Sam grunted as he gripped the splitting ax with two hands. The metal head was heavy, doubly so after hours of swinging the instrument. The blade had dulled weeks ago, but with no whetstone to sharpen it again, he had no choice but to substitute brute force to split the massive pile of logs that had constituted that day’s chores. With another grunt, he lifted it above his head, then slammed it down. As expected, the knotted log caught the edge without an issue, giving him nothing more than a small dent to look at. It perfectly matched the five other dents.

  ? Letting out a groan of frustration, Sam let the ax handle slip from his hands. It flopped off the log and clattered to the ground, mocking his inability to even make it stick. At least he didn’t have to wrench it free, he thought, dropping to the ground with his arms spread to the sides. He was sure James would laugh at the sorry state he was in if he were to wander over from his family’s smithy.

  ? “How is a farmhand’s son so weak?” Was the oft-repeated teasing question he liked to use. Sam groaned again just thinking of it. It wasn’t his fault; he hoped to be a mage one day and didn’t care about being as strong as possible. He was sure that if he’d been raised swinging a hammer at metal for hours every day, he’d be big and buff like his friend.

  ? But no, Samuel had relied on magic ever since he’d first awakened his mana. He still remembered that day, shortly after his evening chores, when he’d been freezing in his bed–the stove had gone out, and his parents weren’t around to rekindle it–that he’d thought of being warm, and suddenly, his sheets had been smoldering slightly. He’d managed to beat out the small fire before it spread much, but the lack of sheets had only made him colder.

  ? His parents, rather than being furious as he’d expected, had been elated. His father’s praise in particular still rang in his ears, nearly eight years later. “I knew you’d inherit your mother’s talent in magic!” His mother, of course, was a graduate of the Church of the Seven-Pointed Star. Not a natural talent or genius by any metric, but compared to her simple husband, whose only talent was tending to a farm, she was a magical talent out of the storybooks. George Bragg had fallen deep in love with the touring cleric Elena, and the rest, as they say, was history.

  ? Sam was often told by the villagers that he got nearly every piece of his father’s looks, from his tall, thin frame to the shock of jet-black hair that never sat neatly on his head, no matter how hard he tried to groom it. Except for his eyes, he reflected. They were an exact copy of his mother’s, deep and dark blue. In a certain light, they even gave off a faint glow. Doubtless a relic of his Half-Elf nature.

  ? Not for the first time, Sam’s thoughts went to that day coming next week. Assessment Day. Every young man and woman in the countryside who had either turned or expected to turn eighteen that year would gather at their nearest testing site and learn of their first elemental affinity. They said the signs were obvious from the day that one awakened their ki, mana, or aura. Sam’s would probably be fire, given how easy it had been to work the element for him.

  ? Or maybe earth, he thought. He’d developed quite a few small spells that helped around the farm. Mending the wooden fences, encouraging plants to grow a little faster, or warding off the little animals and bugs that would try to eat at their plants. It was magic that his father boasted about to everyone in the tavern when he could. But Sam knew it was small-scale stuff. He longed to join the Elements Academy in High Thael, where he could learn more about magic.

  ? *No chance*, he told himself with a snort, sitting up. Half-Elves were barely tolerated in human society, but in elven culture, they were seen as nothing more than spawns of the common people. His mother would try to pressure him into joining the church instead. Sam simmered at the thought of wearing those heavy habits and spending hours each day in chanting or group rituals. And he’d have to put up with that for four years! The very idea made him sick.

  ? Pushing himself to his feet, Sam looked at the ax with a frown. If he couldn’t get this damn knotted log split into quarters, he was going to be working until his dinner got cold. But his past attempts already proved that, no matter how hard he swung, there was no breaking it. And his old plan of throwing it into the forest wasn’t an option. His father had discovered that trick months ago and kept a close eye on his log-splitting chores now.

  ? “Don’t waste the bounties of the forest!” was a saying George Bragg was fond of throwing at his son. “Next thing you know, Viraelis will be sending us a plague that wipes out our crops!”

  ? “Not that the world would suffer for the loss of our potatoes,” he grumbled. Then, still looking at the ax, he had an idea. He’d recently read in a book about the Spellblades of Thorean, who’d created a type of physical magic that specialized in reinforcing weapons and tools to increase their power. *Weapons, as with our bodies, are primed for magical reinforcement. Once one learns to extend their ki into the handle of a sword or the haft of a hammer, they can achieve great things in the realm of the mundane.*

  ? “Extend my ki into the handle,” he mused aloud, looking the weapon up and down. He’d extended his mana out that far before. Not his ki, of course. That required more physical training than he found palatable. But the mages from High Thael always said that what was achievable with mana could be achieved with ki or aura, and vice versa. He shrugged slightly. “Worth a shot. Better than eating cold soup.”

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  ? He set his stance and sent his mana out. It was hard to make it crawl along the ax, but after about ten minutes, he managed it, and when he looked down, he saw the pale blue coating it from tip to tip. This could be possible, he thought, gritting his teeth. He crouched slightly as he brought the heavy ax up, then, with every ounce of muscle he could muster–not to mention willing his mana to help–he brought it down.

  ? *Crack!* He narrowly avoided the ax head as it ricocheted off the splitting stump and flew over his shoulder. The tool had gone cleanly through the log and an inch or two into the stump underneath it. Unfortunately for him, the damn handle had snapped under the stress, and the head went out of control. It was sheer luck that it hadn’t gone right into his face. He didn’t fear for a second that it could have cut him, but he would have been knocked out for sure.

  ? “Ha! Ahahaha!” Sam laughed to the empty countryside as he looked down at the jagged end of the ax handle still clutched in his right hand. That had been remarkable! The log was split almost perfectly in half, with only one side joined by some stubborn will that he wouldn’t have thought possible of weeks-dead wood.

  ? “Sam? What’s all this ruckus for?” His heart plummeted into his stomach as he recognized his father’s voice. He dropped the handle of the broken ax and whirled around, as if hoping to hide the remains of the tool. But his father’s eyes found the metal head where it lay in the grass, and he frowned.

  ? “Not again,” he grumbled. “That ax was less than two years old, Samuel!”

  ? His father only used his full first name when he was furious, despite knowing that he hated it. Its usage only served to make his son defensive.

  ? “I didn’t do it on purpose!” He complained. “It was this stupid log. It’s so knotted I was starting to think I was splitting it in the wrong direction!”

  ? His father’s face was tinged a bit red, but he took a deep breath, marshalling his emotions. “By Viraelis, Samuel, we don’t have enough money to be replacing our tools this often!”

  ? “Got more than enough money for you to be in the tavern every weekend,” Samuel grumbled. At the angry flash in his father’s eyes, he realized his mistake and changed tack, albeit unsuccessfully. “It’s because you bought it from that fraud in the merchant caravan! If we’d gotten a new ax from James’ father, it’d be fine!”

  ? He knew what his father’s reply would be, and even mouthed along. “We can’t afford that fancy steel that Dean works, Sam!” At least his father was back to using the shortened version of his name, but he didn’t look pleased at the mimicry.

  ? “That’s it!” he growled. “You get out to the village now, and get one! And no dinner until that and the logs are finished!”

  ? His father turned on his heel and stumped away, grumbling unflattering words to the evening air. At least, Sam assumed they were unflattering, because that was exactly the tone his muttered words took on. Still, he knew his father was as good as his word, so he stomped away from the half-finished pile of logs and turned toward the house. Inside, he swept past his parents without a word, ignoring the question his mother asked. He snatched up the coin purse that lay on the drying board and exited the house in a huff.

  ? The track between their farm and Harbard’s Reach was almost two miles long, and far from safe to travel in the failing light. His father knew that, of course, but it wouldn’t change his mind. Whatever, Sam thought, grimly stumping up the old, twisting path. If he was lucky, he could snag something warm from Sera. She always had some tasty leftovers from the night’s meals in the tavern. His mood brightened considerably at the prospect, and he redoubled his pace. Naturally, this lack of attention resulted in him not noticing an overgrown root and catching his foot on it.

  ? Please, let me have broken an ankle, he thought. At least that would get him out of work for a while. But no, it was just a little pained, and totally capable of taking his weight. He searched around for the fallen coinpurse for a moment, then continued on his way. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered why he had been born in a remote village all the way down on the southern coast. He was so far away from where all the magic study happened, where he could go and really test his mettle as a mage. He wasn’t cut out for farm work, he thought. He should be in mage’s robes, studying arcane tomes and learning the secrets of manipulating his mana to achieve amazing things.

  ? These thoughts clouded his mind for about half the journey to Harbard’s Reach, the large village that thrived off of so much fishing and maritime trade. It was only once the settlement was in proper view that reason started to overcome his anger. As usually happened after fights with his father, the guilt crept in, and he mentally kicked himself. His father worked hard for their family, and his mother’s talents as a healer were rarely used. The best she could do for making a living was picking up the odd shift at the tavern. It was the least Sam could do to support him by doing the simple chores. After all, when he left Harbard’s Reach to go attend the Academy, his father would have to tend to this work himself.

  ? And that just led him back to thinking of his heritage. He knew his mother hadn’t thought of these problems when she’d married a human man–especially one so young–but it presented a real problem for his prospects as a mage. The church wouldn’t judge him for being Half-Elf, but he knew that the academy in High Thael, being mostly elven students, would look down on him for that. But he could put up with that if it meant that he got to learn magic. He’d just have to find a way to the city and pass their strict entrance exams.

  He shook his head, grinning at his own over-eagerness. The Academy at High Thael was still months away. First, he had to deal with Assessment Day. His elemental affinity, as well as his natural affinity with magic types, still loomed ahead of him. Then he could get on with chasing after a new magical frontier.