At the very top of the tower, past the floors of more books, labs that she’d investigate later, or ruins, was a small room with a balcony. In fact, this was the only room Amy could find with a balcony, the rest collapsed and overgrown. It contained nothing but a rectangular wooden box placed on the floor, the only light source being a white-flame candle sitting on top, drawn rotten curtains blocking the sunlight. And, most curiously, there was a grey hat placed on the edge where the box’s sides slanted inwards.
Oh, Amy realised as she stood in the doorway to the room, It’s a coffin.
She approached with a bit more respect than she would’ve before and kneeled down to inspect the candle. A bit of melted wax dripped down onto the metal stand but it was almost immediately absorbed by it. Amy was confused at what she was seeing until a large blob of wax was absorbed and the candle regained a bit of height. It was a candle that stayed alight forever. How the wick was renewed was a mystery but it seemed to have worked for quite a while if the tower was this ancient and untouched. Maybe I’ll bring it home. Sorry, dead person.
As she reached towards the candle, her finger just barely brushed the wood of the coffin. It hadn’t quite occurred to Amy that the coffin might be magical, despite its strange positioning. Mages were eccentric, after all. It only clicked in her mind that the coffin might be enchanted, when the coffin clicked itself.
A cloud of white smoke swam out the side of the coffin at its seam, illuminating the shadows that the candle hadn’t quite driven away. Tendrils of oppressive shadow were pushed away as the coffin slowly opened, the candle and hat falling backwards. By the time it had opened half way, Amy had scuttled back to the doorway, keeping a vigilant eye on it as she ran.
When the fog finally dissipated, the room felt lighter than it had been before, allowing her to easily see into the coffin. There was, as is typical with coffins, a skeleton, although broken, lying peacefully in it, clutching a strange, disordered book to his chest, roughly bound together with mismatched leather and twine. Amy could see nothing unusual through her mana sense, indicating that it was probably safe to investigate.
The bones are all smashed, yet… they don’t seem broken; it’s more like something’s missing, Amy pondered as she walked closer.
This time, instead of simply reaching for the book, she played it cautiously. If something like this was buried with this person, weird coffin opening mechanism or not, then it was likely enchanted or cursed.
Amy focused on her Magecraft, properly, not like when she was activating her ring or on the affinity tests, and looked inwards. She felt at the mana within herself, the smallest minute amount she was baptised with when she ascended beyond Aspirant and gained the Mageling’s ‘Sight to See’, and imagined it spinning. It started slow, like a spinning top that hadn’t been spun properly. It wobbled and tipped, improperly timed and out of balance. Then, carefully, she guided it back into shape. A small disturbance there put back into alignment; a wrong turn there spun back into direction; or a mote of mana not yet joined in given a push. It started slow, yes, but now it was a cyclone. A dancer on the floor of life spinning round and round, evermoving and ever-flowing, never stopping for a second as it followed the music of mana, of its heart, of itself.
Like flour from a mill, the mana flowed, drawn from the Ocean by the dance and into Amy’s control. Her will brushed against the mana and resisted the temptation to allow it to join the dance, to feed the cycle. She imbued her thoughts into her will and into the mana, thoughts of the Spell she wished to cast. That of seeking, of finding, of inspecting. The Pure mana’s appearance changed in her mana sense, from that of a white-blue to more of a light grey. With that, the first step was complete. Next, came the Spellcraft.
The tiniest amount of her personal mana came out of her, and shaped itself into that of the proper Spellform. It was a twisty thing, lots of seemingly random lines inside shapes surrounding the central channelling circle. Amy had never been one to try and understand Spellforms but some knowledge was needed to both memorize and cast them properly. She guided her gathered mana through the Spellform, sending it into a spoke on the end of the central circle and through the middle of the circle itself, and then feeding it around then out through a support ring’s outputs. The second the first tendril of mana reached the end, the Spell activated.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
To those without a mana sense, it would look like barely anything was happening at all, the Spell so efficient and perfected over many centuries of revision that nothing was left of it but its purpose: Inspect.
Amy would’ve loved to cast the higher Tier Spell, Identify, but she didn’t have the Spellform for it memorised or have her grimoire with her. Add on top of that the longer cast time and specificity of Identify, Inspect seemed better for the job. Shortly enough, the last lick of mana left the Spellform and the Spell finished, completing its effect. The stored information that had been kept in the mana - that which was inside the rings to be more specific - during the Spell cast entered Amy’s mind, causing her to smile.
The book wasn’t trapped or cursed. Well, it could’ve been and it had a very high Tier obfuscation Spell on it, but then I probably should’ve been dead when I opened the coffin. Or it wants me to pick it up…
Recklessness won over worry as Amy reached down and picked the strange book up, disturbed by the way the skeletal hands held onto it for what seemed like too long.
“Again, sorry, dead person.”
The book opened easily and kept together well despite its ragged appearance yet it was immediately obvious to Amy that this was no ordinary book. It was written in what seemed like either code or a very dead language. None of this looks familiar at all. The letters are all odd and make no sense at all. There’s like fifty of them and I’ve barely counted them all! Maybe it’s a diary of sorts? Or a-
Her line of thought abruptly stopped when she flipped to a specific page around the middle of the book, noted by a little tab at the top. It was a Spellform; an incredibly complex one, dizzying to even look at. And, in normal script by the side, were an incredibly exciting set of words: “Tier 11: Familiar”. This was a grimoire. A proper grimoire for at least an Archmage.
Flipping through the pages, she found even more copies of the same Familiar Spell, all in lower denomination of Tiers until she came to what she assumed to be the first one. A Tier 3 Spell.
“Of course it had to be Tier 3. The one Tier I can’t cast at yet,” Amy grumbled, putting the book down, “At least it's something to work towards. Maybe it can even be the first Spell of the Tier I learn.”
More importantly though is getting this grimoire safe at home. Perhaps an Alarm and layered Wards would keep it safe, at least superficially? But… if I hand this in to the authorities, I could be rewarded. I could get out of this contract. I could escape this stupid village and…
“Dammit.
“I’m not even an Apprentice, what use would the grimoire be to me!” Amy shouted at nothing, “I barely got through Mageling with my shitty affinities, and Aspirant too!
“Why is the one time I get lucky and discover something be a grimoire I can’t even use! All the books downstairs are likely wrong and anything precious is probably broken and destroyed, “ Amy continued to scream, kicking the coffin in frustration, “So why? Just. Why!”
Her kick and her last words echoed around the chamber and the rest of the ruin, the silent peace disturbed in her rage. Even when the echo had ceased, the quiet still felt different from before, as if something had been irrevocably changed. It was in this uncomfortable quiet, that a small, guilty voice could be heard, along with the sound of muffled sobs.
“What did I do to deserve this…?”
* * *
It was midday by the time Amy stepped out of the tower, carrying an extinguished candle and two dusty books. Navigating the rubble was a lot easier this time too, her reaching the wood path again in no time even with her extra load. And, before she knew it, she was back at her home, her tormentors nowhere to be seen. Really, letting some teens bully me? How pathetic am I?
Her house was as she left it this morning and yesterday and the day before that too. Messy and a bit dirty, yet still comfy. She hid the books under a spare coat on the kitchen table, still unsure on what to do with them. The candle made its way to her bedroom side-table, next to her oil lamp.
Only when she caught herself in her dresser mirror that she stopped, seeing her baggy eyes and dishevelled hair. Amy tried her best to fix it but the hair was a bit too frizzy from when she had run her hands and arms through it during her last episode and splashed water did nothing for the bags. In the end, she decided she couldn't be bothered to do anything more and collapsed onto her bed, too tired to do anything else for the day. In spite of the time and her hunger, sleep claimed her quickly, carrying her off into her dreams; dreams that were hopefully better than reality.
Dreams that always ended too soon.