I was in love. Although I had done my best to deny it, there was no point in ignoring my feelings. The way my heart pounded, or a smile came to my face without meaning all told the truth.

After all, the swordstaff was a thing of beauty.

I moved back and forth across my room, twirling my weapon around my body in a dizzying pattern. It slid through my fingers with a grace that might have been impossible just months earlier. I slipped it under one arm, thrust it out, and stepped back into a half-turning retreat. As I stepped away from phantom opponents, I swept the blade low, warding off potential pursuit and injuring overzealous foes in equal measure.

Magic sharpened my agility and coordination, smoothing over any rough patches and turning the entire thing into a near-effortless dance.

I straightened up and relaxed, releasing the spell with only bare wisps left in my core. Sweat covered my forehead, and my muscles burned like I had exercised for hours rather than minutes. My reforged channels and core could withstand a half-dozen times as much training as before, but my body remained fragile.

After weeks of training, Sigmund deemed my skills "not pathetic anymore," which was practically fawning. He did permit me to practice with my new weapon, demonstrating some altered forms for the swordstaff. I took to them with renewed vigor, and each repetition revealed new things I had not considered.

The swordstaff had more options than either a polearm or a regular sword might allow. I could see the variations in each strike, block, and parry, and though my head spun at the sheer number of possibilities, it left me eager more than frustrated. Already, I considered methods of weaving magical attacks into my forms, but that was months off at the earliest.

I also realized that if I committed to leaving the Esttons, my life as a mage would end. The public shame and dishonor of such an act were already bad enough, but my budding style would finish off what my actions started.

Ferren military doctrine favored a few strategies. Small-scale battles between mages, either one-on-one duels or group engagements, followed a predictable pattern. One side would hide behind protective magic while the others attacked. If that side survived, they countered. The winner was whoever broke through the opposing side's defenses or outlasted their mana reserves.

In larger battles, traditional military forces only served to slow the opposing forces. Shield walls, arrows, trenches, and ordinary soldiers held back monsters and Tinkerer constructs and protected the mages at the rear lines. War mages, trained to cast in unison, wove together magic nearly as powerful as an Archmagus, but they had uniform, and often middling, individual skills.

Above all else, mages followed one rule: Avoid melee combat.

If I settled on this path, I would never fit in as a rank-and-file mage. And that, more than a tarnished reputation, would sink my chances as an independent man. But...did that matter?

"No," I said aloud, shaking my head.

I had goals to reach, magic to master, and foes to slay. Comparing myself to a regular mage was self-defeating. And, though I was still unsure if Master Barlow had meant to encourage or dissuade me, she had revealed a simple truth.

No great mage reached their level by following the path set before them by someone else. They pursued what felt right to them, and if I planned to match them, I had to do the same.

With that decided, I grabbed a book before settling onto my mat on the floor. The process of refilling my core had become automatic enough that I could multitask, and staying busy was my main priority.

I had selected spatial magic for its power, utility, and versatility. It was among the most broadly applicable fields, and nearly every mage could use at least some of its capabilities. My loftiest plans involved adapting it to every bit of my magic.

In hindsight, moving a mountain might be a less ambitious plan.

Spatial magic, at its heart, required mana, control, and willpower to effect changes. However, it demanded all three in excess, and falling short in any one respect tended to end with the caster maimed or dead.

There were three ways to use spatial magic, and each had its own appeal.

First, there were direct spatial manipulations, which involved stretching, compressing, twisting, tearing, and otherwise shaping reality for offensive and defensive applications. These manipulations required titanic mana reserves and unyielding control and carried with them plenty of risk of injury, but they also had unlimited possibilities inside and outside of combat.

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Second, there was teleportation, the dream of every spellcaster. Any child who had ever wanted to learn magic had imagined stepping through space, vanishing from one place, and reappearing a hundred miles away. Mastering that talent could turn a multi-day journey into a five-second walk and fundamentally shift my mobility in a fight. It tended to rely less on raw mana and more on control than spatial manipulations but still required plenty of both.

Lastly, you had demi-planes, which covered any contained portions of space. These typically had disproportionally large internal proportions, and everything from spatial pouches to the Academy itself counted as a demi-plane.

Technically, demi-planes were the easiest of the three. The mana demand of creating one scaled based on internal size, and even a Fog could craft one if they had enough skill and knowledge. Of course, I lacked such abilities, and since unstable demi-planes tended to take everything within a hundred feet in every direction with them when they failed, I set them aside as well.

While spatial magic remained out of reach, it paid to prepare. More importantly, I noticed similarities with another magical school I planned to pursue.

Force magic was, in some ways, a counterpart of spatial magic. The former manipulated objects within the world, while the latter affected the world itself. But both relied upon sizable mana reserves, perfect control, and iron-clad will to reach their true potential.

I had chosen to dig into force magic primarily as a stopgap until I mastered spatial distortions. If I could teleport and warp reality directly, why bother? Telekinesis and my force step sounded like parlor tricks by comparison.

But choosing a weapon I could not wield for years did nothing to keep me alive in the present. And besides, force magic had enough transferrable skills to justify the investment. If nothing else, it was worth investigating further.

----

Amelia and I moved back and forth, fighting with staves in hand under the watchful eye of Sigmund. We had done this dance hundreds of times, but today was a change of pace. Sig had finally allowed us to use magic during our spar, provided we held back and avoided injuring one another.

Frost covered Amelia's weapon, turning the wood white. As she spun it between her fingers, each end left behind pale wisps like a winter's breath. I ducked under one strike, sidestepped a second, and deflected away the third, but each time one of her attacks came close, it sent prickles along my skin, and I knew a direct hit would turn my flesh numb.

We disengaged, and usually, I would have retreated and recovered before moving in to engage. Sig often reiterated that the best warriors used both offense and defense, cycling between the two as needed. Instead, I drew on my mana and pushed it through my body.

When it settled into place, I moved.

There was only about ten feet between us, and I closed that gap in a blur. My staff came up, and I thrust it toward Amelia's face in a shallow strike meant to distract more than injure. Her weapon came up to block it, but I had already abandoned that attack and used the opportunity to get in closer.

Amelia recovered in an instant. Her eyes widened, but she pivoted away, turning her failed block into a counterstrike. Months of training nearly pulled me away, but newer instincts warred with those hours of ingrained muscle memory.

Instead, I pressed the advantage, shifting my grip on the weapon and using it more like a blade than a polearm. As Amelia's counter sailed towards my head, I leaned to one side, bringing the tip of my staff up in a lightning-fast, if clumsy, parry. Her strike flew wide, and I stepped in closer again, trying to land a quick, flicking cut.

Amelia ducked the strike, rolling with the momentum of my parry, and brought her weapon back up into line for a stab of her own. I had overcommitted, fighting too aggressively, and if I did not have my spell reinforcing my body, she would have landed something. Instead, I pulled back and leaned to one side, feeling her counter hit my shoulder in a glancing blow.

The joint turned numb, and my spell broke as the impact disrupted my focus. I felt Aether surge out of me in every direction and stumbled, but now Amelia had made a mistake. She had anticipated landing a telling blow and came in too close. We realized it simultaneously, and I struck as she went to retreat.

My staff moved low, and I hooked one end behind Amelia's ankle. She should have seen it coming from a mile away but seemed too hasty to gain distance. She stumbled and fell, hitting the floor hard, and I followed. A thrill ran down my back, and I realized I was inches away from a victory. All I had to do was plant one end of my staff onto her chest, and Sig would-

Amelia scythed her foot along the floor, taking out my lead leg by the ankle. I fell forward and hit just past her, my staff clattering away in the impact. It took me a second to regain my focus, and Amelia was on top of me by the time I did.

One leg slammed into my right arm, pinning it to the floor, and the other tucked in close, sandwiching my left against my side. I thrashed, trying to push Amelia off, but I had only a second before she placed the tip of her frost-shrouded staff just under my chin. At that close range, an uncomfortable chill bled into my skin.

Well...so much for a victory. I had enough mana to pull up a shield, but not the opening. Using my Traveler's Cloak and the still-unnamed enhancement spell simultaneously was beyond me, and I needed combat practice with the latter, but regret still filled me as I lay there. That, and an uncomfortable realization of our current position.

Sig cleared his throat, and both of us jumped. Amelia stood hastily, and I felt my face burn as I stood, walking to retrieve my staff from where it landed.

"Well done, both of you," Sig said, "Vayne, good job applying your sword training. It's too early to use in an actual fight, but the idea's workable. Amelia, good adaptation. I want you to consider what you should have done differently and see how well those work next time. Now, go get something to eat."

We both said our goodbyes before setting off for the dining hall. As we walked, Amelia drew closer than seemed entirely necessary. Strangely enough, I did not mind.

"What the hell was that?" Amelia whispered, "You didn't tell me you could move so fast."

I shrugged, "A new spell. There are too many flaws to use it in an actual fight, so a sparring match seemed the best venue. And while we are discussing new tricks, when did you learn how to fight unarmed?"

Amelia grinned, nudging me with her shoulder, "Oh, so only you get to have secrets? I've seen you and Simon whispering about some new toy, Vayne. Hypocrisy isn't a good look on you."

She had meant it as a joke, but thoughts of my visions, worries, future, and a tiny, budding realization of my place in Ferris blossomed. Whether she meant it or not, her comment about secrets struck home.

Amelia must have seen my face, and her smile dimmed. She opened her mouth, presumably to ask about my expression, and I forced myself to laugh.

"I suppose I deserve that," I nodded, "I promise to show you when my new 'toy' is complete. But in exchange, you can show me a few moves the next time we get a moment alone."

I had meant it as a genuine invitation for private combat training. Already, my mind was forming new ideas of how best to weave unarmed combat into my swordstaff forms. If my weapon was too large to use in close quarters, maybe my hands and feet would substitute. It was not until I saw a faint blush spread across Amelia's face that I realized how it might sound.

"Ah," I cleared my throat, "That sounded too bold. What I meant to say was-"

Amelia slipped her hand into mine and dragged me along as she sped up her walking, "Yeah, yeah. Come on, we're gonna be late."

Presumably, it was to pull me along, but I could not help but notice that even after we reached the dining hall and sat down with our friends, Amelia kept her fingers firmly interlaced with mine.