V2C6 - The Old Mage

Three days had passed since the ruins.

The spiral still burned in Lucen’s thoughts.

Not literally, but close. He’d tried to push it aside—through walking, through training, even through quiet meals at the Hearthlight Inn—but it clung to him like smoke.

Whatever it was… it hadn’t been just some old carving.

Nyari had kept quiet too. No jokes, no usual tail-flicking sarcasm. Just her eyes, sharper than usual, scanning every alley they walked past. Something about that place had shaken her—though she’d never admit it out loud.

“Still thinking about it?” she asked finally, leaning against the wooden fence outside the Guild Hall.

Lucen gave a short nod. “That symbol… it didn’t feel old. It felt wrong.”

Nyari’s ears twitched. “Then maybe it’s time you started learning how to handle magic properly. You’ve been swinging that sword around like it’s going to solve everything.”

He raised a brow. “You offering to teach me?”

She snorted. “Nya—no. I fight fast, not fancy. You need someone who actually knows how to teach a walking affinity bomb like you.”

That was how it started.

By the end of the day, Lucen found himself headed toward the forest’s edge—toward a name only spoken in low tones around the Guild. A reclusive old mage. Half myth, half warning. Some called him eccentric. Others said he’d gone mad years ago. But everyone agreed on one thing:

If anyone could help Lucen unlock his magic, it was him.

The sun was beginning to dip as Lucen followed the narrow dirt trail leading east of Falridge, toward the treeline that marked the edge of safe civilization.

The path wound between thick groves of pine and low-hanging mist that hadn’t burned off even in midday. The deeper he went, the quieter it got. No birdsong. No rustling. Just the soft crunch of boots on damp soil.

Nyari had offered to come. In her own casual, smug way, of course. But Lucen turned her down.

“I need to do this alone,” he’d said.

He wasn’t sure if that made him brave or stupid.

Probably both.

After nearly an hour of walking, the trees finally opened into a clearing—circular, quiet, and ringed with tall stones etched in worn runes. At its center stood a crooked wooden shack leaning against a boulder, chimney crooked, roof half-repaired with mismatched planks.

There was a fence. And a gate. And a sign nailed into the post that simply read:

“If you’re here to waste my time, kindly explode.”

Lucen blinked. “…Okay.”

He stepped through the gate and barely got halfway to the shack before the door creaked open.

A man stood there—mid-forties maybe, though something about him felt older. Wiser. Unstable. His robes were long and frayed, marked with countless burn marks and stains. His eyes, however, were sharp. A pale gray, like storm clouds holding back too much lightning.

“You’re the six-affinity brat, aren’t you?” the man said. “Took you long enough.”

Lucen straightened. “I—how did you—”

The man waved him off. “Don’t flatter yourself. I knew you were coming three days ago. Come in. Don’t touch anything. Especially not the frogs.”

Lucen opened his mouth, then closed it again.

This was going to be… interesting.

Lucen hesitated only a moment longer before stepping through the crooked doorway. The inside was… chaos. Organized chaos, maybe, but still chaos.

The walls were stacked high with crooked bookshelves, some buckling under the weight of scrolls and tomes that didn’t even have titles. A stack of rune-etched bones teetered on a windowsill beside a pot of glowing moss. The air smelled like smoke, lavender, and something metallic he couldn’t place.

The man crossed the room without looking back. “Sit. Not there. There. The stool with the runes. Yes, the one with the cushion. The others bite.”

Lucen sat.

The stool didn’t bite, thankfully. But it did hum faintly under him, like it was reading his spine.

The mage finally turned, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “So. You’ve got six affinities and no formal training. Tell me—how have you not set yourself on fire yet?”

Lucen blinked. “…Almost did. Twice.”

“Mm. Promising.”

The man circled him once, then stopped in front and leaned forward, inspecting Lucen’s face like he was squinting through him.

“You’ve awakened fire and light already. Wind… not yet, but it’s stirring. I can feel it in your aura—and the way your mana clings to movement.”

Lucen furrowed his brow. “I’ve never used wind magic.”

“Not consciously. Doesn’t mean it’s asleep. You’re leaking mana through your posture. Sloppy but interesting.”

He reached into one of his sleeve pockets and pulled out a smooth, polished stone—glowing faintly with a rotating elemental rune.

“Hold this. Channel what you feel. I want to see how much control you don’t have.”

Lucen took the stone.

At first, nothing happened.

But then he let his mind drift—to the pressure of the last ruins quest, the eerie symbol, the quiet tension in Nyari’s voice, the doubt sitting in his chest since day one.

The stone lit.

First red. Then gold. Then green.

Fire. Light. Wind.

Then it cracked down the middle.

Lucen yelped and dropped it onto the floor just before it split fully and fizzled out in smoke.

The mage just nodded. “Three active threads. The rest are still buried. We’ll fix that. Slowly.”

Lucen looked up, brow furrowed. “You’re not going to ask why I came to you?”

The man raised a brow. “You’re a walking magical cocktail with the impulse control of a tavern brawler. Why else would you be here?”

“…Fair.”

The mage turned away and gestured toward a back door. “Training ground’s through there. You’re not leaving until you bleed, panic, or pass out. Possibly all three.”

Lucen stood slowly. “What do I call you?”

The mage glanced back over his shoulder. “You don’t. But if you must, Veyren will do.”

Lucen followed him into the back room.

And the training began.

The training ground behind the shack was a strange blend of natural clearing and magical test site. Scorched earth patches dotted the grass like burn marks from years of mistakes, and charred training dummies leaned at awkward angles along a half-fallen fence. Some of the dummies had expressions carved into them—mocking grins, wide eyes, gaping mouths.

Lucen wasn’t sure if that was for morale or psychological warfare.

Veyren tossed him a wooden practice sword with a rune scorched into the hilt.

“Channel fire into it,” he said simply. “Let’s see what your body remembers.”

Lucen caught the weapon and stared down at the rune. It pulsed faintly beneath his fingers. “Do I say a chant? A word?”

“Do you breathe by shouting ‘oxygen’?” Veyren snorted. “Magic flows through will and intent. Words help shape it, but they’re training wheels. And you don’t have time for training wheels.”

Lucen gritted his teeth and focused.

He closed his eyes. Thought back to the warmth he always felt in his chest. The heat that danced just under the surface whenever he fought or panicked or reached too deep.

He thought about the first time he flared fire by accident—back when he was still a toddler. About the moment he nearly lost control during solo training. And most recently… about the ruins. Not magic, but something else. That awful, helpless feeling. Standing before the spiral symbol, knowing deep down that if something had attacked them then, he wouldn’t have been able to protect her.

His breath slowed.

The rune on the hilt responded.

A flicker of red.

Then orange.

The edge of the sword glowed faintly—like embers building in the dark.

“Not bad,” Veyren muttered. “But not stable. Try again.”

Lucen opened his eyes, sweat beading at his brow. “That took everything I had…”

Veyren raised a hand—and suddenly a small firebolt flew straight at Lucen’s chest.

Instinct kicked in.

Lucen twisted, one foot sliding, his hand snapping forward.

The blade flared.

A small burst of fire erupted at the tip, colliding with Veyren’s bolt in midair and dispersing it in a flash of sparks.

Lucen staggered back, panting.

“What the hell?!”

Veyren grinned. “Congratulations. You cast mid-motion. That means your emotions really are tied to magic output.”

“You threw a fire spell at me!”

“And you’re still standing. Which tells me my theory’s right.”

Lucen blinked. “What theory?”

“You’re not just emotion-based,” Veyren said, his tone sharpening. “You’re reactive. The stronger the trigger, the faster your magic responds. It bypasses normal cast buildup. Dangerous. But useful. You’ll have to learn to regulate it—or you’ll burn yourself from the inside out.”

Lucen looked down at the sword. The fire had faded, but the rune was still warm.

He nodded slowly. “So what now?”

“Now?” Veyren gestured toward a set of weighted training dummies lining the far fence.

“You hit things until your arms feel like molten iron. Then you try again—without exploding.”

Lucen exhaled.

And went to work.

The next day, Veyren handed him a slim wand carved with a feathered spiral.

“Wind,” he said flatly. “Your grip says brute force. Wind doesn’t care about force. It cares about flow.”

Lucen turned the wand over in his hands. “So what—just think of air?”

“Wrong,” Veyren said. “Think of movement. Think of the pressure before a storm. The calm between breaths. Don’t push the wind. Ask it.”

Lucen squinted. “That’s not vague at all.”

Veyren smirked. “Then go practice with someone who lives in it.”

He didn’t need to say her name.

By afternoon, Lucen found Nyari near the outer edge of Falridge, perched atop a wooden post along the training yard’s low fence. Her tail swayed lazily behind her as she cleaned one of her daggers with a cloth. Wind stirred around her ankles like a playful pet.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

Lucen approached, wand still in hand. “I need help with wind magic.”

Nyari raised an eyebrow. “Did the old man fry your brain already?”

“I’m serious. He said I need finesse. I figured… you might know a thing or two.”

She looked at him for a beat, then slowly hopped down from the fence. Her boots made no sound as they hit the dirt.

“Fine,” she said, sliding her dagger away. “But I don’t do lectures.”

Lucen nodded. “I learn better by doing anyway.”

Nyari smirked. “Good. Then try hitting me.”

Before he could ask, she darted forward—then vanished in a blur.

Lucen spun, wand raised, heart pounding. She was behind him.

He swung again. Missed.

“Wind isn’t about speed,” her voice said from somewhere left of him. “It’s about anticipation. Movement without warning. You’re trying to muscle it. That’s why it won’t listen.”

Lucen turned, grounding his stance.

He took a breath.

Then another—slower this time.

He imagined the space between footfalls, the stillness just before Nyari vanished. He pictured her speed not as force, but as a thread through the air.

He whispered the incantation under his breath—not to speak it, but to feel it.

The wand shimmered faintly.

A gust kicked up at his feet, swirling around his legs and lifting the dirt into a spiral.

Nyari stopped moving.

She blinked once.

“…Not bad.”

Lucen grinned. “You actually complimented me.”

“Don’t get used to it, wind boy.”

Lucen smirked, gripping the wand again. The wind still coiled around his ankles, faint and whisper-thin—but responsive.

Nyari took a few steps back, arms crossed loosely.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s test how well you can keep up.”

Lucen raised an eyebrow. “With you?”

She grinned. “Try not to eat dirt, rookie.”

Then she vanished.

Not completely—just enough that her outline blurred, her body whipping into motion with a burst of wind-assisted speed. A moment later she was behind him, swatting lightly at the back of his head with the flat of her hand.

He jerked around, frustrated. “Seriously—?”

“Too slow.”

Lucen narrowed his eyes. He let his mana flow again—not with force, but with rhythm. He didn’t try to throw a blast. He just focused on the flow.

Wind pulsed beneath his boots. He slid to the side as Nyari dashed toward him again.

She blinked. “Oh?”

He ducked low, twisting his wrist, and sent out a small gust—not strong enough to knock her off balance, but just enough to mess with her step.

It worked.

Nyari skidded, one foot slipping slightly on the dust-coated ground. She flipped backward and landed in a crouch, tail twitching.

Her smile widened.

“You’re learning,” she said.

Lucen’s chest heaved. “You’re fast.”

“You’re predictable.”

Ouch.

She lunged again. Lucen reacted faster this time. Instead of trying to chase her, he read the pattern—where the breeze shifted a half-second before she moved.

He didn’t need to match her speed.

He just needed to redirect.

He brought up a windburst as she came from the side. It didn’t hit her, but it forced her to pivot—and that was enough to step out of her path.

“Better,” she said mid-slide, landing a few paces away. “Still raw. But you’re getting the hang of it.”

Lucen lowered the wand, panting. “Do you fight like this in real battles?”

“Sometimes,” she said, brushing dust off her arms. “I don’t run around like a blur for no reason. Wind magic’s about control. I use it when I need to reposition or strike faster than they expect. If you rely too much on speed, you burn out.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

Nyari stepped closer, voice softer now. “Don’t try to copy me, Lucen. You’re a sword-and-magic hybrid. You’re stronger when you use wind to support your flow. Enhance your reach, your momentum. Not chase mine.”

Lucen blinked. “Why are you actually being helpful right now?”

Her tail gave a single, lazy flick. “Because I don’t want you dying in the next quest, dumbass.”

He laughed despite himself. “Thanks, Nyari.”

“Don’t get all mushy. Next time, I’m aiming for your ribs.”

The sky had dipped into that soft golden haze of late afternoon by the time they stopped.

Lucen collapsed onto the grass outside the training yard, chest rising and falling like a forge bellows. His wand rolled from his fingers as he lay back, staring at the clouds. “If you kill me with a training session, I’m haunting you.”

Nyari flopped beside him, arms folded under her head like a pillow. “Please. You’re too dramatic to be a ghost.”

He turned his head just enough to glance at her. “You’ve got wind magic, daggers, speed that breaks ankles… and sarcasm. Is there anything you can’t do?”

She smirked faintly. “Resist grilled fish.”

Lucen laughed. “Noted.”

The breeze drifted across them, rustling the grass. Somewhere beyond the fence, a bird called once, then quieted again.

Nyari’s voice came softer this time. “You’re improving.”

He blinked. “Thanks?”

“I mean it,” she said, eyes still on the sky. “You’re rough around the edges, but you adapt fast. Not everyone does.”

Lucen let the compliment sit in the air for a moment. “You always train like that?”

“When I’m alone.” She rolled one shoulder lazily. “Helps keep my instincts sharp. I don’t like getting rusty.”

“You talk about battle like it’s natural.”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then, quietly: “When you grow up in the places I did… it kind of has to be.”

Lucen looked at her. Her usual smugness had faded—just for a second. The teasing edge dulled into something quieter. Something tired.

He didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back again and let the silence settle.

After a while, Nyari shifted to her side and looked at him. “You’re not bad with wind. But you still suck at reading people.”

Lucen blinked. “…Thanks?”

She chuckled. “Next time, don’t hesitate so much. In battle or in conversation.”

He mock-scowled. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re soft,” she said, tapping his chest once before sitting up. “C’mon. Let’s grab food before I start chewing on your arm.”

Later that evening…

The warm glow of lanterns spilled through the frosted windows of Karrûn’s Hollow, casting amber light across the cobbled street. Laughter and muffled clinking drifted out through the thick oak doors—comforting, familiar, alive.

Lucen hesitated just a second before stepping in.

Inside, the air was thick with roasted spices and woodsmoke. The hearth crackled in the back, flames dancing in the stone-lined pit. Booths lined the walls like cozy alcoves, while round tables filled the center floor—some quiet, some rowdy, all alive with adventurer chatter.

A thump echoed near the bar as Borik, the tavern’s stone-legged owner, slammed down a tankard for a particularly noisy patron. The dwarf grunted and waved the noise away like smoke. His partially petrified leg clanked with each step.

Lucen took it all in—then felt a nudge at his side.

Nyari brushed past him, her nose twitching slightly. “Mm. Smells like grilled lamb and cinnamon ale.”

“You can smell that over the rest of this place?”

“I’m a cat, remember?” She grinned as she led the way toward a booth near the back. “Now come on, before my stomach starts making death threats.”

They slid into the booth—Lucen leaning back with a tired sigh, Nyari already waving down one of the servers.

“Two plates of grilled fish. No extra sauce. And water,” she said without hesitation. Then glanced at Lucen. “Unless you want something stronger.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I can handle ale right now?”

She tilted her head, tail curling lazily behind her. “Honestly? You look like one mug would knock you under the table.”

“Water’s fine.”

When the food came, it was steaming and fresh—perfectly seared fish over roasted potatoes, drizzled with a light herb oil. Nyari practically sparkled.

“I’ve fought for less than this,” she muttered, taking a bite with a soft purr.

Lucen chuckled as he picked at his plate. “So this is your idea of winding down.”

“Yup. Good food, warm fire, and nobody bleeding.”

They ate quietly for a while. Occasionally, Nyari would flick a potato off her fork with an exaggerated flick, or nudge Lucen’s cup closer when he forgot to drink. Subtle things. Familiar.

Then, halfway through her second skewer, she glanced at him.

“You’re not bad to have around,” she said offhandedly.

Lucen looked up. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

She shrugged, eyes still on her food. “Don’t make it weird.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They finished the meal in quiet comfort, the sounds of the tavern washing over them like distant waves. For once, there was no danger. No looming tests. Just warmth, food, and the strange ease of sharing space with someone who no longer felt like a stranger.