Deep within the ruins, the air grew thick with a palpable darkness. The spot where Eamon had found the page now seethed with shadow, tendrils of inky blackness gathered into a swirling mass. From its depths, a skeletal hand emerged, fingers clawing at the air as if seeking purchase.
"I'm still too weak," a voice rasped, echoing off the stone walls—a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Someone has taken the Codex fragment."
Silence answered, but then, from the periphery of the chamber, a figure emerged—its form indistinct, cloaked in shadows that clung like a second skin.
"Bring it to me," the voice commanded, each word dripping with malice.
The shadowed figure bowed its head. "Yes, Master."
As quickly as it had appeared, the darkness receded, leaving no trace of its presence save for an unnatural chill that lingered in the air.
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Miles away, along a winding mountain pass bathed in moonlight, a lone mage paused in his journey. He was unremarkable in appearance—average height, plain robes, and a staff that had seen better days. His name was Aldric, a mage seeking experience and purpose.
A sudden pulse rippled through the world, a surge of energy that sent a thrill coursing through him. He closed his eyes, attuning his senses to the magic that wove through the world.
"What was that?" he murmured, eyebrows knitting together. The pulse was powerful, far beyond anything he had felt before. It resonated with an ancient energy, one that spoke of secrets long buried.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Looks like someone unearthed a treasure."
Opportunity gleamed in his eyes. Mediocre though his abilities might be, Aldric was ambitious. He had wandered aimlessly for years, searching for the breakthrough that would elevate him beyond the ranks of the forgettable.
"This could be the chance I've been waiting for," he mused. The prospect of acquiring a powerful artifact stirred his blood. With such an item, he could command respect, influence—even fear.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel, determination settling into his features. "I can't let this slip through my fingers."
Turning off the path, he began to make his way toward the source of the pulse, guided by the faint echoes of its lingering energy. The journey would be arduous, but the potential reward far outweighed the risks.
"No matter what it takes," Aldric vowed, "I'll make that power mine."
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The moon hung high over Stonebridge, casting a silvery glow upon the thatched roofs and cobblestone paths. The village had settled into the quiet lull of the night, but within the modest confines of the blacksmith's cottage, a quiet tension simmered.
Eamon sat at the wooden table, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Around him stood his father Garret, Master Rowan, Old Merrick, and a few other village elders. Their faces were etched with concern and a hint of fear.
"Tell us everything, son," Garret urged gently, his eyes searching Eamon's. "Don't leave anything out."
Eamon took a steadying breath. "When I went to the ruins, I wanted to find something to bring back. To prove I'd been there. It was foolish, I know. But as I explored, I found an underground chamber. There were carvings on the walls, symbols I've never seen before."
He paused, glancing at the expectant faces around him. "I found a page from a book. When I touched it, it... dissolved into light and entered me. Then I found this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden stone, placing it on the table.
Gasps echoed around the room. One of the elders, Matron Elspeth, clasped a hand to her mouth. "By the spirits..." she breathed. "It's just like the tales.”
Garret's brow furrowed. "Why didn't you leave it where you found it?”
"I tried," Eamon explained. "Watch."
He took the stone and, with a swift motion, tossed it across the room. It struck the far wall and clattered to the floor. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, the stone shimmered and reappeared on the table before them.
The elders exchanged uneasy glances. Garret ran a hand over his face, disbelief evident. "This isn't natural."
"We have to find out what's going on," Master Rowan asserted. "If the legends hold any truth, this could mean danger for the village."
"Agreed," Merrick said. "We should form a group to search the lost village. Perhaps there are clues buried there as to what happened."
"I want to go with you," Eamon interjected, his voice firm.
Garret shook his head. "Absolutely not. You've done enough—"
"Father, please," Eamon pleaded. "I was the only one who went inside the ruins. I might recognize something that could help. Besides, this involves me more than anyone."
The room fell silent. Merrick studied Eamon carefully. "He has a point. His presence might be beneficial."
Garret hesitated, conflict warring in his eyes. Finally, he sighed. "Very well. But you stay close, understand?"
Eamon nodded gratefully. "I will."
Merrick stood. "We'll need to make preparations and gather some weapons. Rowan?”
The blacksmith nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Merrick. “We’ll set out at first light in five days. Best to rest while we can."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Eamon made his way to his small room, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. He placed the stone on his bedside table, its gentle glow casting soft shadows on the walls. Changing into his nightclothes, he settled under the worn quilt, thoughts swirling like leaves in an autumn wind.
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The house was quiet, the familiar creaks and sighs of the old cottage enveloping Eamon like a warm blanket. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the events of the evening replaying endlessly in his mind. The stone rested on the small table beside him, its soft glow pulsing gently, casting faint patterns on the walls.
As his eyes grew heavy, a sudden flicker of light caught his attention. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Hovering above him in the air—a shimmering interface filled with symbols, numbers, and words he could miraculously understand.
Eamon's heart skipped a beat. "What in the world...?" he whispered, leaning closer.
At the top of the display was his name:
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Name: Eamon Fletcher
Age: 15
Rank: Novice
Affinities: None Detected
Abilities: None Detected
Prime Affinities: Mana (Awakening - Nature)
Prime Abilities: Arcane Sense
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He stared in disbelief. The tales of magic he'd heard as a child spoke of mages who could manipulate the very fabric of reality, wielding powers beyond imagination. But those were just stories—or so he'd thought.
A mixture of fear and exhilaration coursed through him. The stone wasn't just an artifact; it was a conduit—a link magic. "Can I... can I learn magic?" he wondered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced toward the door, mindful of his sleeping family. The last thing he wanted was to alarm them further. But the pull of curiosity was too strong to resist.
Quietly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, careful to avoid the floorboards he knew would creak. He pulled on his boots and cloak, then retrieved the glowing stone, wrapping it in a scrap of cloth to muffle its light.
Easing his bedroom door open, he peered into the dimly lit hallway. The soft glow of dying embers in the hearth cast long shadows. His father, Garret, was slumped in a chair near the front door, a woodcutting axe resting across his lap. His mother, Elara, had fallen asleep at the dining table, her head pillowed on her arms.
Eamon's heart tightened with a pang of guilt. They must have been worried sick. For a moment, he considered turning back. But the yearning to understand what was happening to him—to unlock the potential he could feel stirring within—propelled him forward.
He tiptoed across the room, each step measured and silent. The old door groaned softly as he inched it open, a cold breeze slipping through the widening gap. He winced, pausing to listen for any sign that his parents had stirred. Hearing nothing, he slipped outside, closing the door gently behind him.
The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant murmur of the river. Stonebridge was still, the only movement the flicker of lanterns swaying gently in the breeze. Eamon pulled his cloak tighter around him and made his way toward the edge of the village, sticking to the shadows to avoid the notice of the two men patrolling the perimeter.
He made his way to the shadowed woods, the golden stone resting heavily in his palm, its light casting a faint glow over the trees. His breath puffed in the cool air, his fingers tightening around the smooth surface. He stared at it, trying to steady his racing thoughts. Magic. The idea still seemed absurd, but there was no denying the strange events of the day.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself, peering at the stone with a mix of hope and anxiety. "If you can glow, you can do something else."
He extended his hand outward, mimicking the movements he’d seen in books and stories, tracing symbols in the air, but nothing happened. The stone simply continued to glow, its warmth an almost mocking comfort in his palm.
Frustration began to gnaw at him. It should work. There has to be something. He clenched his teeth and waved the stone again, trying to summon any trace of power he could feel. But there was nothing—just the quiet rustle of leaves in the forest and the distant murmur of the river.
"I don't even know what I'm doing," Eamon muttered through gritted teeth, his heart sinking. Every story he'd ever heard about magic made it sound instinctual—like an extension of a mage’s will. But standing here, fumbling in the dark, he felt ridiculous.
What if he couldn’t use magic? What if all this talk of power and ancient secrets was just fantasy? The stone had come back to him, over and over, but it didn’t mean he was any closer to understanding it.
He closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. Focus. You can do this.
His mind raced as he thought back to the moment in the ruins—the page, the way it dissolved and disappeared into him. That had been real. He had felt something, but it was fleeting, vanishing the moment it touched him.
He opened his eyes again and extended his arm, holding the stone aloft. Do something, he thought desperately. He closed his eyes again and willed it to work. To answer him. To unlock whatever it held inside.
But the longer he stood there, the more the quiet pressed in around him, and the stone remained unchanged.
Eamon growled in frustration, his hand trembling. "Why isn’t it working?"
Without thinking, he hurled the stone against a nearby tree. It struck the trunk with a dull thud and bounced off, rolling a few feet before coming to rest at the base of the tree. Its glow dimmed slightly, almost as if it were sulking.
Eamon slumped to his knees, a wave of defeat crashing over him. What if I’m not meant for this? What if I’m just… a fool?
After a few breaths, Eamon stood, wiping his hands on his pants, determined not to give up. He strode over and picked up the stone, gripping it tightly in his fist. This time, he told himself. This time, I’ll make it work.
He wasn’t going to try symbols or incantations anymore. He didn’t know how this magic worked, but the stories always talked about instinct—about feeling the magic. Eamon closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. He reached deep inside himself, into the quiet places of his mind, trying to feel for something—anything—that might unlock this power.
For a long time, there was nothing. Just the steady beat of his heart, the distant sounds of the forest, and the cool night air pressing in around him.
Then, faintly, a strange sensation began to stir in his chest. It was subtle at first, barely a twinge, but it was there—like the distant hum of something waiting to be tapped into.
His eyes snapped open in surprise. "There!" he whispered, his pulse quickening. He could feel it—something just beyond his reach, like the edge of a dream slipping away as soon as he noticed it.
He tried to focus, to pull that sensation closer, but as soon as he grasped for it, it vanished. His heart sank. No. I felt it. It’s there. He closed his eyes again, more carefully this time, trying not to force it, trying to let it come to him.
It was maddening. Like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands, the magic kept slipping away from him. This shouldn’t be so hard, he thought, his frustration growing. The stories made it sound so easy—mages just called the magic, and it answered.
Why wasn’t it answering him?
Finally, after what felt like hours, he let out a slow, measured breath and stilled his mind. He waited, listening for the faint pulse in the back of his consciousness.
And then, like the flicker of a flame catching at last, the magic stirred again. Stronger this time. Closer.
Eamon’s breath hitched. He didn’t move, afraid that any sudden action would break the connection. Slowly, carefully, he reached for it again, feeling the magic resonate deep within his chest. He wasn’t trying to control it—just to touch it. To feel it.
His hand tingled, warmth spreading from his fingertips. He opened his eyes, and to his astonishment, the threads of light began to shimmer faintly in the air around him, flickering like fireflies.
His heart pounded in his chest. He had done it. He had touched the magic.
But even as excitement filled him, there was a weight to the magic—an immensity that made him feel small. The power he had tapped into wasn’t just energy—it was something ancient, something that had existed long before he had. The sensation left him feeling both thrilled and overwhelmed.
His fingers trembled as the light began to coalesce into a thin, translucent film over his hand. For a moment, he marveled at the sight, unable to believe he had done it.