The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the town of Delsworth. Aelric limped slightly as he stepped out of the infirmary, his body still aching from the beating he had taken, though the worst of the injuries had faded. His ribs no longer burned with every breath, and the bruises that had once darkened his skin were all but gone. Still, the limp remained, a dull reminder of the damage he had suffered.

The streets were quieter than usual, the early hour keeping most people inside, but those who were out gave him glances that lingered a moment too long. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their suspicion hanging in the air. Whispers followed him as he passed, the soft murmur of rumors spreading like wildfire.

“There he goes… the one they say has magic.”

“Calder’s going to present it to the council soon… we’ll know soon enough if it’s true.”

“He’s always kept to himself, that’s what witches do.”

Aelric’s chest tightened as he quickened his pace, eager to escape the scrutiny. Every step he took through town felt heavier, as if the weight of their suspicions were pressing down on him. He knew they were talking about him, knew the rumors were spreading faster than he could contain them. It felt like a slow spiral, each passing day pulling him closer to the inevitable.

As he approached the blacksmith’s workshop, Aelric hesitated at the entrance. He owed Rurik an explanation, but the thought of facing the old blacksmith filled him with dread. His steps slowed as he pushed open the door, the familiar clang of metal on metal greeting him.

Rurik stood by the forge, hammering a piece of steel into shape. The heat from the fire filled the room, a sharp contrast to the cool morning air outside. The old man glanced up as Aelric entered, his expression hardening when their eyes met.

“Aelric,” Rurik said, his voice gruff. “You’ve got some nerve showing up after what you pulled.”

Aelric winced, guilt gnawing at him. “Rurik, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand—”

“You didn’t mean for it?” Rurik interrupted, his voice rising. “You got drunk, picked a fight, and now the whole town’s talking about it! You’ve missed work, and I told you to stay out of trouble near the tavern. Do you think this is how you show you’re serious about your apprenticeship?”

Aelric hung his head, his words failing him. He had no excuses, no way to defend himself. “I… I know. I’ve messed up.”

Rurik snorted, shaking his head in disappointment. “You think an apology makes this better? You’re lucky I’m not throwing you out on your ear. The council’s talking, the town’s talking, and now you’ve made yourself a spectacle. You’re supposed to be learning a trade, not getting drunk and beaten in taverns.”

Aelric could only nod, the weight of his mistakes bearing down on him.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Rurik said, his voice firm. “You’re going to take today and tomorrow off. No coming to the forge, no making a bigger mess of things. You’ll use the time to sort yourself out, make sure you’re fit to work when you come back. If you can’t show me you’re serious about this apprenticeship, then I’ll find someone who is.”

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Aelric felt the sting of Rurik’s words like a blow to the chest. “I understand,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” Rurik said, turning back to the forge. “Now go. Get yourself together.”

Aelric left the blacksmith’s workshop with his head hung low, the shame of Rurik’s reprimand weighing heavily on him. The walk back to his small home felt longer than usual, the stares from the townsfolk following him all the way.

When he finally reached his home, Aelric closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long, shaky breath. The reality of his situation hit him hard. The council was meeting soon, Calder was ready to present his suspicions, and now, even Rurik—the one person who had given him a chance—was losing faith in him.

Aelric moved to the small table in the corner of the room, sitting down heavily as he rested his head in his hands. His body still ached, but his mind was even more exhausted. The whispers, the accusations, the magic within him—it was all becoming too much to bear.

He couldn’t keep hiding, couldn’t keep pretending he was just like everyone else. His magic was growing, and he needed to learn to control it before it consumed him.

With a sigh, Aelric pushed himself up from the table and stood in the center of the room. His home was small, the walls lined with old wooden beams, the air thick with the smell of dust and smoke. But it was safe—at least for now.

Taking a deep breath, Aelric closed his eyes and focused on the warmth within him, the faint pulse of magic that had always been there, just beneath the surface. He had felt it before, had tried to control it, but now he needed more than just a passing familiarity. He needed mastery.

Slowly, carefully, he willed the warmth to spread, letting it flow through his body like a slow-moving current. He felt it move through his chest, down his arms, and into his hands. It was faint, weaker than he remembered, but it was there. His fingers tingled as the magic pulsed within him, a small flicker of energy that he struggled to keep under control.

Aelric focused, his brow furrowing as he tried to circulate the magic back from his hands to his chest. The warmth followed his command, though slowly, and he felt a surge of relief as he successfully completed the circuit. But the magic was fickle, unpredictable. As it moved, it sometimes flared, sending sharp bursts of heat to his hands. His fingers twitched involuntarily, and for a brief moment, he feared the flames would return.

But he held on, his concentration unwavering. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he pushed the magic through his body, circling it from his chest to his arms and back again. The more he practiced, the more comfortable it became, though there were still moments of resistance—natural blocks where the magic seemed to catch, struggling to move through him.

Once, his hand flared with heat, and he nearly lost control. The heat surged through his palm, threatening to ignite, but with a grunt of effort, he forced the magic back into his chest. His hands trembled, but the flames never came.

Hours passed, and Aelric’s body grew more exhausted, but he refused to stop. The longer he practiced, the more he understood the flow of his magic—the way it moved, the way it reacted to his emotions, to his will. It was still wild, still dangerous, but it was becoming something he could grasp, something he could hold on to.

By the time the sun began to set, Aelric was drenched in sweat, his body aching from the effort. But he hadn’t lost control, and his home was still standing—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He collapsed onto his bed, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he stared up at the ceiling. The magic within him was still there, still pulsing faintly, but it was quieter now, more controlled. For the first time in a long while, Aelric felt like he might have a chance.

But as he closed his eyes, the weight of the day still lingered. The council’s meeting was approaching, and Calder’s accusations would be heard soon. He had made progress today, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.