Elyse

The forest at night was alive with whispers. Leaves rustled gently in the cool breeze, the occasional snap of a twig breaking the eerie stillness. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy in pale beams, casting long, crooked shadows across the forest floor. I adjusted the strap of my satchel and muttered the incantation for my light orb, letting the Elvish words roll off my tongue like a melody.

Orbis lucis, viam ostende.

Using magic was unlike anything else—an intimate dance between willpower, blood, and breath. The first stirring came like a ripple through my veins, warm and insistent, as though the very essence of my being was waking up. It wasn’t painful, but it was intense, a visceral reminder that magic wasn’t separate from me—it was me.

I felt it rise from the depths of my blood, threading itself through my body and collecting in my lungs. And then, as if carried on the tide of my breath, it flowed outward. That was why incantations were so important. The Elvish words gave the magic a path, a structure, and a purpose as it left my body. Without them, the raw energy might dissipate, unfocused and useless. The words weren’t just sounds—they were keys, unlocking the potential of my blood and shaping it into something tangible.

Of course, lesser magics didn’t always require the formality of incantations. A spark to light a fire, a flicker of telekinesis to move an object, or even the ability to see hidden things—these small feats could be performed on instinct alone. They required only the lightest touch of magic, barely a whisper of intent. For elves, such abilities were as natural as breathing, a birthright etched into our very marrow.

But true magic, the kind that could heal or destroy, demanded more. It required focus, precision, and the willingness to let your essence flow freely. This wasn’t just power—it was connection. To your body, your soul, and the ancient threads of magic that wove through the world. And once you felt it, you understood why it was both a gift and a responsibility.

The faint glow of the orb flickered to life in my palm, bathing the trees around us in soft silver light. It floated upward, hovering just above my head, casting warmth into the cold, shadowed woods.

"Perfect," said Lirien, her honey-blonde hair catching the light as she leaned down to inspect a patch of nightshade. She brushed her fingertips over the dark purple flowers and looked up at me. "Do you ever think about how much less fun this would be if we had to do this in the daytime?"

"I’d call it practical," Saerion muttered from a few paces away, crouched by a cluster of wild thyme. His raven-black hair fell into his eyes as he worked. "Less chance of getting eaten by something."

"Practical," I repeated with mock severity, lifting my light orb higher to illuminate his path. "That’s what they’ll write on your headstone. Here lies Saerion. Practical. Utterly dull."

He shot me a glare over his shoulder, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smirk. "Here lies Elyse. Annoying. Loved her own jokes too much."

"Don’t forget brilliant," I quipped, stepping lightly over a fallen branch to join him. "And beautiful."

"Modest, too," Lirien added, her laugh like the sound of bells.

"Keep at it, Elyse," Saerion said, plucking a handful of thyme and slipping it into his satchel. "Your light magic might be the only thing keeping us from being dinner right now."

I grinned. "You’re welcome, by the way."

We worked our way deeper into the woods, our voices muted as the forest seemed to close in around us. Each step brought us closer to the goal set by our potion-making professor: gather herbs for a healing salve to be prepared in class tomorrow. We’d split up into groups, and naturally, I’d chosen Lirien and Saerion—my closest friends at Aethelwald Academy.

"Found it!" Lirien’s excited whisper carried through the trees as she crouched beside a cluster of small, star-shaped flowers. "Silverleaf. Finally. Saerion, get over here and dig it up while I supervise."

Saerion sighed dramatically but complied, his long fingers moving deftly to unearth the delicate plants without damaging their roots. "Supervising," he muttered, "the noble art of standing around while others do the work."

"I’m excellent at it," Lirien replied brightly, plucking a stray leaf and tucking it behind her ear.

As they bickered, a faint, pained sound reached my ears—so soft I almost dismissed it as the wind. But there it was again, a quiet whimper, barely audible over the rustle of leaves.

"Did you hear that?" I asked, turning my head toward the sound.

"Hear what?" Saerion asked, brushing dirt from his hands.

"That," I said, holding up a hand to silence them. The sound came again, a tiny, pitiful cry. My light orb hovered higher, illuminating the area around us in a wider radius.

"Over there," Lirien said, pointing toward a thicket of brambles.

We moved cautiously, my orb lighting the way. As we neared the source of the noise, the tangled bushes gave way to a small clearing. There, nestled in the underbrush, was a tiny creature—a fawn, its speckled fur matted and its leg bent at an unnatural angle.

"Oh no," Lirien breathed, her hands flying to her mouth. "It’s hurt."

I crouched beside the fawn, careful not to startle it. Its large, frightened eyes darted to me, but it was too weak to move. "Shhh," I whispered, letting the soothing tone of my voice calm it. "We’re not here to hurt you."

"Can you heal it?" Saerion asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"I think so," I said, my mind racing through the incantations I’d studied. Light magic could heal, but it required precision—and trust. "But I’ll need quiet."

The others nodded, stepping back to give me space. I rested my hand lightly on the fawn’s flank and began the incantation.

Ossa reparare, formam redde.

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Repair the bones, restore the form.

Silver light spread from my palm, soft like the first rays of dawn. The fawn’s breathing slowed, and its body relaxed under my touch. Slowly, the light coalesced around its injured leg, knitting the broken bone and mending the torn tissue.

When the spell ended, the light faded, and the fawn stirred. It tried to stand, wobbling slightly but managing to find its footing. Relief washed over me as I stood, wiping my hands on my cloak.

"You did it," Lirien said, her voice filled with awe.

"Of course she did," Saerion added, his usual smirk returning. "Elyse never misses a chance to show off."

"Oh, hush," I said, swatting him lightly on the arm.

The fawn let out a soft bleat, looking toward the trees. A larger shape emerged from the shadows—a doe, its elegant form backlit by the faint glow of my orb. The mother and child nuzzled each other briefly before the fawn bounded off after her, its limp completely gone.

We watched them disappear into the trees.

"Well," Saerion said, breaking the silence, "now that Elyse has saved the day, can we go back to gathering herbs before the professor assigns us all an essay on punctuality?"

"I think I deserve extra credit for that," I said, flipping my hair dramatically as I turned toward the path.

"You deserve something," Lirien said with a grin. "I’m just not sure it’s credit."

As the lights of the Academy’s towers came into view, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the magic that had brought me here—and for the friends who made the journey worth every step.

The soft murmur of voices and the rhythmic shuffle of boots echoed down the polished stone corridor as we made our way to Advanced Barrier Applications. The name alone sent a ripple of anticipation through me—it was one of the most challenging classes, and one I couldn’t help but look forward to.

"Saerion, hurry up," Lirien said, her voice laced with mock exasperation as she glanced back at him. "You’ll miss another lecture on the importance of focus."

"I'm coming," Saerion grumbled, dragging his boots along as if weighed down by invisible chains. "If I collapse during class, it’s on you."

"You're not collapsing," I said with a grin, nudging him lightly. "You just don't want to practice wards because they require patience."

Lirien smirked. "And subtlety. Two things you lack in abundance."

Saerion scowled but didn’t argue. His tendency to brute-force spells was a frequent subject of our teasing—and his frustration.

The classroom loomed ahead, its heavy wooden door etched with protective runes that pulsed faintly. Inside, Professor Rhalin was already preparing the room. She was a formidable elf with an air of effortless authority. Her ice-white hair was pinned back, and her silver robes glinted faintly in the light of the floating orbs illuminating the space.

"Take your seats," Rhalin instructed, her voice cutting through the chatter. We slid into our usual spot near the middle of the room, joining a gathering of students already settling in. Isolde, with her long raven-black hair cascading down her back, sat primly at the front. She didn’t glance our way—typical.

Rhalin turned to the class, her sharp gaze sweeping across us. "Today’s lesson is on protective wards—specifically, their limitations and applications in layered defense."

She waved her hand, and glowing runes appeared in the air, spinning in precise patterns. "Wards are not infinite. They draw power directly from your blood and willpower, meaning they are as finite as the caster’s endurance. This is why wards are best layered by multiple casters, each taking turns maintaining the structure."

A soft hum of intrigue rippled through the class. Rhalin pointed to the glowing diagram. "Now, who can tell me the three most common causes of ward failure?"

Isolde’s hand shot up immediately. Of course. "Weak intent, improper rune alignment, and overexertion," she recited smoothly, her voice like silk.

Rhalin nodded curtly. "Correct. Overexertion is particularly dangerous, as it can lead to magical depletion or even physical collapse. Never forget that your magic is tied to your life force." Her gaze lingered on Saerion, who had the grace to look sheepish.

"Let’s move to practical application," Rhalin continued. "You will work in groups to construct wards capable of withstanding a minor offensive spell. Focus on efficiency and teamwork. Elyse, Lirien, Saerion—you’ll start us off."

Great. We were first.

I stepped forward with my friends, my heart pounding in a familiar mix of nerves and excitement. The center of the room was marked with a glowing circle, and we positioned ourselves within it. Rhalin stood nearby, her watchful eyes sharp enough to catch the smallest mistake.

"Begin," she instructed.

I closed my eyes, drawing a deep breath. Magic stirred within me, a warm, thrumming presence woven into my very blood. As I began the incantation, I felt the familiar pull, as though I were unraveling threads from deep within myself:

Lumera vastorim... arcus custodis... vinculum sanguinis.

Light shield us... arc of protection... bond of blood.

The magic responded, flowing through me like liquid fire. It gathered in my palms, warm and insistent, before weaving itself into glowing runes that shimmered in the air. The ward began to take shape, a translucent dome of silver light encircling us. It rippled faintly, alive with the pulse of my intent.

Beside me, Lirien chanted softly, her own ward interlocking seamlessly with mine. Her magic was precise and cool, like moonlight reflected on water. Saerion muttered his incantation with less finesse, but his sheer force of will brought his ward to life. It wavered at first, then solidified, its edges rough but sturdy.

"Good," Rhalin said, circling us. "Your wards are holding, but notice how the strain is already taking its toll."

She gestured to Saerion, whose forehead was dotted with sweat. "Magic drawn from your blood and willpower is not limitless. This is why layered wards are essential in long-term defense. Each caster’s magic supports the others, allowing rest and recovery."

Rhalin lifted her hand, and a faint pulse of energy rippled toward our wards. I braced myself as the impact struck, a shiver running through the barrier. The ward held, but the effort sent a sharp tug through my veins, as though the magic were pulling too tightly on the threads of my blood.

"How does it feel?" Rhalin asked, her gaze sharp.

"Like… resistance," I said, focusing on maintaining the structure. "The magic pushes back if you try to force it."

"Exactly," Rhalin said, nodding. "You must guide the magic, not overpower it. Think of it as an extension of yourself. Force will only weaken the connection."

Nearby, Isolde’s group was forming their ward. Her incantation was flawless, her barrier gleaming like polished glass. She cast a smug glance toward us, and I couldn’t resist a quiet smirk. Let her gloat. We were doing just fine.

Rhalin raised her hand again, sending another pulse of energy toward the wards. This time, Saerion’s barrier faltered, the edges fraying as he wavered. "Focus," Lirien hissed, her voice sharp but not unkind.

"I’m trying," he grunted, tightening his grip on the magic. His ward stabilized, but his breathing was ragged.

"Enough," Rhalin said, and the wards dissipated with a flick of her hand. The release of magic left me lightheaded, the residual hum still thrumming faintly in my veins.

"Well done," she said, her tone clipped but not unkind. "You’re improving, but remember—precision and endurance are just as important as strength. Dismissed."

As we returned to our seats, Saerion muttered, "I’m going to feel that in my bones tomorrow."

"You’ll survive," Lirien said with a smirk, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Just try not to brute-force it next time."

"Isolde looked a little too pleased with herself," I said, casting a glance at her. "Maybe we should show her what layered wards are really capable of."

"Careful, Elyse," Saerion said with a grin. "Your competitive streak is showing."

"I prefer to call it ambition," I said with a wink, drawing a laugh from Lirien.

As the class ended and we made our way toward the Academy’s great hall, I let my thoughts drift. The day had been a reminder of how far we’d come—and how much farther there was to go. My light magic had always been my strength, but it was moments like these, with Saerion and Lirien by my side, that taught me the true power of teamwork.

Somewhere deep within the woods, the fawn we had saved was running free, its mother guiding it back to safety. And here, within the Academy’s ancient walls, my own journey was just beginning to take shape.

Whatever challenges lay ahead, I was ready. After all, it wasn’t just the magic that made the journey—it was the bonds we forged along the way.

With Saerion grumbling and Lirien teasing at my side, I knew one thing for certain: the best was yet to come.