was surprised Gnarly could make the sticks levitate in the first place, given that he was essentially pulling himself up. Concentrating once more on his connection with the bow, Silas pulled another arrow out of the quiver.

“Let’s give this another shot, shall we?” he chuckled, earning him a groan from Tom as the old man pinched the bridge of his nose. Even Gnarly shook his head. “Creak, creak.”

***

“Are you intent on leaving next dawn?” the Tom asked his apprentice.

“Yes.”

Tom sighed. “Will you remember how to get to Alíd? I can write the direction out for you, if you want.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You can keep the bow and the spear, I won’t need them anymore, anyway. But treat them well, I didn’t make them just so you can ruin them because you forgot to unstring the bow or dry fired it,” his master grumbled.

“I will. Thank you, master.”

“Mmmhh. I know you are resolute in joining the Invokers, but should you ever change your mind, know that nothing can stop you from leaving the Legion. As a Wielder with the Art of wood, there will always be a place for you to settle down somewhere.” Tom softly blew on the piece of bell pepper on his fork. “There is always an alternative to violence.”

Silas snorted. “Do you truly believe that?”

The old man raised his head, his grey eyes meeting Silas’ blue ones. “Yes.”

Silence filled the clearing. The shadows drew themselves across the fresh grass, the cool, early spring sun descending to cower behind the domineering trees circling the two Artists.

Silas was the first to get inside the cabin to sleep. He knew his master would never understand him. How could he?

***

“No, not again. Stop it, please.”

His mother’s eyes met his. There was no fear in them, no hesitation.

“I’m going to do better, mother, I promise. I’m going to make it right. I will stop the barbarians. I promise.”

Hannah didn’t answer. The barbarian stood in front of her, ax frozen in mid-air. Silas knew he couldn’t change what happened. But he could prevent the death of more innocents, sacrificing themselves to save their children. His mother’s sacrifice wouldn’t be for nothing. Tears ran across his cheeks.

“I promise, mother.”

A familiar warmth began to flow through him. From the edge of his consciousness, Silas felt Gnarly reaching out to him. He opened his eyes. It was still dark in the cabin. Tom sat in front of his tiny desk, scribbling in a booklet. A solitary ray of moonlight shone through the small window, barely illuminating the page. Silas watched his master. What was that book he had been writing on for so long?

“Get back to sleep, apprentice. You will need it for tomorrow.” Tom’s head hang low, fine silver hair cascading down his shoulders.

The smell of warm porridge filling the boy’s nostrils woke Silas up. “Creak, creak!” Gnarly gestured to the iron pot suspended over the simmering coals.

“Hungry?”

“Creak!”

Both master and apprentice watched Gnarly stuff his mouth with the porridge. The old man eventually tore his eyes away from him, presenting Silas with a long, deep green cloak.

“It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll keep you warm enough until you reach Alíd.”

Silas’ finger tingled as he ran his thumb across the fabric. “Want me to repair the fence once more? Seems like the little devils broke it again,” he asked with a small smile.

“Nah, I’ll deal with them myself.”

“I think I’m going to miss your rabbit stew.”

Tom harrumphed. “You better. It’s a damn good stew.”

Silas had an odd feeling in his chest as he stood outside, looking up at his master. For a moment, neither of the two said anything.

“Thank you for everything, master. One day, I hope to be able to pay you back.”

Tom shook his head. “No need, boy. Just remember what I taught you. Remember what it means to be an Artist.”

Silas clenched his teeth, saying nothing.

“Also, take this.” Tom handed him a small booklet. It had no cover, and was filled with the old man’s neat handwriting. “It’s a little guide to help you continue your training. Do not, and let me repeat that, do not show that to anyone, ever. People have been killed for less. Also, I’m probably going to stay here for a decade or two, so feel free to pay me a visit sometime.”

Silas didn’t know what to say. For almost a year, Tom had been writing in this booklet. And now he just gave it to him. Carefully putting it in the inner pocket of his new cloak, Silas thanked his master again.

“For a moment, I thought you would give me that weird book, Of righteous Evil.”

Tom’s face darkened. “Do both of us a favor and forget about that book. Very few know about its existence, and those who do pretend not to. Not only is it banned, but people mentioning its name tend to simply… vanish.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do, apprentice. I hope you do.”

“One day, I hope to return. Who knows, maybe you’ll even answer my questions for a change?” Silas asked, smirking.

The old man snorted, a bit of snot flowing out of his nose. “Don’t count on it.”

The early morning wind blew softly across their faces, daring each one to say what neither would ever speak out loud. Tom eventually broke the silence.

“If you plan to waste any more sunlight, then you may keep standing there. Otherwise, I would advise you to get going. If you make good pace, you can reach Alíd in about four to five days.”

Silas gulped down the lump in his throat.

“Goodbye, master.

“Goodbye, apprentice.”

Turning around, Silas began to leave the clearing, his steps heavy. Gnarly glanced over his shoulder and raised one of his arms.

“Creak. Creak, creak.”

“Goodbye to you as well, Gnarly. Take care of him for me, will you?”

“Creak.”

Although Silas felt bad about leaving the grumpy old man, he also couldn’t wait to join the Legion’s Invokers. Wearing one of their uniforms, a silver falcon adorning his chest, he would do his part to stop the barbarians. After having left the clearing, he stopped to look back at the cabin. Tom raised an arm in a final goodbye. Silas returned the gesture.

He had come here almost a year ago, a scared, lost boy looking for refuge. He left as someone who had bested his fears, a Wielder about to join the famous Invokers, a bonded Spriggan sitting on his shoulder. There was nothing and nobody that would stand in their way. Gnarly struck one fist into the air. “Creak!”