“I have no doubt that whatever Archmage Krasus is teaching you is good and all, but please try to use the spells intended for this lesson. Try again.”

Archmage Antonidas smirked as he eavesdropped on the lesson taking place in the practice field. The educator, a promising if somewhat weary mage by the name of Herwig, sighed with exasperation before he replaced the charred remains of the practice dummy with a simple transmogrification spell, and then gestured to the problem student at hand.

“Once more, Kyle. With arcane missiles this time, and not that…bolt of…whatever it was.”

“Yes, sir.” Krasus’ protege gave a curt nod as he focused on the target, and then went through the motions of the spell. His fellow classmates had taken a few steps back out of precaution after the first demonstration. Looking in from his scrying spell, Kyle’s hand gestures were passable, but it was clear that the boy was still too stiff. And predictably, a measly missile flew out of his hands in an erratic flight towards the dummy, barely glancing it enough to trigger the dummy’s shielding.

Normally, such a display would be considered a failure and grounds for a harsh lecture, but considering that Kyle did erase his target earlier with a different spell - a spell that was far more advanced and complex considering how Antonidas couldn’t sense its casting at all to even consider a counterspell - Herwig wisely opted to give a grunt of minimal satisfaction instead.

If Krasus was teaching his student such things, it was little surprise that the boy could’ve gotten too used to the motions of advanced spellwork and let his elementary basics languish. It was a good idea too then to ensure that Kyle took the basic courses to help ground his knowledge.

Prodigies, savants, it was almost always the same. Talents that were inherited from birth or honed after years of self-learning, gaining a degree of specialization that normal magi would take years to even reach the beginning. Problem students, in not a few archmagi’s view, Antonidas included.

These cases often took extra effort to properly educate, as professors would have to put additional work in undoing all of the improper habits picked up from poor or absent education, before the actual foundations could be laid. Worse, many held a delusional degree of self-perceived greatness that made educating them nearly impossible.

Too many hedge wizards often only knew how to throw unstable fireballs because that was all they cared about, but couldn’t conjure a simple mage armor or a smaller, more efficient firebolt because of their severely compromised knowledge.

Often, it took some harsh shock to their systems to remind them that there was more to magic than making the biggest explosions or conjuring the largest frost elemental. While many of his colleagues took the more direct path of enervation, silencing or counter spells, Antonidas preferred the time-honored polymorph spell for such lessons. Humility tends to stick a lot better after one has spent a few hours as a hapless sheep.

Those that dabbled in forbidden magics were much worse, quite literally losing their minds to the corruptive influences of the Void or the Fel, just so they could inscribe a summoning circle or enact horrific rituals. But all that esoteric knowledge and borrowed power couldn’t tell them how to power a floating torch or properly adjust the speed of an arcane tome reader.

While the dabblers of the dark arts were rarely sane enough to be rehabilitated, at the very least, their blinkered view on power made dealing with regional, homegrown cabals and covens a lot easier.

Hopefully Krasus knows what he was doing with Kyle, though Antonidas wouldn’t be the one to tell the venerable elf how to do his job. If it came to it, he’d send some fresh-faced mage to risk his enigmatic colleague’s ire. The Light only knows what Krasus is really capable of, when even Prince Kael’thas and the other elves treat him with reverence.

“You’ll have to work on your basics further. Maybe stop trying to show off, hm?”

“Yes, sir.”

At least this Kyle isn’t showing the usual signs of an arrogant prodigy. He didn’t show any resentment nor tried to prove himself above the lesson. If anything, he behaved a bit too meekly, bordering on sycophancy.

Antonidas sighed at that, understanding where it might be coming from.

Perhaps he should bring Kyle in for a quiet chat some day, and go through the young lord’s insecurities of being given the reins of Alterac. Really, for grown men to swarm an unsuspecting boy like that, and all but threaten him even as they bestowed what should be an unbelievable gift of not only elevation to nobility, but rulership over an entire kingdom… It’s completely unsurprising that Kyle could’ve gotten a nervous tic after that encounter.

As a member of the Kirin Tor’s ruling Council of Six, Antonidas had already sent out official messages to the kings of the Alliance protesting their disappointing behavior against one of Dalaran’s students. Little response was expected, but the gesture should at least offer some comfort to the young king of Alterac, that he was not alone.

A loud bang snapped the venerable archmage out of his thoughts, and he saw Kyle on his back and his fellow students jumped well back as thick arcane smoke wafted away from the point where he was previously standing. Mage Herwig hurried up to the boy in a mix of concern and admonishment that all decent teachers had mastered, checking Kyle for any signs of serious damage.

Clearly, he’d been lucky, because Herwig was scolding Kyle rather than putting out an urgent call for aid.

“And just how did you manage that, young man?”

Kyle was blinking dumbly for a few seconds before glancing down at the stub of ivory in his hands that was all that was left of a wand. “Er, I…don’t know?”

Antonidas blinked.

What was Krasus teaching Kyle?

The eavesdropping spell picked up the mix of annoyance and relief in the teacher’s huff, oblivious for now of the implications of what had happened. “It seems that rudimentary wand use is somehow above you. Perhaps Archmage Krasus should withhold any further advanced lessons from you until you get your basics right.”

*****

Though Dalaran is famous (or notorious, depending on one’s view) for being the realm of magi and the arcane, it still boasted a more conventional army of blades and metal plate that served to protect the magocracy. The Violet Legion was a small, purely defensive force, but it was still a highly trained and respected one within the Alliance.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

There were whispers from the neighboring realms that suggested that it took truly brave and skilled warriors to fight and survive alongside war magi, whose use of magicks could be as much a threat to friends as to foes.

And despite what some might think, the arms and armor of its soldiery were not entirely bespelled. Partly to maintain relations with the superstitious populace within and without, and partly because the Kirin Tor did not want to risk the dangers of an arms race such proliferation might cause. This relative handicap also gave those serving within the Violet Legion a sense of martial pride, knowing that their feats against the Horde in the Second War were all down to their own strength of arms. Said pride also kept the warriors from using it as an excuse for their defeats. The commanders would instead blame their lack of strategy or tactics, or poor coordination and resolve, just like other armies might.

To attribute any failure to lack of magical equipment was tantamount to rank cowardice in the Violet Legion.

Besides, the common soldiers often took to the field with battlemagi to make up for any magical handicap. The close integration between the two elements gave Dalaran’s warriors a degree of tactical knowledge regarding magic that the other kingdoms lacked.

It also gave an edge in training nobility who had to balance between the magical and mundane aspects of their life.

Nobility like the new king of Alterac.

Captain Rouben Vinehold kept an attentive eye on his student’s movements. Being a peasant elevated straight up into the highest rank of nobility, Kyle had a lot of catching up to do in terms of martial ability. Squires his age would have already moved past the basics and onto acquainting themselves with the different styles of bladework, and getting used to the weight of armor.

“Mobility is important, but learn to root yourself,” Rouben sternly advised as he brought his practice blade up and reset his stance. “You can’t land a decisive strike otherwise. Once more.”

The boy gave a curt nod and brought his own wooden sword to bear. Rouben bit back a curse when Kyle feigned a lunge yet again, managing to almost force a reaction to the captain’s left while the true attack came from the right.

Almost, though.

He parried the stab with an almost desperately fast swing of his arms, and then stepped back from the follow up swipe and swatted away the thrust that followed after that. Rouben settled on the defensive and patiently waited out the flurry of attacks.

For his inexperience, or perhaps because of it, Kyle kept executing unorthodox and unexpected aggression that were surprisingly effective in theory, if not in practice. The flaw in such rapid attacks lay mostly on the fact that the blows that went through carried little weight, and in real combat Rouben doubted that many would get past even bog standard armor Lordaeron churned out.

Thanks to the two wars against the Horde, the armor of the human kingdoms had evolved towards durability, the plate pieces rated to withstand at least two axe swings from orcish hands, while the mail underneath was designed to resist four good spear jabs, or a few seconds between the jaws of a darkwolf. Compared to all that, what was a mere longsword, delivered far from full strength?

It may be decent against orc and troll raiders though, Rouben had to admit. Those brutes tended to rely on pure savagery, so their protection was more lacking.

Still, Kyle’s style of fighting was too energy inefficient. The constant attacks from every direction, forcing his feet to reposition from left to right to front before the strikes landed, was obviously too exhaustive a price for seizing the initiative. It was proven by the fact that after weathering the storm of blows for all of fifteen seconds, Rouben found the boy’s movements noticeably slowing, and a glaring opening was found as a result. Unless the strikes hit critical areas, orcs and trolls would still be more than able to fight back.

Holding back a sigh, the instructor parried a hasty lunge and then stepped into Kyle’s reach. With a half-sword grip he lightly stabbed his wooden sword into the boy’s belly, causing Kyle to audibly gasp as he was knocked back and folded over.

“What did I just say about rooting yourself?”

“Sor-Sorry…”

Now Rouben sighed at the young king who was rubbing at his bruised abdomen. “You’ve got a good idea that needs a lot of refining, but that’s work for another time. Right now, you need to hone your basics.”

Kyle slowly got back onto his feet, and gave a nod that almost looked resigned. “Yes, sir.”

The captain rolled his eyes and silently cursed the recklessness of youth. It probably didn’t help that this king-to-be was learning to be a mage; Those types always were full of ideas that needed to be proven in the showiest way possible. As it was, perhaps it was a minor miracle that Kyle hadn’t yet tried asking to try a different weapon - or worse, present a weapon he designed himself.

“You caught your breath yet?”

Another nod from the boy.

“Good, guard position. Now, stop trying to prove me wrong and actually use what you’ve been taught.”

Rouben smirked when Kyle launched himself at him. The swings that followed were more carefully paced, more precisely applied, and more weighted in delivery. It was a standard flurry that was almost straight from the textbook.

Almost.

Damned boy still did one of his quick feints at the last moment, actually catching Rouben flat-footed. Only a slip of the captain’s feet from being caught out of position allowed him the movement to dodge the sweeping strike aimed for his neck. Rouben fell onto the floor and rolled out of the way, and through practiced improvisation knocked Kyle down with a slash behind his knees before getting up.

“Good try,” Rouben said with false casualness. “Now, more of that, and less of the fluttering about.”

As he waited for Kyle to recover, the captain quietly thanked the Light for his momentary clumsiness. Kyle must never know he’d missed that strike purely because Rouben accidentally stumbled, the kid didn’t need to learn how to be insufferable just yet.