The heavy iron gates of the Ashborn estate had long since closed, shutting out the biting northern winds.

  Inside his darkened room, Arthur sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. In the corner, perched silently atop the wardrobe, the Frostwing owl blinked its glowing blue eyes.

  Arthur took a slow, measured breath. One day had passed, and only six days remained to fulfill the royal order. Even now, in the dead of night, he could hear the faint, rhythmic vibrations. The valley blast furnaces were roaring. His father was in a desperate race against time, but amidst all of that, Arthur needed to ensure his own foundation was secure.

  He looked down at his lap. Resting against his knees was the title-less black book.

  He ran his fingertips over the deeply carved crest. The only thing he knew about the artifact was that it acted as a gateway between him and the Ashborn ancestors. Ever since their brief encounter, Arthur had wanted to reach out and seek guidance, but the book remained dormant. Whatever unknown conditions were required to trigger the connection, he hadn’t met them yet. And obviously staring at the dark leather wouldn't force it open.

  With a quiet sigh, Arthur set the book aside. He would have to rely on himself for now.

  “Let’s get this started," Arthur muttered as he closed his eyes and turned his focus inward. It was time to test what he had learned from watching High Mage train Aria.

  But first, he needed a baseline and a complete understanding of the way the nobles were traditionally taught.

  He gathered a fraction of his mana, forcefully pushing it up the broad, primary vessels of his right arm. He opened his mouth and spoke the long-form incantation, using the slow execution to give himself enough time to internally map pathways.

  “Element of ash, heed my call and burn.”

  He felt the mana drag heavily through his arm, slowly channeling into his vessels. A moment later, a standard bright orange flame flickered to life above his palm. The spell worked as intended, but it felt incredibly inefficient—like pouring a massive bucket of water to fill a small cup. Much of the energy was wasted just fighting the natural resistance of his own body.

  He closed his fist, snuffing the flame out.

  Next, the shortened form. He gathered the mana again, pushing it down the same wide pathway.

  “Ignite!”

  The mana rushed faster this time, obedient to the condensed verbal trigger. The flame sparked quicker, but the friction within his arm was still there.

  Arthur let the fire die. Now it was time to apply Marcu’s lesson. You do not push mana with raw force; instead, you guide it with intent. He kept his focus on the main circuit in his arm. This time, instead of forcing the energy, he tried to calmly invite it to flow, accompanying the action with a spoken cast.

  “Ignite!”

  The resulting flame was noticeably smoother, and the transition was less jarring. However, the wide primary pathway still wasted its potential, as it would always cool down the mana before it reached the fingertips.

  The only solution to achieve perfect efficiency was to use the micro-pathways directly connected. Arthur’s eyes closed again, guiding a tiny sliver of mana toward the small vessel.

  The energy flowed until it scattered at his wrist, dissipating harmlessly into his muscles.

  Arthur frowned, adjusting his focus. He tried again, guiding the mana with a slightly firmer mental grip. Nevertheless, it failed again. He had overcompressed, and a sharp, needle-like pain pricked the tip of his finger.

  He didn’t grow frustrated. This was the process: failing again and again until it succeeded.

  Arthur took a deep breath, calming his heart rate. He visualized the flow as not a forced current but as a natural extension of his own pulse. Locking his intent on the exact chemical reaction he desired—pure combustion—he guided the mana flawlessly through the correct pathway.

  At the very tip of his index finger, the air warped.

  With a sharp, crisp crack, a perfect, hyper-concentrated blue spark flared into existence. A singular point of blinding, azure light, burning with a quiet intensity. The efficiency was absolute.

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  Arthur stared at the blue spark, a genuine smile, a tired smile, pulling at his lips. This moment marked his first real achievement in this world.

  A second later, the focus broke, and the spark vanished. The sudden mental toll of the silent, intent-based casting hit him all at once.

  A dry cough escaped his lips. “My throat feels like sandpaper," Arthur muttered.

  Using the bedpost to push himself up, he quietly opened his bedroom and stepped out into the silent, moonlit corridors of the estate.

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  Arthur navigated the familiar, shadowed halls of the estate. He needed some water to soothe his burning throat.

  As he neared the open arches of the indoor courtyard, a sudden, erratic flickering caught his eye. A warm orange glow danced violently against the stone pillars, accompanied by a frustrated sigh.

  Standing in the center of the courtyard was Aria. Her silver hair caught the faint glow of a struggling flame hovering just above her outstretched palm. Her crimson eyes were narrowed in intense concentration with beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

  Unlike Marcus’s serene sphere of water from that morning, Aria’s fire was volatile. It would flare aggressively, throwing wild shadows, then choke and sputter into smoke the harder she tried to command it.

  She is practicing her father’s teachings, Arthur realized. But fire isn’t water; you can’t just compress it into a static shape and expect it to stay.

  “This is just impossible,” Aria whispered to herself, dropping her hand. The flame died instantly.

  Arthur stepped out of the shadows. “Aria? It is rather late to be out in the courtyard, isn't it?”

  Aria gasped, spinning around. Her hand instinctively twitched as if to cast a spell before she recognized the young heir. Her rigid, disciplined posture softened immediately, replaced by a deep look of concern.

  “Oliver! You shouldn't be out of bed. The physician said your chest wounds need absolute rest.”

  Arthur offered his practiced, gentle smile. “I just woke up thirsty, Aria. And I think I’m feeling much better.”

  She looked at him, her crimson eyes scanning his face for any signs of pain. There was a profound debt in her gaze—the silent acknowledgment that he had stepped between her and the alpha werewolf just a few days ago.

  “Even so,” she said, her voice softer now, “just go back. I will fetch the water for you.”

  "I can manage,” Arthur replied. He walked forward and eased himself down onto the low stone wall bordering the courtyard, gesturing to her empty hand. “What is keeping you awake at this hour?”

  Aria looked down, a faint flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I have been practicing my father’s lesson. He said mana must be guided with intent, not force. But whenever I try to gently hold the flame, it acts like a trapped beast. Then it just dies.”

  Arthur looked at the empty space over her palm. His engineering mind saw the combustion triangle instantly: fuel, heat, and oxygen. She was providing the mana for the fuel and the spark for the heat, but in her attempt to ‘hold’ the fire with her intent, she was mentally sealing it off from the ambient air, essentially just suffocating combustion.

  Of course, he couldn't say that. He was just a thirteen-year-old noble.

  “I watched the Forge Master once,” Arthur said softly, “when he closed the furnace doors too tightly. The fire didn’t get hotter. It just choked on its own smoke and died.”

  Aria titled her head, listening intently.

  “Fire needs to breathe. Maybe if you don’t imagine trapping it in a cage...and instead think of it like a free bird resting in your palm. It might work.”

  Aria’s eyes widened slightly. She looked at her hand, then back at Arthur, processing the profound simplicity of the metaphor.

  She closed her eyes and raised her palm, and this time, she didn’t try to clamp her intent around the spell.

  A flame blossomed.

  It didn’t sputter or choke. It burned steadily—a bright, beautiful, unwavering pillar of fire that illuminated the courtyard.

  Aria opened her eyes, staring at the perfect flame in absolute awe. Before Arthur could react, she lunged forward, throwing her arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug. “I did it! Thank you, Oliver! Thank you so much!”

  Arthur froze for a second, his hands hovering awkwardly before he gently patted her back, genuinely surprised by the outburst. “You did the work, Aria. You are welcome.”

  The two of them chatted some more before finally bidding each other a good night.

  High above the estate’s courtyard, standing on a second-story balcony, Marcus watched in silence.

  He had initially stepped out simply to keep an eye on his daughter’s midnight. But surprisingly, the young heir appeared. Marcus watched the entire exchange, his sharp, amber eyes narrowing as he tracked every word and gesture. The list of anomalies surrounding the boy was growing longer each day.

  Quietly, the High Mage turned and slipped back into his quarters, his mind racing with quiet, dangerous suspicions.

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  Far to the north, the deep, rhythmic thud of horses' hooves echoed in the stillness of the freezing night. Inside a pale ghost-wood carriage, a pair of cold blue eyes shone brightly under the moonlight, softening into a faint, lingering smile.

  (To be continued...)

  Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!