Rifi woke early, his mind sharp and his body refreshed after only a few hours of true sleep. Rising from the simple cot in the house that had been repurposed for the legionaries, he stepped outside, the crisp morning air greeting him like a silent reminder of the day ahead. Stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, he felt his muscles loosen, the lingering soreness from recent battles gradually fading as his recovery neared completion.
The sky was painted with the soft hues of dawn, the first rays of sunlight just beginning to streak across the horizon. The sun itself remained hidden below the walls of the Aemiliana stronghold, casting long, dramatic shadows over the quiet camp. The stillness was profound, broken only by the occasional creak of armor and the low murmur of guards patrolling the walls above. It was a scene of tranquility Rifi hadn’t expected to find, a fragile calm that felt as fleeting as it was precious.
His gaze drifted toward the walls, half-expecting the harsh clamor of an Argos assault or the shouted orders of a commander rallying troops. But none came. Instead, the morning remained still, untouched by the looming war. For a fleeting moment, the camp felt unbroken, as though time itself had paused. Yet beneath the peace, an edge of anticipation lingered, sharp and unrelenting, like the breath before a storm.
Rifi took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs as his eyes swept the horizon. The faint light of dawn illuminated the distant hills, shadowy shapes that held unknown dangers beyond their reach. His gaze returned to the walls, where the silhouettes of legionaries stood vigil, their quiet professionalism reassuring yet distant. Did they share his doubts? Did they see him the way he saw himself—a failure weighed down by the lives he couldn’t save?
The question gnawed at him. In the days following the battle, Rifi had sought to prove himself, to his fellow battlemages and to the legion he had been trusted to support. Yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that he had failed—not just Kaelin and Serra, but the entire Aemiliana Clan. He had pushed for the plan to divide their forces, certain it was the right course. The others hadn’t fought him on it, but that didn’t absolve him of responsibility. The result? Countless dead, including Elias, the revered head of the Aemiliana Clan. Could he have done something differently? Should he have?
The thoughts grew heavier, threatening to pull him under. He needed something to focus on, something to quiet his restless mind. With that resolve, Rifi began walking toward the training grounds near the barracks. Physical exertion would clear his head, and perhaps the motion would loosen the weight in his chest.
He was thankful that Kaelin had taken charge of managing the camp. While Rifi recovered, Kaelin had organized the defenses, handled logistics, and stepped into the role of leadership with the ease of experience. That suited Rifi just fine. The duty of command felt too heavy for him, especially after the battle. Being a soldier—taking orders and being the sword that others pointed—was a role he understood. Leading meant carrying the lives of others on his decisions, and that burden was one he wasn’t ready to bear.
As his thoughts churned, another weighed heavily on his mind—the Devils. Rifi was certain they had a hand in Argos’s sudden aggression, but the thought of sharing his suspicions felt premature. He wasn’t strong enough to confront the truth, and strength was what he needed to even consider taking on that threat. One day, perhaps, but not today.
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When Rifi arrived at the training grounds, he was surprised to find he wasn’t alone. Two figures moved fluidly in the pale morning light, their stances sharp and purposeful. He recognized them immediately—Arin and Mira Aemiliana, the only surviving green-core mages of their clan. Both had been at the meetings in recent days, their presence somber yet resolute.
Arin, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair cropped close to his head and a strong jawline, exuded quiet authority. His movements were deliberate, each step grounded with confidence that matched his years of experience. Mira, wiry and agile, was his counterpoint. Her cropped auburn hair glinted in the early light, and her piercing gray eyes were sharp with focus. Younger than Arin and only a year or two older than Rifi, Mira moved with the precision of a prodigy—a genius whose skills had elevated her to green-core rank far earlier than most.
Rifi hesitated, considering whether to turn back, but before he could decide, Arin spotted him.
“Battlemage Rifi, you’re up early,” Arin called, his tone respectful. “Care to join us? I hope I’m not overstepping.”
Rifi shook his head and offered a small smile. “Morning, Arin. Mira. I was just looking to stretch my muscles and clear my thoughts. I wouldn’t want to impose on you two.”
Arin waved the concern away. “You’re not imposing. In fact, we’d welcome it. It’s not every day we get to train alongside a battlemage.”
Mira muttered under her breath, loud enough for Rifi to hear, “Tch. Some battlemage he is.”
Her words were a dagger, and Rifi’s expression faltered. Arin shot her a sharp look. “Mira, you need to watch your words. This isn’t—”
Rifi raised a hand, his voice somber as he interrupted. “She’s right, Arin. I don’t feel I deserve the title. I used to think I did, but… now I’m not so sure.”
Mira turned to him fully, her gray eyes narrowing. “Good. At least you admit it. But that doesn’t make anything better. My brother is dead, and so are most of our clan’s mages. You came to help, and where was your help? They all died.”
Her words landed like blows, but Rifi stood firm, his storm-gray eyes meeting hers steadily. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I made decisions because I thought they were right. Maybe if I’d done something differently… Elias would still be alive. Maybe some of your people would, too.”
Arin stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “That’s enough, Mira. Elias made his own choices. He fought to defend the clan, and no one could have changed what happened.”
Mira’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, she turned her gaze away, her voice soft but bitter. “It’s easy for you to rationalize, Arin. I can’t. Elias wasn’t just our leader—he was my brother.”
Rifi let Mira’s words settle in the air. He didn’t try to defend himself further; there was no defense for the guilt he carried. Instead, he took a step closer, his tone measured. “I can’t bring him back, Mira. And I can’t change what’s already happened. But I can promise you this—I’m here to fight with you, to make sure no one else has to go through what you’ve lost.”
Mira turned to face him again, her piercing gaze softening only slightly. For a moment, it seemed like she might say something more, but instead, she exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. “Words are cheap. Prove it.”
Arin raised an eyebrow, his tone tinged with concern. “Mira—”
“No,” she cut him off, stepping into the center of the training ground and gesturing toward Rifi. “If he’s so determined to help, let’s see what he can do. Show me what makes you a battlemage.”
Rifi studied her for a moment, noting the fire in her posture and the tightly wound grief behind her sharp words. Sparring wasn’t about proving himself to her, he realized—it was her way of channeling her emotions, of trying to find some outlet for the loss she carried.
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He nodded, stepping into the circle with her. “Alright. If it helps, I’m game. But I don’t want this to be about proving anything. Let’s make it about getting better—both of us.”
Arin sighed but took a step back, motioning for the curious onlookers to clear a wide space around them. The small group of recruits that gathered, drawn by the commotion earlier. Mira’s expression hardened, and she adopted a combat-ready stance. Her green-core mana glowed faintly in her eyes. The water mana she summoned rippled and flowed like liquid steel, coalescing into readiness at her fingertips.
Rifi remained calm, his posture relaxed but focused. He drew on his own mana—not the crackling, volatile lightning he wielded in battle, but a steadier flow of elementless mana. It layered beneath his skin, enhancing his muscles, organs, and reflexes while maintaining control. A faint current of lightning mana flickered within, enough to sharpen his speed and strength without risking the strain that higher levels would bring.
“Let’s begin,” Mira said curtly, wasting no time as she launched her first attack.
She moved with fluid precision, an arc of water slicing toward Rifi’s left side. He sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a quick burst of mana out of his hand, aimed toward her shoulder—not to harm, but to test her defenses. Mira reacted instantly, manifesting a shield of water that deflected his attack. The impact sent ripples through the air, her movements controlled but forceful.
“You’re fast,” she admitted begrudgingly, her tone clipped. “But speed alone won’t win a fight.”
Rifi smirked faintly, his voice calm and even. “True. But you’re overextending. Your strikes are strong, but they’re telegraphed. Control your mana—don’t let it control you.”
Mira’s scowl deepened, and her movements grew faster, her strikes more precise. This time, as she swept her hand, the water beneath her transformed into ice, spreading beneath Rifi’s feet to hinder his movements. A lesser mage might have stumbled, but Rifi instinctively channeled a small surge of lightning mana through his legs. The precise heat it generated melted the ice at key points, allowing him to pivot with ease. His speed increased as the lightning mixed with his elementless mana, enhancing his movements without yet pushing him to the edge of risk.
Her attacks became more varied—streams of water shifting in shape and trajectory, forcing Rifi to adapt. Then, unexpectedly, one of her strikes exploded into hot steam, the searing vapor rushing toward him. It grazed his elementless mana shield, forcing him to deflect more energy than he had anticipated. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face. This wasn’t mere skill—Mira was demonstrating a rare mastery over her element. Most water mages could manipulate liquid water, and some could extend their control to ice. A select few managed both, but Mira moved effortlessly between all three states—water, ice, and steam—with remarkable precision. Such seamless versatility was extraordinary, and despite the intensity of the spar, Rifi found himself genuinely impressed.
“You’re talented,” he said as he deflected another strike, his tone genuine. “But you’re burning through your mana too quickly. You’ll tire before you can land a decisive blow.”
“I’m fine,” Mira snapped, though her breathing had quickened.
Rifi adjusted his stance, channeling a bit more lightning into his muscles. The flicker of power sharpened his reflexes, letting him counter her next strike with a burst of speed. “Again,” he said, his voice steady. “Focus on precision, not power. Sometimes it’s not about how much mana you use, but where and how you use it.”
Mira gritted her teeth but followed his advice, her attacks becoming more controlled. A concentrated burst of water shot toward Rifi’s midsection, faster and more focused than before. He deflected it with a flick of his mana, nodding in approval.
The spar continued, the two of them circling each other like predators testing their prey. The recruits watching from the sidelines were silent, their gazes fixed on the clash of mana. Arin stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but tinged with quiet approval.
Mira was quick to adapt, her strikes growing sharper and her shifts between water, ice, and steam more seamless. But Rifi was relentless, countering her every move while staying just one step ahead. Each time she tried to trap him—whether with ice beneath his feet or steam to obscure his vision—he outmaneuvered her with precise bursts of lightning, his control honed from years of practice.
Finally, after several minutes, Rifi stepped back, raising a hand to signal the end of the match. He was breathing steadily, his expression calm but satisfied. “You’re quick to adapt,” he said, his tone genuine. “Elias must have been proud to have a sister as skilled as you.”
Mira hesitated, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Her gray eyes searched his for a moment, and though there was still a lingering edge of resentment, there was also something softer—respect, perhaps. “He was,” she admitted quietly, her voice steadier than before. “And he always said there was more to learn.”
Her gaze lingered on Rifi, and after a moment, she added with a faint smirk, “Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.”
Rifi chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
Arin stepped forward then, his deep voice breaking through the lingering tension. “Enough banter. Let’s focus on what’s important. There’s a lot of work to do if we’re going to keep this clan standing.”
The crowd of legionaries that had gathered around the sparring match remained silent, their awe palpable. Rifi could feel their gazes—some filled with admiration, others with curiosity or lingering doubt. Mira stood across from him, her breathing steadying as she lowered her stance. The faint shimmer of her green-core mana faded, leaving behind only the quiet rustle of the morning breeze.
For a moment, she said nothing, her gray eyes fixed on Rifi. Then, after a deep breath, her voice broke the stillness. “I was wrong about you.”
Rifi blinked, surprised by the unexpected shift in her tone. Mira straightened, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her face. “You didn’t have to fight the way you did back then. I know how many red cores you faced. Everyone does. And you almost…” She trailed off, the words catching in her throat. “I just—”
“You don’t have to say it,” Rifi interjected softly, offering her a faint, understanding smile. “It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not.” Mira’s gaze dropped for a moment before she looked back at him, her expression resolute. “I’ve been taking my anger out on you because it’s easier than facing what happened. You didn’t fail. My brother… my clan…” Her voice wavered before she steadied herself. “They wouldn’t have stood a chance without you. And I’m sorry for blaming you.”
Rifi hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, he nodded, his voice quiet but firm. “We all did what we could. That’s all any of us can do.”
Mira gave a short, sharp nod, as if to say the conversation was over. Arin, who had been watching silently, stepped forward with a faint smile. “It’s a start,” he said, his tone light but supportive. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I think Mira and I have some training to finish.”
Rifi chuckled softly, brushing his hands together. “By all means. I think I’ve had my fill of sparring for today.”
He turned toward the recruits still watching nearby, their wide-eyed stares a mix of amazement and respect. Some shifted awkwardly under his gaze, others straightened as though trying to impress him. Rifi offered them a simple nod. “Keep working hard. This is how you get stronger.”
As he walked away, he caught snippets of their murmurs—whispers of lightning-fast reflexes and the battle stories that had already begun to circulate through the camp. Rifi tried not to dwell on their words. Respect wasn’t what he sought, not yet. There was still too much to do, too many questions unanswered.
The quiet of the morning returned as he left the training grounds behind. With the tension of the spar fading, Rifi’s thoughts turned to Kaelin and the main hall. He needed to know if there was news—about Argos, about their next move. Anything to give their fractured forces direction.
Behind him, Mira watched his retreating figure, her lips pressed into a thin line as a tear slid down her cheek. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t Rifi’s fault—no single decision could have changed the outcome. But her heart still ached, the pain of loss refusing to fade so easily. Now that they had exchanged blows and she had seen more of the man behind the title, even with all that she had said to him, he had remained calm, steady, and willing to help her. She found herself wondering: would she ever be able to do the same? Could she carry that weight the way he did?
She didn’t have a choice. She could only move forward. The duty of protecting the clan now rested squarely on her shoulders. She only hoped she could carry it as Rifi had—quietly, steadily, and without faltering.
Unbeknownst to her, Rifi fought his own battles every day—against doubt, against fear, and against the weight of choices that haunted him. It wasn’t calm that carried him through, but determination, forged from countless moments of faltering and refusing to stay down. That was the truth of strength: not the absence of struggle, but the will to keep standing. Every mage, every soldier, fought such battles within themselves. And it was that choice—the choice to fight, to press forward, and to never give in—that set them apart.
For Rifi, as for all who walked the path of a mage, it wasn’t about being unshaken. It was about choosing, time and again, to rise in the face of uncertainty. And that was the battle that truly mattered.