“Don’t think that this trip will be a luxurious escape to a place of dreams. You are months, possibly years, behind your peers at the Academy. Before we arrive, you will meet my minimum standards, or I will leave you in the slums of the city without a second thought.”

  ? Sam tried to pay no mind to Peran’s cold warning. It wasn’t a surprise to know that he had to learn a lot before he even enrolled in the Academy. He was shocked for it to be outlined–and to learn just *how far* behind he was–but it changed nothing for him. Yes, he was at a disadvantage. He was a Half-Elf going to a mainly Elven city, full of students with much more training than he had. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He had few regrets in leaving Harbard’s Reach, and much to look forward to in High Thael.

  ? The training was both easy and hard. The lessons in magic that even children practiced in High Thael were not just easy but rewarding to learn. On top of learning to refine his mana quickly–both purifying it for instant use and transmuting it into one of the other six elements–was a subject he grasped quickly. Even Peran seemed pleasantly surprised by the end of the first week, when he could reach a nine-to-one ratio with some effort. Ten-to-one conversion was still his feasible limit, but he could do that quickly, and the condensed mana hung around for longer and longer.

  ? “Keep doing that in your downtime, and you will reach a point where it does not dissipate,” his new mentor had explained. “This is one of the ways a mage gains latent power. Eventually, all of your mana will be condensed into that state, and you will naturally produce it. That is what we call the Adept-Tier. It signifies that you are ready to push for true Master rank.”

  ? Sam couldn’t wait for the day that he reached that level. According to Peran, it took the average student of the Academy two years to achieve full refinement of their mana. He vowed, privately to himself, that he would accomplish that feat much sooner. With that conviction as motivation, he redoubled his efforts to refine his mana, even going to sleep late when they rested for the nights along their journey, working by the light of the dim fire while the others slept.

  ? The difficult part of his training lay in the more… physical aspects. Peran admitted that this was not something most of his fellow students would have focused on before enrolling, but that the Academy did put new students through physical training and exercise courses. Sam suspected he’d have little trouble with that, having grown up on a farm and performing hard labor for nearly a decade already. But Peran–either out of a desire to push Sam to his limits or simply because his standards were so high–had begun drilling him in actual combat, teaching him how to use the longsword.

  ? Hours were spent each night away from the campfire, performing basic strike and guard patterns. The Mage Guards that accompanied them on the trip watched with some interest, and in a few cases, even joined for practical demonstrations. It was there that Sam got the first hint of Lucian Peran’s unique blend of magic. Despite sparring against a warrior with more experience and clad in stiff, tough armor, he stood out as the true master in each conflict. Even when two or three guards fought at once, determined to try and pin the dancing elf down with numbers, he remained light on his feet, flitting in and out of their reach, his training sword resounding against their bodies with corresponding grunts of pain.

  ? Despite the ‘exceptional’ rating that his ki had earned during his Assessment, Sam was not a naturally gifted fighter. The closest he came to being familiar with a weapon was the splitting maul he used in chores. He could hunt well enough with a bow, spear, or sling, but the wooden longsword that Peran put in his hands felt like a clumsy, heavy stick. His clumsiness was on another level, even against the guards who tested his defense upon Peran’s instruction.

  ? “Does it have to be a sword this long?” he’d asked during one of their mid-day breaks. “With how fast you want me to move, surely a dagger would be better?”

  ? “Daggers have no leverage,” Peran had retorted sternly. “They are weapons of surprise and shadowy movements, and thus have no place on the battlefield.”

  ? The battlefield. The way he said it made Sam think that he would eventually be expected to be in such a field, fighting others. The thought terrified him more than traveling to an unknown city. He was decidedly not a warrior. Would he be expected to become one if he were to keep up with Peran’s standards?

  ? Outside the hard training and days spent slipping through an unfamiliar landscape, Sam thoroughly enjoyed the journey. It had been a lifelong dream of his to leave Harbard’s Reach and explore the world outside, but this was the first time he’d been more than a few miles from the place of his birth. They were even far enough that the smell of salt had left the air. Land in all directions, further than his eyes, ears, or nose could discern. It made him feel small and insignificant.

  ? Sam took to writing his thoughts in a journal, sitting quietly by the fire during meal breaks and scratching away at the parchment. He was no great writer, but found that his thoughts were easier to process if recorded on paper. Peran seemed to approve, at least, giving a simple nod the first time he’d noticed the behavior.

  ? “The mind is a powerful tool,” the elf had told him. "But only a fool would rely upon a single tool.”

  ? Now, on the evening of their eighth day, Sam was scratching down the sights that he’d taken in that afternoon, pausing only to take a small sip of water and look at the horizon. There was a new mountain range visible to the northeast, a jagged and dark line like the barrier at the edge of the world. Of course, he knew that was a fanciful notion. To the east lay the nation of Eraldon, a powerful country roughly the same size as Runenmark, where he lived. Where his home country favored and nourished magical potential, Eraldon was known for its emphasis on martial prowess.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  ? “Mountains look pretty intimidating, even from this far away,” one of the Mage Guards said, breaking Sam out of his musing. He turned to see that the man had followed his gaze, gazing at the distant peaks, already becoming indistinct with the fading light. “I remember all the nasty stories my Gran told me. Suppose you’ve never seen ‘em.”

  ? Sam shook his head. “I’ve known about them, of course. I’ve seen maps of both countries. But we’re pretty far from them, aren’t we?”

  ? “Indeed, we are. Makes ‘em even scarier, doesn’t it? Knowing you can see the peaks from so far.”

  ? He found he couldn’t disagree with that notion. “Just how big are they?”

  ? “They’re much wider than they are tall.” Another Mage Guard joined in on the conversation. A broad-shouldered woman with hair the color of sand, and a jagged scar across her eye. The eyelid on that side didn’t open as far, giving her face a lopsided, cynical expression. She grinned as he turned to look at her, though, showing her true nature. “Before the road was built, it’d take you a month on foot to cross to Eraldon.”

  ? The first Mage Guard snorted his disagreement. “And how would you know, Merida? I know you’re an old hag, but you ain’t been around *that* long.”

  ? “Who are you calling a hag, you bag of bones?” She snarled back, but Sam was used to their bickering by now and could detect the humor under the words “I grew up in the Spires, remember, idiot? I think I’d know more about ‘em than a *flatfoot* like you.”

  ? “The Spires?” Samuel interrupted the two before they could continue their bickering. He dug into his pack, finding and unfurling a map scroll he’d picked up before they set off. “It says here they’re called the Spirit Spines.”

  ? “Bah,” Merida waved a hand in dismissal. “That’s what flatfoots call ‘em. Don’t get sucked into Elven propaganda, boy. Their real name is the Chaos Spires. It’s the birthplace of magic.”

  ? Sam had heard that rumor, of course. It was a fascinating tale of elements forming out of chaos and making the world as they knew it–the elemental beasts and the mortal races included. He wasn’t sure it was the entire truth, but it had more merit than the claims laid by others. He particularly preferred it over the myth the Church offered, that the elements were the six pieces of Viraelis split apart to spread her power across the world.

  ? He returned to his journal as other Mage Guards joined in on the quickly growing debate, jotting down his thoughts on his magic training. Just that day, he’d accomplished creating motes of mana at a nine-to-one ratio exactly eight times. He couldn’t understand why elemental transmutation–changing his base mana into one of the six elements–was so easy. According to accepted fact, a mage had a much easier time transmuting to their affinity, but struggled with the others. They were able to express much more power and efficiency with their chosen element, yes, but often at a cost to the others.

  ? Strangest of all, Peran had no answer for him in regard to that question. Sam was starting to think that his affinity was rarer than expected, if even the master mage had no experience with it. He’d asked the other Mage Guards, named so because of their extensive work in protecting and escorting students of the Academy, but had received only blank expressions. They’d never heard of a mage with a base affinity either.

  ? He finished writing in the journal and rose, stretching away the soreness that had claimed his body in the past days. Pacing further away from the fire to relieve himself, he thought again of how long he had yet to go. He wanted to start his education straight away, and not just what Peran was teaching him. He wanted to meet and learn from the Masters of the Academy, and spend time studying with other young mages like himself. And he wanted to experience a true city.

  ? Peran caught him on his way back to the fire. “Performing your nightly practices?”

  ? “I was just about to start,” Sam replied, more than a little tired of the repeated reminders. He was not a forgetful person.

  ? “Good, good.” Then the elf was away without another word, vanishing into the growing darkness that surrounded the camp. Sam frowned after him, wondering where the man went each night. Without fail, as soon as the meal had finished, Peran disappeared into the night and didn’t return by the time sleep took Sam. He did reason that the trips weren’t long, however, as Peran always seemed fully rested and alert the next day when they set off once again.

  ? “Do you have any idea where he goes each night?” He asked the Mage Guards when he returned to the camp. “He always leaves right after the meal, and I don’t see him return before I go to sleep.”

  ? “Oh, he’s gone for hours each night,” one of them told him. “But we don’t know what he does. Frankly, I don’t think any of us would think to ask him.”

  ? Another nodded, speaking as if quoting some old legend. “Never bother a Master’s rituals.”

  ? Sam found that an entirely unsatisfying answer, but, as the Mage Guard didn’t seem to be offering another one, accepted it with a small shrug. “Alright, then. I’m tired, so I’m going to lie down.”

  ? They each mumbled a quiet farewell as he settled onto his travel blanket in the thick but short grass. Turned away from the light of the fire as he was, he couldn’t see them moving about, but their muted conversations still reached his ears from time to time, and he could pick out that they were organizing a watch schedule. Those selected grunted as they rose and stamped out to the perimeter of the camp, while the others remained for a little more drinking and some quiet chatter. Even they, too, followed Sam’s example and were soon heading off for their own bedrolls.

  ? Quiet fell over the camp quickly, with the only sounds being those of the local insects and the hiss and pop of the fire as it burned throughout the night. Sam’s excitement at the journey did keep him up for about a half hour, but eventually, the weight of sleep took him over, and he drifted off, the scent of the meal still lingering in the warm summer night air.