Tristan and Cale walked over to Davion.

  "You were amazing," Cale said, his voice filled with admiration.

  Davion seemed flustered, a sheepish smile forming on his face. "Thank you," he responded, rubbing the back of his head.

  "How do you know how to fight so well?" Tristan asked, curiosity evident in his tone.

  The smile on Davion’s face faltered, his expression darkening slightly. "My dad used to spar with me in his free time. He told me that a true man needs to know how to fight if he wants to protect his loved ones—and himself," Davion expined, his voice carrying the weight of old memories.

  Cale stepped forward and pced a reassuring hand on Davion’s shoulder. There was nothing more to say, but the gesture was enough.

  "Combat training is over for the day!" the instructor’s voice boomed across the courtyard. "Head inside and get yourselves cleaned up!"

  The kids fell into lines, marching back toward the castle. The boys and girls were separated as they headed to their respective shower rooms.

  Inside the bathing chamber, warm water cascaded over their weary bodies. Davion, Cale, and Tristan stood together, silent, simply enjoying the soothing relief of the water. The exhaustion of the day settled into their bones, but there was a quiet comfort in each other’s presence.

  Then, a strange sensation prickled at the back of Cale’s neck—like someone was watching him. He turned, scanning the room until his gaze nded on Garret. The older boy stood with Marek and another boy, his eyes fixed on Cale with a murderous gre. His expression shifted to Davion, then to Tristan, before he sneered and spat onto the floor. Without another word, he turned back to his conversation, as if silently promising that this wasn’t over.

  After the showers, the kids were handed clean sets of clothes—formal uniforms meant for study, that they had took from their rooms .The boys’ uniforms consisted of dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a fitted navy-blue jacket. The girls' uniforms mirrored the boys' but with tailored skirts and high-colred blouses.

  "Hurry up and change!" a man dressed in grey robes barked. "Your first lesson on magical theory begins soon."

  A murmur of excitement rippled through the group. For many, this was what they had been waiting for—the first step into the world of magic. The anticipation was palpable. Tristan, unable to contain himself, grinned from ear to ear, practically bouncing on his heels.

  Once dressed, they were escorted to a grand amphitheater, the stone steps leading down to a wide circur ptform where their instructor would stand. The high, arched ceiling was inscribed with sigils that pulsed faintly with magic, their glow barely perceptible. The sheer size of the room left many recruits in awe.

  They were free to sit where they wished. Without hesitation, Cale chose to stay with Davion and Tristan. He had asked Mirelle to join them, but she had politely declined, saying she wanted to spend time with her new friends. Though he understood, he couldn’t help but feel a small pang of disappointment.

  As they settled into their seats, the hum of conversation filled the amphitheater. Excitement, nervous energy, and curiosity mixed in the air as they prepared to finally begin their journey into the realm of magic.

  The low hum of conversation was abruptly cut short as the heavy wooden doors creaked open. A hush fell over the room as an imposing figure entered.

  An old woman strode down the center aisle, her presence commanding immediate respect. She wore deep midnight-blue robes trimmed with silver embroidery, the fabric flowing like shadows behind her. Her face, lined with age and wisdom, carried an expression of severe authority. Sharp gray eyes scanned the room, seeming to pierce through each student as if weighing their worth in a single gnce. Her silver-streaked hair was tied into a tight bun, revealing a thin scar trailing down her left cheek—a silent testament to a past forged in battle.

  With an air of absolute control, she ascended the ptform at the front of the amphitheater, her boots clicking against the polished stone. The recruits sat up straighter, instinctively sensing that this was not a woman to be trifled with.

  "I am Instructor Varra," she announced, her voice crisp and unwavering, carrying through the vast space without need for amplification. "For the duration of your studies, you will listen to me, obey me, and above all—learn."

  She let the weight of her words settle before continuing, her hands csped behind her back. "You have been gathered here to study the foundations of magic. That includes magical principles and mana control. These are not mere subjects. They are the difference between survival and death."

  A few students exchanged gnces, the weight of her words pressing upon them like an unseen force.

  Varra’s gaze swept the room, lingering on some of the younger recruits. "I am aware that not all of you come from privileged backgrounds. Some among you are illiterate." She allowed the statement to sink in before continuing. "This does not concern me. My lessons are not reliant on written words. They are verbal. They are practical. Because in the heat of battle, theory is useless. What matters is the firm application of what you have learned."

  She stepped forward, the folds of her robe rustling as she moved. "But do not mistake this for leniency. Because while you are not expected to read from books, you are expected to remember. Forgetting is unacceptable. Every mistake will be severely punished."

  A cold silence settled over the amphitheater. The recruits, who had moments ago been brimming with excitement, now sat rigid, absorbing the gravity of their situation.

  Varra’s lips curled into something resembling a smirk—though there was no humor in it. "You will be tested. You will be pushed. And you will learn. Or you will break."

  Her piercing eyes scanned them one st time before she concluded, "Welcome to your first lesson."

  Her voice was measured yet firm as she began the lesson.

  "Before you wield magic, you must first understand its essence. Magic is not a force of convenience, nor is it a tool to be taken lightly. At its core, magic stems from mana—the invisible energy that flows through all things."

  She paused, letting the words settle. "No one knows for certain where mana originates. Some schors cim it is the lifeblood of the world itself, while others argue it is a remnant of ancient powerful beings. But one truth remains undeniable: mana is everywhere. It permeates the air we breathe, the ground beneath our feet, the very marrow in our bones."

  A flicker of intrigue crossed the faces of some students, their minds grasping at the enormity of the concept.

  Varra continued, her tone unwavering. "While mana is omnipresent, it is also chaotic and untamed. It does not bend willingly. It must be harnessed, directed, commanded. Over centuries, many different systems have been developed to channel mana into usable forms, but we will focus on the one that is both fastest and most reliable—Incantation."

  She raised a hand, fingers curling slightly, as if grasping something unseen. "Incantation is the practice of using spoken words to shape mana. Words carry weight, and the right words—when spoken with precision and intent—can stir the very fabric of existence."

  Varra took a slow breath before continuing. "And this brings us to Ancient. The nguage of magic. The tongue that compels mana to obey."

  She let the word hang in the air, its gravity palpable.

  "Ancient, as its name suggests, is an old nguage—so old, in fact, that no one knows its true origins. It predates recorded history, predates even the oldest civilizations. And yet, it remains the most powerful tool in a mage’s arsenal. Because unlike any other nguage, Ancient influences mana itself , when its spoken with proper cadence and control."

  She stepped forward, her sharp eyes peering through the rows of students, scrutinizing each of them as if searching for weakness. "You will learn its structure. You will learn its sound. And you will learn the cost of using it incorrectly."

  A hush settled over the room, the weight of her words pressing down on them like an invisible force. Some students swallowed hard, realizing that they were about to embark on something far more daunting than they had imagined.

  Varra’s voice lowered slightly, almost reverent. "Magic is not simply about power. It is about discipline, control, and sacrifice. Some of you will fail. Some of you will falter. And for those who do, the consequences will be severe."

  She let the warning settle before continuing. "Now, let us begin with an incantation that you will most likely use often—the Light Incantation. This spell requires minimal effort and is short, making it an ideal exercise for beginners. As mages, you should have no difficulty learning and using it."

  She paused, her gaze locking onto each student in turn. "However, before we proceed, let me make one thing clear: never cast this incantation repeatedly without resting. At least, not as a beginner. Doing so will cause an excruciating headache—one so severe it will feel as though your skull is about to split open. Ancient incantations may rely on mere words, but make no mistake—they drain the mind. If you act recklessly, you will suffer for it. Do not be fools."

  Varra raised her hand, her fingers curling as she spoke in a tongue both foreign and ancient. "Orbis albus lucis, quantus pugnus, appare in manu mea." The air around her shimmered slightly, as though reality itself was bending to her will. A faint glow appeared in her palm, growing until it coalesced into a small orb of light, its soft radiance illuminating the dim amphitheater.

  "Ancient is a flexible nguage," she expined, her voice measured. "The incantation can be altered by adding more words, but be warned—the more complex the incantation, the greater the toll on your mind."

  Muttering another phrase in Ancient, Varra’s orb expanded, growing in intensity before retracting once more. A moment ter, it shimmered and pulsed, shifting through vibrant colors—red, blue, green, gold—like a living prism of magic.

  Gasps rippled through the room, awe and apprehension mingling in the students’ eyes.

  Varra closed her hand into a fist, extinguishing the light. "To halt an incantation, you must utter the phrase, ‘Intermittere fluxum mana.’" Her voice cut through the tension like steel. "This will work for most incantations that require a moderate amount of mana. However, this method is useless for spells that demand a significant amount of energy. If you attempt to stop a powerful spell using this phrase alone, the mana will backfire, resulting in an explosion in your face."

  She stepped forward, her presence like a looming shadow. "For those incantations, there are far longer and more precise phrases that must be used, which I will teach in future lessons."

  The weight of her words pressed into the students once more. The line between knowledge and catastrophe had never felt so razor-thin.

  "Now," Varra commanded, "watch carefully and prepare to speak."

  She began diction exercises, ensuring that every student could enunciate the precise sylbles needed for spellcasting. "Good magic requires clear speech," she stated. "Mumbled words lead to misfires. Misfires lead to disaster. We will begin with vocal warm-ups. Repeat after me."

  She led them through lip trills, encouraging them to loosen their mouths. Then she instructed them to hum at different pitches, ensuring their vocal cords were warmed up. "Now, exaggerate the pronunciation of vowels: 'Aaa, Eee, Iii, Ooo, Uuu.' Magic is precise, and so must your articution be."

  Next, she had them practice tongue twisters, ancient phrases designed to sharpen their speech. "Say this clearly: Felix fluctus fluere fmma fortis! If you stumble, you must start again!"

  Some students hesitated, their voices faltering, while others caught on quickly, their speech crisp and controlled.

  Varra nodded approvingly. "A mage who cannot speak properly is a mage who cannot control their magic. You will repeat these exercises before every lesson. Now, once more from the beginning!"

  After the diction exercises, Varra took a step back and surveyed the css. "Now, we must address an equally important aspect of incantation—mental fortitude. A weak mind cannot sustain repeated spellcasting, nor can it channel powerful magic without consequences. If you wish to cast often and with greater power, you must train your mind as rigorously as your speech."

  She raised a hand, gesturing for silence. "The first method is focused meditation. Sit comfortably, close your eyes, and steady your breathing. Focus on your heartbeat, then slowly expand your awareness outward—feel the air, the energy around you, and let your mind grow accustomed to stillness. A mage with a calm mind can channel magic without unnecessary strain."

  She allowed the students a moment to follow her instructions before continuing. "Now, we sharpen our minds further. I want each of you to hold a single thought—an image, a word, a feeling. Do not let your mind wander. If you lose focus, start over."

  Some students frowned in concentration, while others struggled to keep their minds from drifting.

  "The next technique is progressive mental endurance. Close your eyes and imagine a bright light in your mind’s eye. Hold it there. As time passes, make it grow brighter. The longer you can hold this image without breaking focus, the stronger your mind will become."

  Minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as students adjusted their postures. Some grimaced with effort, while others sat perfectly still, their faces calm and serene.

  Finally, Varra opened her eyes and looked over the group. "These techniques will not yield results overnight, but practice them daily, and your mind will become an unshakable force. The greater your mental strength, the more incantations you will be able to cast before exhaustion takes you."

  She took one final gnce at the css before saying, "Now, let us continue."

  As the lesson concluded after nearly two hours of intense instruction, Instructor Varra swept out of the amphitheater, her robes billowing behind her like the tail of a storm cloud. The air in the grand hall remained heavy with the weight of her words. The students, mentally drained from the rigorous lessons and exercises, sat in reflective silence.

  Tristan, Cale, and Davion stood together near the stone benches, their minds still processing everything they had just learned. The amphitheater, once filled with eager voices, now buzzed with hushed murmurs as small groups debated the implications of the lesson.

  "That was incredible!" Tristan said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "I can't wait to learn more about Ancient."

  Cale crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Didn't the old mage teach you about it already?"

  Tristan’s grin faltered slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "A little, yeah. He expined what it was and how it was used, but... he never taught me anything beyond that. Just the basics." His expression darkened slightly. "He told me not to even try using it. Said I could blow myself up."

  Both Cale and Davion paled at the thought. The weight of those words settled between them like a stone dropped in still water.

  "Do you think that’s actually possible?" Davion asked, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly would make it true.

  Tristan shrugged, but for the first time, hesitation flickered in his eyes. "I don’t know. But after what we just heard from Varra... I’m starting to think he wasn’t exaggerating."

  Cale exhaled, gncing toward the entrance where Varra had disappeared moments before. The amphitheater’s grand stone walls seemed colder now.

  "Or maybe he just wanted to keep me from trying something stupid," Tristan added with a nervous chuckle.

  "Madame Varra seems incredibly knowledgeable. She’ll probably make sure nothing like that happens," Cale reassured.

  After a brief rest, the heavy wooden doors creaked open once more. Another figure stepped inside the amphitheater, this time a man. He strode forward with composed ease, his presence exuding quiet confidence that commanded immediate attention.

  He was tall and lean, his physique hinting at both agility and strength. He wore simple yet well-fitted attire—dark trousers and a loose, earth-toned tunic with its sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms lined with faint scars. His long, dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, stray strands falling over his sharp, angur features. His sun-kissed skin suggested a life spent outdoors rather than within castle walls. But it was his eyes—deep-set and smoldering like embers—that truly set him apart. They carried the weight of experience, the quiet intensity of someone who had both wielded and endured the raw forces of nature.

  As he reached the center of the amphitheater, he surveyed the students with measured calm, the flickering torchlight casting subtle shadows across his face. There was no arrogance in his stance, no unnecessary theatrics—only an air of quiet authority.

  He csped his hands behind his back before speaking, his voice steady and rich. "I am Master Alden. From this moment forward, I will be your instructor in Elemental Wielding—the art of bending the raw forces of nature to your will."

  A ripple of anticipation spread through the students, some straightening in their seats, others exchanging eager gnces.

  Alden’s gaze swept the room, reading each face, before he continued. "Make no mistake—this is not a gift. It is not something you are entitled to. Mastery of the elements demands discipline, patience, and above all, respect. The elements do not obey the weak-willed. They do not listen to those who act recklessly. If you take without giving, if you wield without understanding you will crumble. And nature will show you no mercy."

  The room fell into a solemn hush. His words, though calm, carried a warning—a promise of both power and consequence.

  "You, the ones gathered here, possess an affinity for metal," Alden continued. "I will teach you how to wield it as though it were an extension of your own body. Metal is unyielding, but it is also fluid in the right hands. If you master control over it, you will become unstoppable."

  More hushed murmurs spread among the students, their anticipation growing.

  "But power without control is destruction," Alden warned, his gaze narrowing. "And I do not train those who seek destruction. I train those who seek mastery."

  A sense of gravity settled over the amphitheater. Some students swallowed hard, realizing that this would be no easy path.

  Alden let the silence hang for a moment before finally saying, "Now, let us begin."