The dim light of the chamber flickered unevenly, casting long, twisted shadows across the stone walls. The air was filled with the eerie symphony of metal clanging against metal, the rattling of iron cages as creatures inside shifted restlessly. Low growls and snarls echoed through the narrow room, accompanied by the occasional thud of a tail or claw striking the bars.

Aldric stood before one of the cages, his eyes cold as he watched the creature within. The beast—a Corvic—paced in agitated circles, its gaunt frame trembling with pent-up energy. Its matted fur hung in clumps, and its glowing red eyes never left Aldric’s form. It snarled, gnashing its yellowed teeth as it scraped its claws against the cage floor.

Aldric let out a soft breath, the noise almost drowned out by the constant rattling. Slowly, he reached a hand through the bars, his fingers brushing the coarse fur of the creature’s back. It flinched, growling low in its throat, but Aldric continued to stroke it with a strange gentleness, almost as though he found some kind of twisted comfort in the act.

"Another one," he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible beneath the cacophony of the beasts. His mind was elsewhere, distant, swirling with thoughts that had consumed him for weeks now.

In front of him, scattered across a stone table, lay portraits. Dozens of them. Detailed charcoal sketches, inked paintings, and hastily scribbled notes all depicting the faces of mages, scholars, and adventurers. All potential rivals. All potential thieves. Each one, a possible culprit who might have unearthed the artifact—the artifact Aldric so desperately sought.

His brow furrowed as his eyes lingered on one particular portrait, a mage known for her mastery over elemental magic. He had once crossed paths with her during a failed expedition, and though she was talented, he knew in his bones she wasn't capable of the subtlety required to hide such a powerful artifact. Still, the others... any one of them could have done it.

A scowl twisted Aldric’s lips. The artifact should have left a mark on the world. A magical signature, a ripple in the magic that even the most mediocre mage could sense. Yet somehow, it had vanished without a trace. How?

He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. "It should be easier. It should have been mine by now."

The creature beside him growled again, disturbed by his growing frustration. Aldric's fingers dug into its fur, though the beast didn’t retreat this time. Instead, it whined, sensing the rage bubbling beneath Aldric’s calm exterior.

He glanced back at the creature, an ugly sneer twisting his features. The Corvics had failed him—lost more of them than he anticipated during the hunts. Their enhanced senses, their relentless pursuit, hadn’t been enough. The beasts were powerful, deadly even, but they hadn’t brought him closer to the artifact.

Aldric sighed heavily, straightening his back. His eyes slid back to the portraits, his gaze hardening as they landed on one in particular. It was a young man, his features drawn with such care that the likeness was unmistakable. His master’s student.

Aldric’s lip curled involuntarily. Tristan. The boy had always been favored—always held in high regard. Even as a child, his raw potential had been leagues beyond Aldric’s, casting a shadow over everything Aldric did. Every lesson, every spell, every experiment was inevitably compared to Tristan’s effortless brilliance.

Aldric had worked. He had studied harder than anyone. Practiced longer. Pushed himself beyond what others thought possible. And yet, no matter what he did, it had never been enough. His master’s praise had always been reserved for him—for Tristan. And when their master had finally passed, leaving behind his legacy and his secrets, Aldric had been left with nothing but the bitter taste of second place.

Second place. Always second.

He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Tristan had never struggled. Magic came to him as naturally as breathing, as if the universe itself bent to his will. Aldric had watched, helpless, as the boy grew more powerful, more skilled. All the while, he had to claw and scrape for even a fraction of that same power.

His nails dug into his palm until he felt the sting of his own blood. The droplets pooled in his hand, trembling with the same suppressed fury that roiled inside him. He watched the blood for a moment, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. His chest felt tight, constricted by the weight of years of resentment.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, the blood droplets floated into the air, twisting and swirling before him. They hovered for a moment, glinting in the dim light before they shot forward, slipping through the bars of the cage.

The Corvic inside let out a low, guttural growl, its body tensing as the droplets of blood seeped into its skin. Its muscles twitched, spasming violently as the blood magic took hold. Aldric watched, impassive, as the creature’s body convulsed, its eyes rolling back into its skull. Its limbs jerked erratically, slamming against the cage walls with bone-crushing force.

And then, with a final twitch, the creature stilled. Its chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths before stopping altogether.

Dead.

Aldric’s fists curled at his sides. It had failed. Again.

His mind flashed with the image of Tristan’s face—calm, confident, always a step ahead. Always better. Aldric’s lips twisted into a snarl, and his vision swam with red-hot fury. Why? Why couldn’t he have that same power?

He stalked forward, his gaze flicking back to the portraits on the table. If only I had the artifact. If only he had been the one to find it. He would have power beyond anything Tristan could ever imagine. He would surpass them all.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

With that thought, his determination solidified. Aldric strode toward the next cage, where another Corvic awaited. Its eyes followed his every movement, fear and rage flickering in equal measure.

"I’ll show them," Aldric muttered under his breath as he unsheathed his dagger, the blade gleaming coldly in the dim light. "I’ll show them all."

He sliced his finger again, watching the blood bead at the tip. The droplet shimmered in the air before splitting into dozens of smaller orbs. Each one floated toward the creature in the cage, entering its body in a synchronized flow.

The Corvic roared, thrashing violently against the bars. Its body twisted and contorted as the blood magic invaded every cell, every muscle. Aldric watched in grim silence, his face expressionless as the creature’s cries grew weaker, its body succumbing to the brutal transformation.

But Aldric wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was already elsewhere, on the artifact. On the power it would bring him.

Once he had the artifact, he would no longer be second to anyone. Not to his master’s memory. Not to Tristan.

The creature finally collapsed, its body twitching in its final moments. Aldric turned away from the lifeless beast, wiping the blood from his hands. His heart pounded with anticipation, his every thought consumed by one singular goal.

"Once I have it..." Aldric whispered, a cold smile curving his lips. "I’ll be the one they remember. Not Tristan. Not anyone else."

He strode forward into the dim chamber, his footsteps echoing ominously in the stillness. He could already feel the artifact calling to him, and nothing—not even the memory of his master’s favorite student—would stop him from claiming what should have been his all along.

----------------------------------------

Eamon sat beneath the ancient oak on the outskirts of Stonebridge, the cool shade offering respite from the sun. The gentle rustling of leaves above should have been soothing, but his thoughts churned restlessly. Ever since his conversation with Seraphine, everything he had known about magic seemed uncertain, like sand slipping through his fingers.

Magic comes from the core.

The truth of that statement gnawed at him, reshaping his understanding of what it meant to wield power. He'd always drawn from the world around him, from the abundant energy of nature. But now, he could feel something deeper—an internal reservoir, a core of mana, residing within him. He had never noticed it before, but now that he focused, there was no denying it.

The words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the conversation that had shifted his entire understanding of magic. His core—this wellspring of mana—was barely more than a flicker, colorless and weak. But it was there, waiting for him to unlock its full potential.

Eamon drew a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before releasing it slowly. He focused on the core, trying to pull mana from it rather than the ambient energy around him. It was a strange sensation, like reaching for something just out of his grasp, but he persisted.

The warmth in his chest returned, a soft, pulsing heat that spread through his limbs. He tried again, extending his hand and willing the wind to respond. A faint gust stirred the air, barely enough to shift the grass at his feet.

Weak.

Eamon’s brow furrowed in frustration, but he quickly reminded himself that this was only the beginning. Seraphine had said it would take time. His core was underdeveloped, mostly colorless, with only the faintest hints of red at the edges. He had to refine it—strengthen it.

She mentioned that the first breakthrough can be done in one go.

I need to refine it.

The thought alone sent a ripple of determination through him. His life, his father’s life, the very survival of the village—they all seemed bound to this power. This wasn’t just about curiosity or the thrill of exploration anymore. He could feel the urgency in his bones. There were darker forces at work in the world, and if he didn’t grow stronger, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

I never wanted to be a savior, he thought. I just wanted to see the world, escape the smallness of Stonebridge. But magic—it’s not just a tool for that anymore. It’s a weapon. And without it, we won’t survive.

Closing his eyes once more, Eamon focused inward. This time, instead of simply trying to draw mana, he focused on his core itself. He envisioned it as a small, flickering flame, surrounded by darkness. The more he focused, the clearer the image became—a dim, colorless glow, with faint traces of red creeping along the edges.

Feed it. The thought came unbidden, but Eamon knew it was right. If he wanted his core to grow, he needed to nourish it, to draw mana into it and refine it.

He inhaled deeply, reaching out with his senses, not to pull mana into his spells, but to absorb it into his core. At first, nothing happened. The energy around him felt distant, slippery, as if it resisted his attempts to draw it in. But he persisted, his focus unwavering. Slowly, gradually, he felt the tiniest trickle of mana seeping into his core, like droplets of water filling a parched basin.

The warmth in his chest grew, the faint flicker of his core glowing brighter. Eamon felt his heart race with anticipation. He could feel it—the process of refinement beginning.

Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through him, like fire spreading through his veins. Eamon gasped, his eyes flying open as his hand shot to his chest. The pain was overwhelming, burning through his body with an intensity that left him breathless.

His vision blurred, but even through the haze, he could see his core in his mind’s eye. The edges of the colorless core were tinged with red now, but it was far from stable. The mana he had drawn into it surged chaotically, like a storm trapped within a bottle, threatening to tear him apart from the inside.

Focus. He gritted his teeth, trying to regain control. The pain was excruciating, but he couldn’t afford to stop now. If he let go, all the mana he had gathered would dissipate, and the progress he had made would be lost.

He forced himself to focus on the core again, visualizing it as clearly as he could. The swirling storm of mana was violent, chaotic, but Eamon reached out with his mind, trying to calm it. He imagined the storm settling, the swirling energy slowing, condensing into something more manageable.

The pain began to ease, just slightly. Eamon exhaled slowly, his body trembling with the effort. The mana was still wild, still dangerous, but he was starting to gain control.

Just a little more. He focused again, pouring every ounce of his will into the core, coaxing the storm to settle, to refine.

The red hues deepened, creeping further into the colorless core. The storm slowed, the chaotic energy beginning to stabilize. Eamon felt a surge of relief as the pain dulled, replaced by a steady, thrumming warmth in his chest.

The process was agonizingly slow, but it was working. Bit by bit, the core refined itself, absorbing the mana he had drawn in and transforming it into something stronger, something more stable.

Eamon’s breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His mind raced with the possibilities—if he could refine his core to red, then what more could he achieve? How much more power could he unlock?

After what felt like hours, the storm within his core finally settled. The colorless portions had all but vanished, replaced by a deep, vibrant red that pulsed with a steady rhythm. The warmth in his chest was now a comforting presence, a source of strength that filled him with a sense of completeness he had never known before.

Eamon slumped against the trunk of the oak, utterly spent. His body ached, his muscles screamed in protest, but a triumphant smile spread across his face.

I did it.