The air was still, a brief reprieve from the biting winds of the Wastes. The ruins where they had made camp were quiet now, the shadows long and stretched as the fading light painted the sky with a dull orange hue. Zarin stood near the remains of the fire, staring at the distant silhouette of the Frozen Spire. It was so close now, yet the weight of the journey ahead felt heavier than ever.
Maros had been silent since their encounter with Rovan, his demeanor colder, more calculating. It was as though the mask he had worn had finally slipped, revealing a part of himself that he had been hiding. But despite the unease that lingered between them, Zarin knew they couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t walk away—not when the fate of his family and the world rested on what lay at the Spire.
Reya sat nearby, her sword resting across her knees as she sharpened the blade with slow, deliberate strokes. She had always found comfort in the ritual, but Zarin could see the tension in her movements, the same tension he felt deep in his chest.
As the sun dipped lower, casting the world in a deepening shadow, Maros approached them, his staff tapping softly against the ground. He stopped just before the fire, his gaze drifting between Zarin and Reya, his expression thoughtful.
“We’re not ready to move forward,” Maros said finally, his voice steady but firm. “There are dangers ahead that will test more than just your physical strength. The Spire isn’t just a place of power—it’s a place that demands a toll from those who seek its secrets. If we push forward now, we won’t survive.”
Zarin frowned. “What are you saying? We should turn back?”
Maros shook his head. “No. We rest here, and while we do, we train. Your powers, your minds, your spirits—they must be stronger if we are to face what lies ahead.”
Reya glanced up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Training? Out here, in the middle of the Wastes?”
Maros met her gaze without flinching. “The Wastes may be harsh, but they are also alive with magic. The Old Magic flows through this place, and it can help you grow stronger if you learn to harness it. But it’s not just about strength. It’s about focus—about controlling the energy inside you, shaping it into something more.”
Zarin exchanged a glance with Reya. She looked skeptical, but Zarin could see the flicker of interest in her eyes. Reya had always been a fighter, someone who relied on her skill with a blade. But the idea of tapping into something deeper—something more than just physical combat—seemed to intrigue her.
“What kind of training are we talking about?” Zarin asked, stepping forward.
Maros’ gaze shifted to him, and for a moment, Zarin saw something almost like approval in the old mage’s eyes. “For you, Zarin, it’s about mastering the power that was locked away for so long. The chains may be broken, but the power inside you is still raw, untamed. If you can learn to control it, you’ll find that it’s more than just energy. It’s a connection to the very forces that shape this world.”
Zarin’s pulse quickened at the thought. He had felt that raw power in bursts before, during moments of desperation. But the idea of mastering it, of truly understanding the depth of his connection to the Old Magic—it both excited and terrified him.
“And me?” Reya asked, her tone cautious.
“For you, Reya, it’s about sharpening your spirit. You rely on your physical strength, your skill with a blade. But there is more to a warrior than just their weapon. The Spire will test you in ways that force you to confront your own limitations. You must learn to fight with your mind, with your will.”
Reya’s eyes narrowed further, but she nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
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The training began the next morning. The air was colder than usual, the wind biting at their skin as they stood in the open space of the ruins. The sun was hidden behind thick clouds, casting the world in a dull gray light, but Zarin barely noticed. His focus was on Maros, who stood before them, his staff planted in the ground like an anchor.
“We’ll start with you, Zarin,” Maros said, his voice firm. “Your power is tied to the Old Magic, but you’ve only scratched the surface. To master it, you must learn to focus—not just your energy, but your mind.”
Zarin nodded, stepping forward. His heart pounded in his chest as he prepared himself. The power inside him, the raw energy that had been suppressed for so long, stirred at the edge of his consciousness, like a fire waiting to be unleashed.
“Close your eyes,” Maros instructed. “Feel the energy around you. The Wastes are a place of death, yes, but they are also alive with magic. Reach out with your mind, and feel the flow of power beneath the surface.”
Zarin did as he was told, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. At first, all he could feel was the cold—the biting wind against his skin, the chill seeping into his bones. But then, as he focused, he began to sense something else. A faint hum, a vibration in the air, like a current of energy just out of reach.
“Good,” Maros said softly. “Now, draw that energy in. Let it flow through you. But don’t force it. The Old Magic isn’t something you can control through will alone. It’s a partnership—a balance.”
Zarin furrowed his brow, concentrating. He could feel the power now, swirling just beneath the surface of his awareness, but it was slippery, difficult to grasp. The more he tried to pull it toward him, the more it seemed to slip away.
“Don’t fight it,” Maros said, his voice calm but firm. “Let it come to you.”
Zarin took another deep breath, trying to relax. He let his mind drift, focusing not on the power itself, but on the rhythm of his breathing, the beat of his heart. Slowly, the energy began to shift, moving toward him in a steady, gentle flow. It was warm, almost comforting, like the first rays of sunlight after a long winter.
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed brighter, more alive. The power inside him surged, filling him with a sense of connection—not just to the Wastes, but to something much larger, something ancient and vast.
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“That’s it,” Maros said, nodding in approval. “Now, hold that connection. Let the power flow through you, but don’t let it overwhelm you. Control it.”
Zarin clenched his fists, feeling the energy pulse in his veins. He could feel the weight of it now, the raw strength, but he kept his focus, refusing to let it consume him.
“Now, release it,” Maros said.
Zarin took a deep breath and let the energy go, sending it outward in a controlled burst. The air around him shimmered, and the ground beneath his feet trembled as the power dissipated into the earth.
Zarin staggered slightly, his heart pounding, but a sense of triumph filled him. He had done it—he had controlled the power, shaped it, instead of letting it control him.
“Well done,” Maros said, his tone even. “But this is only the beginning. The Old Magic is not something that can be mastered overnight. It will take time, discipline, and focus.”
Zarin nodded, though he couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. For the first time, he felt like he was truly in control of his power, like he had taken the first step toward understanding the depth of the magic inside him.
Maros turned to Reya. “Now, it’s your turn.”
Reya stepped forward, her expression serious. “What do you want me to do?”
Maros studied her for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Your strength lies in your discipline, your ability to push through pain and hardship. But that strength can also be a weakness if you let it blind you to the other forces at play. The Spire will test you in ways you can’t anticipate. You must learn to adapt, to see beyond the physical.”
Reya frowned. “How do I do that?”
Maros motioned for her to sit. “Meditate. Close your eyes and listen. Not just to the world around you, but to yourself.”
Reya hesitated, clearly skeptical, but she complied, sitting down and closing her eyes. Zarin watched her, curious. Reya had always been someone who relied on action, not introspection. But here, in the cold, desolate Wastes, it seemed that even she was willing to try something new.
Maros stepped back, his gaze lingering on both of them. “This isn’t just about strength. It’s about understanding who you are and what you’re capable of. The Spire will demand more than just your skills with a sword or your ability to wield magic,” Maros continued, his voice carrying an edge of solemnity. “It will demand your spirit, your mind, and your will. Only those who know themselves can survive what the Spire asks of them.”
Reya’s face tightened, but she kept her eyes closed, her breathing steady as she began to follow Maros’ instructions. Zarin could see the subtle tension in her posture, the resistance she had to this kind of practice. Reya was a warrior, her instincts honed through action, but the journey they were on required more than just physical strength. It required patience, focus, and an openness to something larger than herself.
Zarin watched her for a moment, feeling a strange connection. He had always admired Reya for her courage, her steadfastness, and her ability to face whatever came their way without flinching. But now, as she sat there, struggling to quiet her mind, he realized how much they were alike. They were both fighting their own battles, against forces they couldn’t fully understand, and against the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Maros, standing between them, seemed to sense the change in the air. He remained silent, letting the moment stretch, allowing them to settle into the uncomfortable quiet that surrounded them. For all his mysteries, all his hidden intentions, Maros knew the weight of what they faced. He had lived through it, after all, and Zarin couldn’t help but wonder how many times Maros had stood in places like this, preparing for a future he couldn’t fully control.
As the wind picked up again, swirling snowflakes through the air, Zarin closed his eyes and returned to his own training. The power inside him, the connection to the Old Magic, stirred once more. It was raw, immense, and still frightening in its intensity. But there was a steadiness to it now, a rhythm that Zarin was beginning to understand.
He let his mind drift, following that rhythm, feeling the pulse of magic beneath the frozen earth, in the air around him. It wasn’t just a force to be harnessed—it was alive, as much a part of the world as the wind and the snow. Zarin could feel it flowing through him, the same way he had felt it during their journey. But now, instead of overwhelming him, the power seemed to respond to his presence, bending to his will rather than forcing its own.
For a long time, they trained in silence. Zarin focused on controlling the magic, letting it rise and fall through him like the tide, while Reya sat in stillness, her breathing steady as she sought to quiet her mind. Maros watched over them, his gaze distant but watchful, like a teacher who had seen too many students falter along the way.
After what felt like hours, Zarin opened his eyes, feeling the cool air on his skin. The power inside him had settled into a quiet hum, no longer a raging storm but a steady current he could tap into. He felt calmer, more in control. He looked over at Reya, who was still sitting with her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Maros stepped forward, his voice low. “You’re both progressing well, but there is still much to learn.”
Reya opened her eyes, exhaling deeply as she stood up, stretching her limbs. She glanced at Zarin, her expression thoughtful. “This… isn’t what I’m used to.”
Zarin smiled slightly. “It’s different, but I think it’s working.”
Reya nodded, though the tension in her shoulders hadn’t fully eased. “I’ve always fought with steel, not with my mind. This is… new.”
Maros approached them, his gaze sharp. “The Spire will challenge you in ways you’ve never experienced. Your swords and magic will only get you so far. What lies within the Spire is a test of your very essence—your spirit. Those who enter unprepared are often consumed by their own doubts and fears.”
Zarin felt a chill run down his spine at Maros’ words. He had always known that the Spire was dangerous, that it held power beyond their understanding, but now it felt even more ominous. The stakes were higher than he had imagined.
“What exactly are we facing?” Zarin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Maros’ eyes darkened, and for a moment, Zarin thought he saw a flicker of something—fear, perhaps, or regret. “The Spire is a place where the Old Magic converges, where the very fabric of reality is thin. Those who enter must confront their deepest truths. Some call it a trial, others a curse. But one thing is certain—once you step inside, you cannot turn back.”
Reya’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword. “And what happens if we fail?”
Maros’ gaze shifted between them, his expression unreadable. “If you fail, you won’t leave the Spire. Not in the way you entered.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Maros’ words sinking into Zarin like a stone. The idea of facing something within himself, something that could destroy him from the inside, was more terrifying than any physical battle he had ever faced. And yet, they had no choice. If they wanted to defeat the Ascendants, if Zarin wanted to free his siblings, they had to face the Spire—and whatever waited for them there.
“We’re not going to fail,” Zarin said, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it to convince himself or Reya.
Reya’s jaw tightened, and she nodded. “No. We’re not.”
Maros watched them for a moment longer, then turned away, his voice quiet. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we resume training. The more prepared you are, the better your chances will be.”
As Maros walked back toward the edge of the ruins, Zarin and Reya exchanged a glance. There was a new understanding between them, a silent acknowledgment of the challenges ahead. Zarin knew that whatever happened at the Spire, they would face it together.
But as he watched Maros disappear into the shadows, a nagging doubt remained. Maros had spoken of the Spire as a place of power, a place where the Old Magic was strongest. But Zarin couldn’t shake the feeling that Maros’ connection to the Spire went deeper than he was letting on.
And as much as Zarin wanted to trust him, that doubt lingered like a shadow, waiting to strike when they were least prepared.