Sorrinn stood in the middle of the storeroom, eyes closed, head raised, arms straight down at his sides. He could feel it moving inside him, flowing, turning, tracing radiant lines through an ever-branching network of tributaries—his mystic wealth, that was.

Despite his best effort, he couldn’t merge meditative stimulation with directing the energies of his wealth. Rousing his wealth demanded its own unique variety of focus, while manipulating it through the mystic pathways was a whole other beast. If he had to compare it to something, he’d liken it to a stubborn bowel movement that was as rotund as it was dry as a block of chalk. He could spend an hour straining to make some headway on pushing it out. Then, the moment he relaxed too much from fatigue, it’d all go sliding right back into the hole and resetting his progress to zero.

It was a delicate game which demanded an insurmountable focus—threading a string through a hundred consecutive needles without ever twitching a finger or contacting the metal hoops. Because the slightest divet in concentration was enough to knock hours of effort off, he learned through excruciating experience. And once all of that effort started unraveling away before his eyes, it was only by the grace of [Equanimity] that all of his progress wasn’t vaporized then and there. Even [Equanimity] bore its limits keeping the plethora of stress and fear reactions firing off like machine gun rounds at bay.

He’d gone into it confident it wouldn’t be a challenge at all. That he would map out the mystic pathways, master it, and be casting spells by dinner time. That was his hubris talking. Not a puff of that hot air remained. He’d abandoned the course map depicted in the tome entirely, then focusing on simply reaching the point of mystic actualization regardless of the route taken. Who knew if the route he was charting then even belonged to a valid spell. More than he needed to cast any spells, he needed to know he could reach the finish line. It started to feel like he couldn’t and wouldn’t.

By dinnertime, he was sapped, haggard, and defeated. He hobbled his way to the table, drained of all his color, cast beneath a perpetual shadow.

Not once… He hadn’t managed to successfully diffuse his mystic wealth from core to surface once. He knew it was his first day training his mystic manipulation, but he couldn’t help feeling a touch depressed. Dinner tasted gray on his tongue. He was usually the first to finish eating. That evening, he was the last.

“…Are you okay, Sorrinn?” Asammirr inquired, a bead of sweat rolling over his knitted brow.

All Sorrinn could muster was a dispirited huff in response.

The next day was a new day. Yesterday was the past. The cloudy gray skies of the morning were beautiful. The chilled, moist air was fresh beyond words. He swore with himself as he peered at the ineffable grace of The Giving Tree in the distance to give it his all again despite how it went the day prior.

After breakfast, he asked Maeve to go out into the yard. It wasn’t as if practicing manipulation of his wealth demanded he do it in a dusty storeroom. Maybe doing it outside while touching grass would do him some good.

His mother was okay with it, so long as she went out with him. Once she finished tidying up the dining table, they went out. She tended to some matters of garden maintenance while he spread his toes over the grass.

He assumed position and focused on directing his wealth. To his surprise, flowing it down the routes he’d spent the previous day diffusing it along was easier. Not so easy as to be deemed effortless, but a noticeable degree of easier. He only had to pour ninety-four percent of his concentration into it instead of a hundred. It was as if someone had come in and painted a coat of butter over the pathway overnight. It not only traveled faster but glided smoother and retreated slower when disrupted by a slip of the mind. Still delicate enough of a process that his shock of its newfound diminished difficulty was enough to forfeit his progress, nonetheless.

So the process was only all-devouring of one’s will to live at first. The more he dedicated himself to it, the more efficient he’d become. That was just the revelation he needed to get the spark reigniting. He gave his training his all plus extra with the vigor of an aroused bear—at least until he hit the point of which he’d yet to permeate. The demand focus shot back to a hundred so fast, he caught whiplash and broke his neck. He was too busy tripping and stumbling over the abrupt shift to use [Equanimity] to minimize his losses, watching in horror as all of his progress retreated to zero. Sorrinn collapsed to his knees, tears in his eyes, screaming a quavering, cracking “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!?” toward the heavens above.

It wasn’t fair. He was ready to throw in the towel. Life was a cruel, unjust mistress.

*Bing*

[+1! Arcana has increased to 33!]

And he was all better in a flash, back to roaring with motivation, a flame in his eyes. “Alright, let’s do this! It’s not over until it’s over!”

Maeve smiled at him from beneath the bloomdew tree while she pruned it like it was all some game born of his imagination. She had no clue the war he waged on the inside.

The days of spring breezed by. Day in, day out, he was subsumed within the tides of that concentration of his. Some days he stayed in his bedroom or the storeroom all day under the pretext of playing with his toys. Others, he took his effort outside for some fresh air. And others, he simply laid sprawled across the general room’s rug with his eyes closed, letting the energy paint his internal pathways in radiance. Day after day, he made fair progress along the one route he’d dedicated himself to reaching the head of. Day after day, his capacity to glide his mystic wealth through it increased.

*Bing*

[+2! Arcana has increased to 35!]

Dedicating his every waking moment to spell diffusion, it was upwards of a month and three weeks later when he reached the finish line of his aspiring. The energies flooded out of his body like emanations of roaring heat which cast his mop of white blond into wild billows. At the same instance, something dense, potent, and all-powerful cascaded over him from above, wreathing him in a whispering vortex of reality-distorting force—The Mystic Force, he hypothesized, he sensed with every thread of his existence.

Those whispers were alien in nature, impossible to decipher to his ears; yet, he could comprehend every word uttered. They ushered knowledge beyond comparison. They endowed power beyond measure. They bestowed potential beyond the scope of any mortal’s dream—so long as one was willing to listen to the calm voice of order lording over the wild waves of the tempest. It lay imperceptible to his eyes as It danced around him. Every sweep further encapsulated him in the womb of incorporeality, every gyration weaving the threads of reality themselves betwixt fluidly flourishing fingers. Depending on how they were plucked, to what harmony, what pitch, and what frequency, he could sense anything was possible.

What he couldn’t perceive by sight was feasted upon by every other sense: Its caress like the crunch and gushing squelch of bloomdew fruit on a hot spring’s day. Its taste like a drop of lemony honey permeating rippling hues of mellow through his being. Its aroma kindred to the wooden, earthy scent of home… Its sound the erudite whispers of a hall of muttering scholars, the breeze meandering through the trees no one was around to hear, the tranquil burble of flowing water, a roaring stadium of tens of thousands of ardent, cheering voices. It was possibility incarnate—the power of all things. It yearned to be actualized into reality, inflicted purpose by his hands and his hands alone.

The Mystic Force wrapped Its arms around him and caressed his body as It drove him into a euphoric stupor. They were many and warm, like the hands of a dozen lovers amidst a passionate orgie. Its hands swept down his arms, then overwhelmed his own. Manipulated like a marionette by forces greater than himself, his hands arose before his chest, snapping into form with the intensity of biting flames. His index and middle fingers of both hands joined into one, assuming the form of a perfect triangle as the tips of his thumbs touched to shape another, greater triangle. Molecular sparks of flame formed from nothing in the space above the triangle’s topmost point and rapidly coalesced into a gyrating, burning sphere.

When he jolted to his senses, he realized he’d, somehow, cast flame creation magic. His hand swept outward and the flame mass followed its motion, fwooshing and hissing. The wealth was still flowing through the pathways of that spell, he felt. The Mystic Force was still granting him Its audience.

Then a thought: What if he poured more of his mystic wealth out? How far could he push that spell, he wondered?

He envisioned all of the mystic energy he had surging through the channel kindred to a flood. He could feel the basin tilting until only dregs remained. Wild, dancing ribbons of citrine formed all around him and rushed to become one with the sphere. Its size grew, and grew, and grew until the mass of flame was larger than himself. It was around then when the panic set in. A gouging flutter in his heart which dyed his body cold with apprehension and fear. He was upstairs in the storeroom; where exactly was all of that fire to go? It was too large to squeeze through the window and too big to fit through the door. If he touched anything, everything was burning down.

Nervous squeals fled him. His childish mind defaulted to bursting into tears, he was so overwhelmed. He hopped around on his feet, flinging the still-swelling mass left and right, unknowing what to do. Did he blow on it? Try to stomp it out? His mind ran blank. [Equanimity] wouldn’t help him when there wasn’t a feasible solution. It was over. He was going to burn his house down and his parents were going to disown him for being a stupid little child. He was going to grow up unloved in some orphanage for dumb babies who reduced their houses to ashes with magic.

That was, unless he stopped it. If he could make it grow by pushing his wealth in, then surely he could diminish it by siphoning his wealth out. So he sniffed his snotting nose, shook off his tears, and focused those wettened eyes, wrapping all of his being around a singular goal: shrink that spell. And, to his exaltation, the channel’s current reversed before his longing. His emptied wealth replenished itself with what’d been expended. The flame’s mass shrank before his eyes to a watermelon’s size.

Then a tickle in his nose made him reel away as he sharply inhaled with scrunched features and squeezed eyes. He sneezed a ferocious, “Achoo!” A flash of that mystic energy came roaring out as an explosive intent of motion. The orb sent tangible ripples through the air as it burst forward at cannon-speed, blasting a gaping, smoldering hole through the storeroom’s wall. A bright orange comet painted a streak over the village’s sky where it traveled until flickering out. At the same time, Sorrinn launched backward across the room like he’d haphazardly squeezed the trigger of a twelve-gauge. He smashed backfirst into one of the crate-bearing shelves. It and all of its contents crashed on top of him.

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Just when he thought he was beginning to get somewhere…

He blacked out for a moment. When he came to, everything was ringing. Everything hurt. Shrill, whining cries filled the silence—his. Sorrinn’s chest spasmed as he choked back the sobs.

Footsteps came dashing up the staircase. A second later, Maeve and Orrillimmirr were at the doorway, concern wearing their faces.

“We heard a fall; what happened; is everything oka—!?” Maeve’s words were silenced when she peered through the massive hole in the side of their house.

“Sorrinn!?” Orrillimmirr dove to the pile of rubble his son lay buried under. A still hand—that was all he saw. That image alone drew his world to a standstill. He tossed the wood scraps off, pulling him out and taking him into his arms. Sorrinn was profusely bleeding from the head. It ran down and covered his face. There was so much blood, it dyed a segment of his white blond hair deep red. One of his pupils was larger than the other. His arm was bending into shapes that should’ve been impossible.

Seeing his son in such a state, Orrillimmirr’s eyes rounded in horror. If he snapped toward his partner any quicker, his son would have flown from his arms. “Maeve, he needs healing. His wounds are severe.”

His mother was already rummaging through one of the crates. “One second; I need to find my instrument.”

In the meanwhile, Orrillimmirr rushed Sorrinn to his bedroom, getting him settled on his bed. He further investigated his son’s body for injury.

When Maeve arrived, she carried an old guitar-looking instrument beneath her arm. She pulled the stool by his window to his bedside and sat, ready to play. The woman closed her eyes, breathing in a slow, controlled breath. And with her exhaling breath, something dense yet imperceptible and familiar emanated from her. The Mystic Force cascaded into the bedroom, circling around where she sat in observance of what was to come.

Then his mother’s finger met one of the guitar’s strings. All of that wild energy focused, raveling tightly round her fingers like thready ribbons. The room was thrust into glaring silence, almost as if the whole world awaited in anticipation. She plucked a first note—a B-flat. One tired note of an old, worn-out guitar, and yet it was the crispest, purest sound Sorrinn’s ears had ever heard. One which thoomed through his body like the bass of a hundred-foot tall subwoofer. Every cell in his body was riveted at first sound. Note after note, pulses of distorting force rippling outward with her finger strokes, she played a gentle, loving tune of a lullaby straight from heart to fingers. But a lullaby was naught but an empty vessel without its words. She sang alongside it once she’d established the melody:

“Hush child, my child, cry no more;

I know this world has brought you pain.

Let this song, my child, dry thy tears

Like ease falls with the rain.

My dear child, sweet child, soar and dance through the clouds so high

Even though you’re bound to fall again.

You’ll fall and cry

And I’ll be there right by thy side

Playing this song of healing,

Lulling my child of thy pain.

Smile child. Silly child. Smile oh beautifully once more,

Youthful grin bright and gold as the grain.

Hush child, wonderful child, shed tears no more;

For by my side, safe and sound, you shall always remain.”

A subtle glow washed over Sorrinn’s body as he listened on, enamored. He didn’t know what was happening, but the pains ailing his body subsided. All of his wounds healed.

She continued humming parallel to the music, head swaying to the sweeping rhythm.

His mother was… casting magic through music? It made sense, and it aligned with what the author described in the book. It wasn’t about knowledge or know-how—it was a wish. If someone had the potential and was determined or skillful enough, theoretically there wasn’t any true vehicle for casting magic. Whether through instrument, voice, dance, silence, intricately-crafted magic circles, or a random stick a magically-prodigious child believed bore immense power, it all depended on the individual’s relationship and cohesion with The Mystic Force. If someone was beloved by It, It would always answer their desire through whatever medium they deemed truest of themselves. So long as they had a grip on the mystic manipulation aspect, it didn’t matter once it reached the surface so long as one’s intent was adequately conveyed in the conversation.

He couldn’t suppress the glimmer in his pale eyes or the awed gaping of his mouth. Such a wonderful warmth permeated his body like a big hug.

The effect faded when she finished playing. She reached over and swept the remnants of tears from his eyes. “There. All better, my love.” She booped his nose, then cupped his little chin. “Now, tell Mama and Papa what happened in there.”

Orrillimmirr wanted to know too.

Sorrinn guessed he couldn’t keep it under wraps anymore—not once there was a hole through the side of the house. His frowning mouth made like a writhing worm, he starting to tear up again. “Will you be mad at me and throw me away in a orphanage because you don’t love me anymore…?”

“Of course not,” his father allayed, grabbing his hand. “That’s preposterous. You’re our son. You’re not going anywhere—ever.”

“That’s right: We would never, ever throw you away. We will always love you, Sorrinn. Tell us what happened. I promise you won’t be in trouble.”

“…Okay… I was doing magic and I could’n control it,” Sorrinn answered softly, sniffling. “I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean to…”

His parents exchanged a glance.

“Magic at four years old? Is that normal, Ori? For your side of the family tree, I mean. No great wisemen on mine.”

Orrillimmirr’s arms folded as he contemplated. He soon answered: “Amongst our kind, we Asuurii do stand closest to The Ancestor in blood and mystic cohesion. It’s normal for Asuuriian children to harbor strong mystic aptitudes from the moment of birth. As for harnessing that abundance of latent potential to actualize a spell?” His head shook in declination. “Even Asuurii aren’t cognitively developed enough to undergo the laborious trials demanded of mystic arts practitioners until prepubescence at the earliest. A prodigy would perhaps be able to get there a few years earlier given the proper guidance, but not at four, and not without a mentor to guide the way.” That posed the interesting question, “How did you manage to cast a spell, Sorrinn?”

Sorrinn partly didn’t know himself. His aim was wind magic, but he gave up trying to follow the correct pathing through his mystic pathways early on. The way it worked to his understanding, he shouldn’t have been able to cast anything since, according to the two-way conversation analogy, he didn’t even understand the words that were coming from his mouth. It all was a hazy string of events in his head. He faded away into the bliss for a flash, snapped awake, and was brandishing mystic flame the next thing he knew. Had The Mystic Force itself guided him to a spell? Something had. The sensation of that spell was still imprinted in his pathways—a new word added to his vernacular which someone else had burned into his wisdom.

Odds were, that was precisely the case. So he answered honestly to his thoughts, “The whispering people showed me.”

That caused Orrillimmirr to jolt. He capsized into his mutterings and thoughts.

“What is it, Orrillimmirr?” Maeve questioned, apprehensive.

“There's a tale passed down in the Elven lore of nine Elven sages who fathered the mystic arts as we know it today. The Nine Luminaries, they were revered as. It’s said they were the first offspring of The Ancestor, the first Asuuriian Elves, tasked with traveling the world and enlightening any forms of life capable of comprehending the mystic ways. In the old lores, the nine sages were often receptacles of revelations from a higher power, which were said to have possessed their bodies and whispered Its secrets into their very souls. The Ancestor imparted to them the ways of wielding Its power for the Luminaries to disseminate to the world.”

“And… you’re saying Sorrinn is what exactly, one of these Luminaries of Asuuriian legend?”

“Possibly. Likely. There’s no other means of explaining him possessing knowledge of the mystic arts he shouldn’t.”

Maeve sighed, throwing her hands up. “Okay. I was a bard; I freelanced in dungeon parties to make end’s meet and sang songs in taverns on weekend nights to get a hot meal. This one’s officially above my paygrade.” She caressed Sorrinn’s cheek and lovingly smiled, stood, gave Orrillimmirr’s shoulder a pat wishing him well, then went on her merry way. “I’ll leave Elven business to the Elves. Meanwhile, I think I’ll pay good ole’ Ferguson a visit at his workshop. See if I can get him over to have a gander at that hole before the rain comes in.”

“Mama?”

She paused in the doorway, brows perked. “Hm, love? What is it?”

His little voice gushed a wowed sound. “You can do magic too? You made me all better.”

“Of course. Mama knows a trick or two from back in her heyday. Well, Mama’s still only twenty-eight. Her heyday wasn’t that long ago.”

“How come you never use it then?” he innocently questioned.

She contemplated whether she would answer that or not. He was still only four, after all. Who knew if he was mature enough to understand. In the end, he guessed she decided she would: “Well, it was something Mama happened to be good at, but not something she ever truly loved. The place where I’m from isn’t like here where the people work together and share to make sure everyone is taken care of. If you didn’t have enough money, you wouldn't eat dinner sometimes. My mother—your grandmother—was… sick, so as a little girl only a few years older than you, I would go outside every day and play my instrument hoping the people walking by would give me money to buy food with. Mama practiced and practiced so much, she ended up casting magic without realizing and everyone on the street gave her all of the money in their pockets.” She made light-hearted of it all with a chuckle and a smile, despite the dark implications.

Control magic through music? That was fascinating. He could only imagine how shocking it was for a little girl who’d been panhandling and likely receiving pennies to suddenly be swarmed by everyone in her near vicinity with their coin pouches outstretched. The way she kept glancing away toward the floor, there was more to the story—a lot more to the story; a whole other book’s worth. He doubted it was fit for a four-year-old’s ears, however. Surely a little girl casting mass Control magic to rob people of their money in broad daylight had severe consequences, even if accidental.

“Really?”

A dip of her head. “Mhm.” She slapped the doorframe, saying, “Now Mama has to run. No more exploding holes through the house please.”

“Okay. Bye-bye,” he waved.

She kissed and waved back. Then she was gone.

Orrillimmirr offered his hand to his son with an ethereal smile wearing his face. “Up for a walk, little one?”

“Okay, Paba.” Sorrinn accepted. With his father’s support, he hopped to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“You love magic, don’t you, Sorrinn?”

Sorrinn nodded and nodded, breathing heavily in that excited, exaggerated way toddlers tended. “Yeah, I love, love magic. Magic is the best.”

Orrillimmirr exhaled a mirthful breath. “As I expected. As a father and a scholar, it would be a great disservice to you to unallow you to flourish when you’re already demonstrating both promise and intrigue. I’m unable to take you under my tutelage myself, so I shall introduce you to someone who may provide you with what I cannot.”

“Who, Paba?”

“An old friend of mine I once helped out of a bind during my travels.”