“Stop!”

Frost enveloped Rane, cutting his movement short. He blinked a couple of times, staring down at his unmoving opponent and his blade that pierced her chest. Veradin’ screams barely registered. What had he done?

Mages stood from their seats and ran in directions they thought mattered. Veradin rushed to his apprentice, cradling her body between his arms and calling a gust of wind to lift them up and away. Rane’s sword clanked to the ground and the magic that held him in place faded. He turned to Miria, furious. “You were supposed to stop me!”

“I–” She stammered in shock, looking down at the relic in her hand. “The prognosis didn’t work properly. There was a delay and-”

“Arbiter, what have I done?” Rane turned away and covered his mouth. He had lost control. He had let his past resurface. Even when he had a chance to stop, he didn’t. “I killed her.”

Atinas rushed onto the arena, robe fluttering against the gathering wind. He hurriedly picked up the sword and placed it in its scabbard, still bloody. “Don’t rush to conclusions,” he said. Atinas guided him away from the arena, shielding his body from the all the stares to inspect the wound on his shoulder. The cut was shallow, but clean.

“It’s not your fault a safeguard failed,” he said with a lowered voice. He glanced over his shoulder and pulled Rane inside a small empty room. “She was still alive when Veradin got to her, but you punctured one of her lungs. I don’t know if Seoltrin’s magic will be enough.”

Rane shook his head and tears formed in his eyes. He had grown so used to the archmage’s protection that he lost himself in the fight. “I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

“Get a grip!” Atinas slapped him across the face.

Rane’s vision spun. He collapsed backwards, finding the wall. The archmage’s hands were almost entirely bone, making the slap hurt like he was hit by a rock.

“I’ve seen all the pain and torment you went through,” Atinas closed the door behind him. “I admire you for holding fast to your morals despite it all, but you have to grow up and face the truth eventually. It’s not a matter of right or wrong. Conflict can’t always be resolved peacefully. People will turn on each other. People will die.” He handed Rane his scabbard. “And if there’s a choice, I don’t want it to be you.”

Rane wiped the blood from his mouth. “Why?”

That made Atinas pause. “Because I have a feeling you can do what no one else could,” he settled. “You have the will and the power to change this damned, shattered country.”

Rane chuckled, muffling his crying. “Thank you.” He looked down at the blood dripping from his shoulder and staining his clothes. “But I can’t even control myself.”

“You got caught in the heat of battle, that’s all.” Atinas reached into his robe for a vial of salve. It was red, just like the one Loric had used. The slight burn it brought was the same as well. “Soon, I will teach you a method to reign in your emotions.” His open palm touched Rane’s chest and a smile crossed his face. “Right now, there are more urgent matters. Like celebrating your ascension.”

“What do you mean?” Rane turned his attention inward, feeling his soul. Instead of simply mist gathering there, he found something solid. It was like the small sphere made of glass inside him had grown. That explained the slight pressure he’d been feeling in his chest.

“During the last round, you sparked.” Atinas lowered Rane’s sleeves over the closed wound. “Congratulations. You’re officially a mage.”

“I didn’t even realise…” During the last few days, Rane felt like he was stuffed with nora, yet now his soul was empty. Only a few droplets of mist swirled around the new space inside him.

“The experience depends on the person. Sometimes it can be subtle,” Atinas said. “Try it out.”

Rane pulled magic to his fingertips, and it responded with more power than he would have imagined. The small spark he intended to make exploded from his hand instead, forming a fully fledged flame.

“Woah.” Rane pulled his hand away from his face.

“You will get used to it sooner than you think.” Atinas placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair. It felt more awkward than nice.

“The contestant’s condition has been confirmed as not critical.” Veradin’s voice sounded throughout the arena. “Return to your seats orderly. The competition has yet to end.”

“Thank the law.” Rane heaved a deep sigh. Despite Atinas’ words, his conscience wouldn’t be able to handle another death. He silently thanked Seoltrin’s magic once again.

“We should go.” Atinas leaned down, strapping the scabbard around Rane’s waist. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Right.” Rane composed himself and wiped the tears from his eyes. He straightened his clothes and fixed his hair back in blace. Not much he could do about the blood on him. Knowing Veradin’s disciple had survived was a massive weight off his chest. Atinas followed close behind him as he walked out into the orange sunlight. Mord joined him in the center of the arena, also walking in front of his master.

“I can’t believe it,” he said under his breath. The deep blue haze around him held many emotions, some of them conflicting. Anger and jealousy, but at the same time a certain elation.

“I won’t lie,” Rane replied as he took his place, facing Veradin. “Me neither.”

Veradin gave him a complicated look. This time it didn’t make Rane dizzy. Instead, he felt the man’s well-veiled disbelief. His gaze shifted to Atinas. “Where did you find such a monster?”

Atinas didn’t respond, but Rane could tell he was smiling without even turning to look.

Veradin stepped back. “The flames are over!” he declared. “As is tradition, the finalists will now choose who to receive guidance from. Due to the unfortunate circumstances however, only Rane will be able to select a new mentor should he wish.” Veradin paused briefly. “A show of hands, please."

Every mage on every row moved at once. Rane’s chest swole with pride as he gazed at the raised hands, but he had a promise to uphold. “Archmage Atinas,” he said, and the mages lowered their hands, letting soft murmurs take their place.

“Very well.” Veradin backed away, letting Miria step forward.

“Congratulations, Mord!” Miria bowed in front of the slim apprentice, holding out a small crystal with both hands. A crimson flame burned inside it, glittering. “You have reached the third place in the Flames. May you shine brilliantly.”

“Thank you,” Mord mumbled before taking the crystal.

“Archmage Veradin.” Miria bowed in front of the man in a similar fashion and handed him a crystal. “For your apprentice’s efforts in the Flames, the second place medal. I hope it finds her recovered.”

Veradin nodded with half a grin and accepted it. Rane was once more impressed by the man’s composure. Minutes ago, he was carrying his unconscious apprentice in his arms, and now he was calm.

Finally, Miria turned to Rane. “Congratulations, Rane,” she said with a smile. “You are the champion of the Flames.” She placed a crystal onto his waiting palm, slightly larger than the others. A pure white flame burned inside of it.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Thank you.” Rane admired it for a few moments, feeling the crystal’s soft warmth, before carefully placing it in a pocket. The entire stadium granted the contestants a continuous, low applause. Admiration poured down from the seats above, like tiny sparks of gold.

“As for your prizes,” Miria continued with a lowered voice, “they will be handed by the King himself. He has requested to see each of you individually.”

Rane’s eyes widened. This would be his chance to show Loric’s blade to the King and possibly annul the Lanar’s Oath. He held the blade a bit closer to his side, reminding himself that he’d have to polish and clean it beforehand. The applause slowly faded and the mages rose from their seats. A deep afternoon red had colored the clouds, dusk slowly approaching. Veradin used a gust of wind to lift himself up and Miria walked away after giving Rane a wink.

“It seems your fight is over.” Atinas glanced at the sky, then placed a hand on their shoulders. “Now it’s our turn.”

◆

“I can’t believe you sparked before me.” Mord murmured. He was leaning over an open book in one of the cradle’s many desks.

Rane debated telling him that years of torture and doing nothing but training on every waking hour would have that effect. “I’ve been through a lot,” he settled, turning the page of his book. This was the only volume about empaths he could find in the outer sections of the cradle, and it wasn’t exactly helpful. Most of the information he already knew, and a big part was conflicting with his own experiences.

He sighed, pulling the next heavy tome from atop the pile of books beside him. It fell onto the wood with a thump. Atinas had said it was a necessary read for recently sparked mages, to help them discover their origin magic. From what he had learned so far, more than half of all mages sparked to an elemental origin. Fire, water, earth, ice or other elements. Even if commonplace, such origins were not to be underestimated. Veradin was living proof of that.

Rane turned to the first page. There were about a dozen different symbols painted on with faded colors. He poured a bit of nora into each of them, as the book instructed, and checked to see if any lit up. They didn’t. He pondered for a moment, then separated some of Eln’s nora and let it drip from his fingers onto the painting of the flame, just out of curiosity. The mist curled on top of it, as if it was softly drawn there. The flame pulsed with red illumination.

“Any luck?” Atinas walked up from behind him and peered over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” Rane said before turning the page. Even more symbols were drawn on the book, made tiny to fit its pages. The symbols had gotten more obscure as well. Some were accompanied by names, each with a different handwriting. ‘Void, Sound, Illusion, Metal, Energy, Balance, Vision, Botany…’ Rane skimmed through the thick tome. There had to be thousands of types of origin magic in here. “I just hope it’s not useless…”

“There are no useless origins.” The archmage sat beside him, in that unnaturally frigid posture of his. “Only unimaginative mages.” He paused for a few moments. “I bring news.”

“Hm?” Rane raised an eyebrow. “Did they manage to locate Caelus finally?”

“Solid progress is being made, but that is not what I am here for,” Atinas said. “I had to forgo a favor owed to me by a rather unpleasant mage to borrow this, but I’d say it was well worth it.” He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a silver chain, with what seemed like a compass hanging from one end. “I used some of your blood to search for your family. As promised.”

Rane felt his heartbeat quicken. He dropped the book and turned in his chair. “And?” he asked hurriedly. “What did you find?”

“The bloodline compass activated. That means at least one person closely related to you is alive. A parent or sibling.” Atinas held it level, and Rane watched the metal needle flicker, before settling to the south. “Regrettably, the needle points to Andre. Whoever remains of your relatives is most likely a slave.”

Rane took the artifact in trembling hands. They were alive still! Leylin hadn’t gotten to them. “How do you know it’s Andre it’s pointing to?” he stammered. “Couldn’t it just be a Silyran city to the south?

“I’ll show you.” Atinas put a hand on his shoulder. “Set it onto the table.”

Rane did so, and waited for the metal to settle.

“If you observe carefully, the back of the needle points up, while the arrow points downwards. Through this you can measure the distance from here to the spilled blood it picked up. If my measurements are as accurate as I like to think they are, your bloodline is in Trosa as we speak.”

“Spilled…?” Rane glanced at Atinas, slack jawed. “They’ve been hurt?”

“Maybe it’s a simple cut, maybe a deep wound. We can’t know, but the more blood spilled the higher the odds its inherent magic will be traced by the compass.”

A pain surfaced from the depths of Rane’s heart. Somewhere out there, a member of his family was suffering, just like he had. His mind raced for ways to help them, but with only bloodstains in a foreign, hostile land, there was little he could do. “At least they’re still alive.” Rane smiled bitterly. “That’s all I needed. Thank you.”

“Don’t lose hope just yet.” Atinas seemed calm as always. “The flaura of the forest in your memory belongs to the Silyran borders. Perhaps you could start your search there.”

“I was planning to go to Danira. Last I saw my siblings, they were close to the borders, so it seems like a good place to start.”

“Very well.” Atinas retrieved the compass. “But first, as my student…” he pulled the book in front of Rane once more. “You have work to do.”

Rane sighed and turned the page, touching it with a bit of magic. It brushed against glyph after glyph, to no avail. Soon he found himself absorbed by the task, as he filled page after page with nora. Thankfully his new status as mage came with more than just a title. His control had increased greatly, as had the quantity of nora he could employ.

Despite his quick pace, his search for his origin went late into the night. Mord had left, but Atinas had stayed behind, scouring the cradle for more books with glyphs of different magic. Rane had already gone through six of them with no results. He was starting to get a little desperate. “Could it be that I don’t have my own origin?”

“Don’t be discouraged.” Atinas planted another stack of books in front of him. “How many concepts, materials and powers exist in this world? Even if the cradle is the largest collection of knowledge in the capital, it contains only a tiny fraction of them. There have been many cases of mages not finding their origin by looking through these books. Most discover their powers by themselves.”

Rane smiled, pushing a stack of books aside. Atinas had really grown softer. Even if it was the talent he had shown that made the man treat him better, and not his character, Rane welcomed the change. Atinas seemed more like a mentor now, trying to teach him instead of telling him to stay silent and to keep going.

And yet even with the man’s help, Rane had no luck. He had gone through hundreds of books looking for that small flash of light. The first ray of dawn found him barely able to keep his eyes open.

Atinas returned empty handed and sat beside him. He pushed his hood back, showing his furrowed brows over his eye sockets. Irritation circled him like a continuous low hum.

“It’s hopeless,” Rane leaned back on his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “I should sleep. Miria said I’ll have to meet the King today.”

“Blights!” Atinas hissed under his breath. Despite telling him not to be discouraged, he seemed vexed himself. “I can’t shake this feeling…” He gazed at Rane for the longest time with his hollow eyes. Rane had always wondered if he could somehow see out of them, or if it was a remnant of a habit from before he lost them. Atinas pressed a finger against Rane’s chest. “You will speak of this to no one. Do you understand?”

Rane nodded hesitantly. He didn’t even know what ‘this’ was, but he could guess.

“Come then,” Atinas whispered, scanning the cradle. It was empty still, too early in the morning for the Moreno to be immersing themselves in study.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to bring the book here?” Rane asked as he stood.

“The books in the inner section have many enchantments on them, to ensure they don’t fall in the wrong hands. If any of them are taken outside the cradle’s inner section, their words would fade, only to appear again should they be returned.”

Rane hid behind Atinas’ cloak as much as he could. “There’s more origins then?”

“Three more.” Atinas voice was grim. “Magic forbidden by law since antiquity.”

They moved toward the inner section of the Cradle, where most books were old and weathered. Atinas followed a circular path with turns that didn’t make sense, and Rane soon realised they were going in circles. He was about to question it as they took another right turn, but the desk he’d expected to find wasn’t there. In its place was a dimly lit stone table with three books resting on its surface.

Atinas paused for a moment. “No one,” he reminded. He reached for the book to the left, which was thin and lined with dark red leather. Atinas held it open for him. There were only two symbols inscribed, one on each page. A sphere with mist inside it on the left, and a crossed out circle on the right.

Rane hesitated. “I thought you said there were three.”

“Nobody who had the third origin lived long enough to inscribe it,” Atinas said. “Now hurry.”

Rane raised his hands to the book with trembling hands. What would happen to him if he had one of these two? He poured some nora into the symbol of a sphere. There was no response.

Atinas heaved a sigh of relief. “Okay, do the other one.”

Mist dripped from Rane’s fingers, but it didn’t spread on the page. Instead, the symbol reflected the gray light of his magic. Atinas shut the book with strength before placing it back. “Keep this a secret,” he said sharply. “If you’re asked to show proof, use Eln’s nora and claim you are a fire mage.”

Rane looked up at Atinas. The man’s anxiousness reinforced his own. “What is that symbol? What does it mean?”

“It’s Time,” he said as he pulled Rane away. “You’ve sparked with Time magic.”