"Didn't expect you to agree once again." I said to Elze, weaving through the evening market rush. I, still dressed in my previously bought clothes, looked around the evening stalls. The sun had just begun to hide behind the tree and the central plaza was filled with people. Vendors and proprietors calling customers, women moving about, some with vegetables in hand others with utensils. My eye caught a group of men entering from the east, farmers returning from their fields, tools in hand, dust clinging to their clothes.
"Ishant!" Linze's voice caught my attention.
"Hmm?" I turned to the other twin, she had decided to accompany me and Elze on our trip. Her eyes held a mix of concern and curiosity.
"You were spacing out again." She said,
"Was I?" I said with some rhetoric.
"Yes, you were," Linze reasserted herself, "You slow down while your head starts to turn all around.With that blank stare of yours."
"Trust me. I wasn't spacing out." I said, "I was just thinking."
"Thinking and spacing out look awfully similar when you're about to walk into a cabbage cart," Elze said, pulling me sideways just in time. The cart's owner gave me a grumble and a look that said 'next time I charge per bruise.'
"Appreciate the save," I muttered.
"I'd save you again," she said, "but next time I'm billing you."
We walked on, weaving through the tightly packed stalls. The scent of spices mingled with the sharp tang of metal polish. Somewhere nearby, a butcher was hacking at something large, red, and vaguely regretful. Kids darted through the crowd, laughing, occasionally stealing fruit when the vendor wasn't looking.
"So," Linze said, sidling up beside me, "what were you thinking about?"
"About how lucky I am." I said, feeling my lips curl into a smile.
"Lucky?" Linze repeated, clearly skeptical.
"Hmm. Lucky, to be on a double date with two beautiful girls, sister at that, and not die." I said, feeling my own mischief curl.
Linze's cheeks flushed a shade somewhere between embarrassment and exasperation. "It's not a date."
"Not for you maybe," I said, grinning. "But allow me my delusions, they're cheaper than ale and twice as intoxicating."
Elze rolled her eyes hard enough to injure herself. "You're deluded, alright. One more line like that and I'll be the one testing if [Cure Heal] can fix broken jaws."
"And here I was thinking you were warming up to me," I shot back.
"I am. Just not enough to let you flirt like a second-rate bard with a head injury."
I raised my hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, peace treaty. No more flirting until dessert."
"We're not having dessert," Linze mumbled, but she was smiling now, the flush fading into amusement.
We rounded a corner into a quieter section of the market—smaller stalls, older vendors, the kind who didn't yell to sell. The crowd thinned, the noise died down, and the setting sun painted the cobblestones gold. My fingers brushed against a stall with hanging charms—protection wards, luck tokens, that sort of thing. A fat, sleepy cat stretched out between two baskets, unbothered by our presence or the world in general.
"Still, I feel that you have changed." Linze then points out.
"Changed? How so?" I asked, I don't feel like I changed much.
"It's not that you are acting differently, it's more like the air around you has changed." Linze continues.
"Really?" I asked, mischief once again bubbling in my chest.
"Really." She asserts.
"Well, I have a disease," I preface, modulating my voice to speak somberly. Linze's face droops a bit.
"A disease?" She asks.
"Yes, an incurable one." I said. "You see, when I was younger, I was diagnosed as a hopeless romantic. And it has worsened in the presence of you two girls."
Linze blinked, her expression caught between scandalized and scandalously flattered. "That's not funny," she said, though her lips twitched treacherously.
"It's not a joke," I said, clutching my chest dramatically. "Every heartbeat is a sonnet. Every breath is a ballad. I'm practically terminal."
Elze groaned. "If this is the disease, I'm about to start looking for a cure in the poison aisle."
"Don't mind her," I said to Linze. "She's in denial. It's the first stage of affection."
Elze muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "First stage of execution," but I pretended not to hear.
We passed a stall where a hunched old man was selling handmade rings—copper, iron, some even carved from wood. He noticed us, or more specifically me, and raised an eyebrow like he'd just caught me mid-crime.
"Looking to propose, young man?" he croaked with a grin full of gaps. "Buy one, get a blessing thrown in. Two, and I'll throw in a lecture on marriage."
Elze shot me a warning glance. Linze looked anywhere but at the rings.
"Tempting," I said. "But I'm still deciding which one of them wants to poison me less."
The old man let out a wheeze that might've been a laugh or a lung trying to retire.
"Charming lad," he muttered, pocketing a silver coin someone else handed him.
We walked on, past the ring stall and into a small square where a fountain burbled quietly in the center. Wooden benches circled it, and there was a food vendor on the edge, stirring a pot of something spicy and soul-repairing. The light here was softer. The town was slowing, the market winding down, the air settling into that golden-hour warmth that made everything feel like a painting.
We sat on the edge of the fountain. Elze stretched her legs, Linze tucked her skirt beneath her, and I leaned back on my elbows, watching the clouds shift overhead.
"This place is oddly peaceful," I murmured. "Makes you forget there are guild missions, royal summons, and magical chaos waiting around every corner."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Elze said, eyes closed. "Something always explodes after a good day."
"True," I said. "And it's usually my fault."
"I wasn't going to say that," she replied, but I caught the faint smile.
"I was," Linze added quietly, smirking behind her hand.
Betrayal. From both flanks.
A breeze rolled through the plaza, rustling banners and skirts alike. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted by.
"I'm glad you came," I said, more sincerely now. "Both of you."
"Where else would we be?" Elze asked.
Linze looked at me, head tilted slightly. "You really don't like being alone, do you?"
I paused.
"No," I said, after a beat. "Not anymore."
Elze cracked one eye open. "Is this where you confess some dark, tragic backstory about being an orphan with a cursed sword and a mysterious past?"
"Nope. My past is painfully mundane. But the company here? Much better than spreadsheets and vending machines."
Linze giggled. "You're weird."
"I prefer 'limited edition.'"
The sun dipped fully behind the trees, casting the plaza in deepening shades of amber. A bell rang faintly in the distance—maybe a temple, maybe a clock. Either way, it signaled the day's end.
Elze stood up and stretched. "We should head back. The market's closing, and if we don't get dinner, Martha will draft us into kitchen duty."
"And I'm too young to die by ladle," I said, hopping up beside her.
Linze followed, brushing dust from her dress. As we turned back toward the inn, the three of us walking in step, I stole a glance at them—sisters, yes, but different in all the ways that mattered. Elze, all steel and sarcasm. Linze, soft edges and quiet storms.
*******
The morning was a quiet affair in the Silver Inn. With slow business, Martha claimed that people didn't like to travel in this heat. I say, what heat? This is at best around 25 to 30 degrees outside and people complain. Should have come to Delhi with me and bathed in 40 degrees. Compared to that, the temperature here is a blessing. Still, with slow business and less travels the inn remains mostly empty and all to myself and the sisters. The only time it is crowded is in the evening, when the locals flock to the bar.
So, near the window flipping through the leather bound notebook. God had gifted this along with my original clothing when he dropped me in this medieval resembling world. Medieval resembling because the society here doesn't exactly fit with what I had read in history books. The world was closer to what one would read in a fantasy story of or historical fiction.
The notebook was packed with herbal diagrams, anatomical sketches—some of which I now recognized and understood as legitimate concoctions. Others? Total gibberish. God apparently had access to a questionable fantasy wiki when assembling my starter pack. Only, now after a month of constant studying and mastering the local language, I am able to read the notebook. The presence of magic added another layer to plants and their medicinal properties and to non-magical healing as whole will become more complex.
Back in my world, we dealt with molecules, side effects, and peer-reviewed journals. Here, a tea brewed with glow-root and infused with light mana could allegedly "cleanse minor curses and emotional instability." That last bit sounded suspiciously like therapy in liquid form. Still, the placebo effect in this world probably came with sparkles.
My eyes drifted to a scribbled diagram halfway down the page—an odd little herb with jagged leaves and a stem that curled like a question mark. The marginal note read: "Can dampen mana flow. Not recommended before spellcasting." It wasn't labeled with a name I recognized, but something about the structure reminded me of mugwort. Maybe I'd ask Linze about it later.
A knock interrupted my train of thought.
Soft. Tentative. Not Micah's usual hurricane of noise, nor Martha's authoritative rapping. This was polite. Hesitant.
"Come in," I said, closing the notebook with a soft thud.
The door creaked open to reveal Linze—hands clasped behind her back, her hair still slightly damp from washing, and a faint wrinkle between her brows that said she'd been thinking too much.
"Am I interrupting?"
"Nope. Not at all." I said, setting aside the book. "What's up?"
Linze stepped in and shut the door behind her with a soft click, her fingers fidgeting slightly at her sides. She didn't speak right away—just stood there, shifting her weight between her feet, eyes flitting around the room before finally settling on mine.
"You okay?" I asked, leaning forward slightly. "You look like you're about to confess to murder. If it's about the last slice of pie, I already know it was Micah."
She gave a quiet laugh, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's not about pie."
"Then I'm all ears."
She took a deep breath, then exhaled in a slow, measured stream. "Elze and I… we've taken a guild quest. A long one."
I blinked. "Okay. How long is 'long'?"
Her lips thinned. "We're headed to the Royal Capital. It's a formal escort mission. Trade delegation, nobles, a little pomp, a lot of waiting around looking serious. It'll take us a couple of weeks to get there, maybe longer if the roads are bad. Then there's the return trip, and that's assuming nothing goes wrong."
Ah. That kind of long.
"So," I said carefully, "you're leaving."
She nodded. "We depart in two days."
I leaned back in my chair, letting the words settle. Not unexpected—adventurers took missions all the time—but… this felt different. Elze and Linze had been my anchors in Reflet. Familiar faces in a sea of unfamiliar magic, rules, and bureaucratic oaths written in chicken-scratch legalese.
"You came to tell me first?" I asked.
Linze looked up, almost surprised. "Of course I did. You're…" She trailed off, searching for the right phrasing. "You're our friend. And I thought you should hear it from me before some drunk idiot in the common room says something like, 'Guess your girlfriends finally ditched you.'"
I let out a slow breath, nodding more to myself than to her.
"Right. Of course," I said, the words tasting like cardboard. "It's a good opportunity."
Linze smiled, relieved, maybe even proud that I wasn't making a fuss. "It is. We'll be delivering a letter to a Viscount—they wanted capable adventurers with experience, and, well… we're decent with a blade and decent with manners."
"Deadly and polite," I said, forcing a smirk. "A rare combination."
She laughed softly, and for a second the silence between us didn't feel like a weight.
But as she glanced around the room, maybe looking for something else to say, I sat still—too still. My posture was relaxed, easy. My hands rested lightly on the notebook, my eyes not avoiding hers. No drama. No scene. Not even a sigh.
But inside?
Inside was something… quieter. Something hollow.
A slow, curling emptiness that spread from somewhere behind my ribs.
Sigh!
*********
The night felt colder in the eastern fields.
Not from the breeze—it was barely more than a whisper—but from something deeper. That quiet kind of cold that settles behind your ribs when things shift and you're not sure what's leaving or what's changing.
I walked the dirt path between wheat rows, stalks swaying like they hadn't noticed anything was different. Above, the moon peeked through drifting clouds, distant and pale—fitting, really.
I told myself I wasn't sulking. Just walking. Thinking. Letting the noise of the day bleed out into the quiet.
Elze and Linze. My first constants in this unpredictable world. Their departure wasn't permanent, not even far in the grand scheme. But still—it hit harder than expected. Right when life was finally starting to make sense. Right when Reflet felt more like home than hiding place.
They weren't just allies. They were structure. The ones who made magic feel less like a risk and more like a skill. Who saw me as Ishant—not just the glowing healer or the weird new guy fumbling through spellbooks and social cues.
And now, they were heading off. Rightfully so. They were capable, brave, and ready for more.
I paused near a patch of bare earth, worn down by foot traffic and quiet exits. Sat cross-legged, fingers curling into the warm dirt. The stillness pressed in—not suffocating, but undeniable.
Funny how easy it is to build your routine around people. Even funnier how fast the silence sets in when they're gone.
Not dramatic. Just a shift. A drop in background noise. A weight you didn't realize was balanced until someone lifted it.
I stared at the sky, the stars unbothered as always.
This wasn't heartbreak. It wasn't loss. It was… transition. The kind you don't get a manual for.
I sat there a while longer, letting the night wrap around me. The wind brushed the wheat, like it was trying to fill the space they left behind.
Eventually, I stood. Brushed off the dirt. Turned toward the town lights in the distance.
One step, then another.
Still me. Still fine. Just… readjusting.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd treat them to lunch. My treat this time. No reason. Just because.
********
By mid-morning, I had it all arranged: A table on the terrace outside the Silver Moon. Two extra seats. One small vase with a wildflower I might have stolen from someone's windowsill. A little basket of bread rolls still warm from the oven. And, most importantly—a promise.
My treat.
Linze and Elze arrived together, as expected. Elze in her usual leather vest, blades strapped to her sides like polite accessories. Linze in her travel cloak, staff slung over one shoulder, hair braided for the road. They looked… ready. Capable. Professional.
And completely unaware that I had asked Martha to hold off on lunch orders from the rest of the inn for half an hour.
"Something smells good," Elze said, narrowing her eyes the moment she saw the table. "And suspicious."
"Suspiciously good," I corrected. "Welcome, ladies, to the final luncheon of the Reflet Trio."
"We're not dying," Linze said, but she smiled as she took her seat.
"Speak for yourself," Elze muttered. "If this turns out to be a proposal in disguise, I'm jumping off the balcony."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, settling in. "Not unless you say yes. In which case, I'll follow you down in slow motion."
They groaned in perfect harmony. It was oddly comforting.
Martha appeared then with three steaming bowls—beef stew, seasoned root vegetables, and a side of sautéed greens that looked far too healthy to exist in a tavern. She placed the dishes down with a suspicious glance at me.
"You'd better clean that vase when you're done," she said.
I saluted her with my spoon.
The meal passed slower than usual. Conversation drifted in and out—light stuff. Past guild missions. The time Elze punched a wyvern in the snout. The time Linze accidentally charmed a barmaid into giving her free ale by casting a light spell at the wrong moment. The time I tripped over a bucket and invented slapstick comedy in the town square.
We laughed more than I expected.
Eventually, the bowls were empty. The bread was gone. Only the flower remained, drooping slightly in its stolen cup.
Elze leaned back in her chair, patting her stomach like she'd just won a battle.
"Alright, I'll admit it. You've officially bought yourself two days of immunity from my verbal beatdowns."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever threatened me with," I replied, pushing my bowl aside.
Linze dabbed her mouth with a napkin—neatly, precisely, like someone preparing to leave a dinner party hosted by royalty, not a street-smart Light Mage impersonator.
"You didn't have to do this," she said, glancing at the flower before quickly pretending not to.
"I know," I said with a shrug. "But I figured someone should send you off with warm food instead of cold bureaucracy."
"Spoken like a man who's dodged every guild debrief since arrival," Elze quipped, reaching for the last roll.
"Not dodging," I said, "strategically avoiding unnecessary paperwork. There's a difference."
Linze smiled faintly, eyes drifting to the view. From the terrace, you could see Reflet sprawling quietly into the distance—the market street thinning, rooftops dappled in sunlight, smoke curling gently from chimneys like everyone forgot the world had stakes higher than dinner.
"It's a good day," she said softly.
"It is," I agreed. "Weather's nice. Company's tolerable."
"Tolerable?" Elze raised an eyebrow. "That's a big compliment coming from you."
"Don't get used to it," I said. "It's probably the bread talking."
We let the silence stretch for a moment. Not awkward—just companionable, like the last few bars of a song you're not ready to stop humming.
Elze stood first, rolling her shoulders like she was warming up to punch fate in the face.
"We should get our gear. Still need to double-check the route and see if the horses are suicidal."
"They always are," I said. "It's a prerequisite for government contracts."
Linze rose more slowly, brushing off her skirt. Her gaze lingered on me, unreadable. Thoughtful. Maybe trying to find words to wrap up what didn't need wrapping.
"So," she said. "Will you be okay?"
I paused, then gave her a lopsided smile.
"I'm not the one heading toward noble politics and muddy roads. I'll be just fine."
Elze scoffed. "He says, but give it a week and he'll be caught under a bookshelf trying to translate ancient healing techniques from a monk with no teeth."
"Untrue," I said, standing. "I've learned to ask for diagrams."
Linze laughed, covering her mouth just a beat too late.
The two of them turned toward the stairs. Elze moved without hesitation. Linze paused. Just a second.
"Ishant?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for lunch."
I gave her a casual salute. "Next one's on you. I hear the Capital has terrible cuisine, so you'll come running back."
She didn't answer—just smiled and followed her sister down the stairs.
I waited until their footsteps faded. Then I sat back down. Alone now. Just me and a table of empty plates, the flower leaning sideways in its cup like even it was tired of pretending to be decorative.
I didn't linger.
Didn't watch the road from the balcony like some tragic bard waiting for inspiration. Didn't sigh into the wind. Didn't write a poem.
I cleaned the table.
Handed the vase back to Martha without comment.
Went back to my room.
And opened the notebook.
Because that's what you do when people you care about go chasing things bigger than you. You don't chase after them.
You make sure they have something to come back to.
*********
The next morning arrived without fanfare—no dramatic music, no slow-motion exits. Just a quiet sun rising over the rooftops, washing the town of Reflet in gold and indifference.
The inn smelled of bread and old wood. Micah, surprisingly, wasn't banging anything in the kitchen. Martha handed out breakfast without her usual suspicious glare, perhaps sensing the day needed fewer sharp edges.
The girls were already geared up. Elze had her twin blades buckled across her back, her leather vest fastened tight, travel cloak slung lazily over one shoulder. Linze wore a soft blue robe under a heavier coat, staff tucked neatly into the harness on her back, hair braided, boots polished. She looked more like a traveling mage from a talebook than the girl who'd once spent a solid ten minutes arguing about vegetable prices with a vendor.
I met them at the entrance of the Silver Inn, my own satchel slung across my chest. Not because I was coming along—but because walking them to the edge of town felt like the sort of thing a friend would do. Or at least, a reasonably decent human being.
"You sure you're not coming to the Capital just to annoy us?" Elze asked as we stepped onto the cobbled street, her voice teasing but eyes scanning for last-minute threats out of habit.
"Tempting," I said. "But someone needs to keep Reflet safe from overcooked stew and coin scams. I have civic responsibilities now."
"Like napping and dodging paperwork," Linze added, eyes sparkling.
"Exactly. Noble work." I tapped my temple. "Mind over melee."
The walk through town was unhurried. Reflet stirred around us—vendors setting up, children chasing each other with sticks, a man struggling with a wheelbarrow full of turnips. Life continued, unconcerned with personal goodbyes or momentary absences.
The town gates stood ahead, flanked by two sleepy guards pretending they weren't eavesdropping. Beyond them, the road curved east toward the Capital—wide, well-worn, and flanked by endless green. A few other travelers were already visible in the distance—caravans, riders, wagons heavy with goods and noise.
We stopped just shy of the gate.
"This is it," Elze said, hands on her hips. "No bandits, no goodbyes that involve crying, no sappy speeches."
"Of course not," I said. "You'd start swinging before I even reached the sappy part."
"Damn right I would."
Linze adjusted her cloak, then glanced at me. "You'll be alright?"
"I'm not the one walking into noble politics and capital intrigue," I said. "I'll be here. Doing what I do best."
"Glowing in dark places and making inappropriate comments?" Elze asked.
"That—and possibly revolutionizing the field of magical botany while drinking very questionable tea," I said, offering a casual salute.
There was a moment. Just a small one. A flicker in Linze's expression, a slight shift in Elze's stance. Not hesitation exactly—but something adjacent to it. I didn't acknowledge it.
Instead, I gave them both a mock-stern nod.
"Go. Be heroic. Earn coin. Make dramatic entrances and equally dramatic exits."
"We'll send word once we reach the Capital," Linze said.
"Do that. Preferably not by raven. They always look like they're judging me."
Elze turned, tugging Linze gently forward. "Let's go before he starts giving heartfelt advice. I'm not built for that."
I didn't wave. Just stood there, watching them walk away with the ease of people used to leaving. No tension in my shoulders, no tightness in my jaw. I kept my expression neutral, almost amused.
They didn't look back.
Good. That made it easier.
Once they were out of sight—just figures swallowed by sunlight and dust—I turned away. Hands in pockets. Gait steady. Breathing even.
Readjusting.
I had work to do. The day didn't care who left—it still needed to be lived. Spells to refine. Ranks to climb. And somewhere out there, a kid probably needed healing after picking a fight with a chicken.
So I walked back toward the heart of town. Alone now. But not empty.
Just… realigned.
Reflet wasn't smaller without them.
It was just quieter.
And I could live with that.
******
The next day in Reflet dawned with the same unceremonious clarity as the one before—sunlight spilling through the slats of my window at the Silver Moon, dust motes dancing in the beams like they had nowhere better to be. The inn was quiet, save for the faint clatter of Micah scrubbing pots in the kitchen and Martha muttering about inventory. The absence of Elze and Linze didn't scream—it whispered. A subtle shift in the air, like a room missing a familiar chair.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, the leather-bound notebook open in front of me, its pages worn from a month of obsessive study. The local language was no longer a barrier—deciphering the script had become second nature, each looping glyph and angular consonant as familiar as my own handwriting. That left me with time. Too much time. The kind that itches under your skin if you don't give it purpose.
So I turned to light magic. Not the flashy, crowd-pleasing kind that Linze could weave into shimmering displays, but the practical stuff. The spells I had learnt. [Cure Heal] and [Light Orb]. I had learnt these two spells. There were still some edges to my casting, mana waste, but they can wait.
The notebook lay open, its pages a mix of meticulous notes and half-sketched herbs, each line a reminder of how far I'd come in a month. [Cure Heal] and [Light Orb] were my bread and butter—reliable, functional, the kind of spells that made people nod approvingly at guild meetings. But they weren't perfect. My casting still bled mana, small leaks in efficiency that nagged at me like a dripping faucet. I could spend days tightening the edges, shaving off the excess, chasing precision. Most would. It made sense.
But I didn't want to.
Not because I was lazy—though Elze would probably argue that point—but because I had a different plan. Perfecting what I already knew felt like polishing a single tool when I could be building a whole workshop. Learning new spells, ones with different mana demands, would teach me something refining [Cure Heal] never could: how to feel the flow. Every spell had its own rhythm, its own weight. A light spell like [Light Orb] sipped mana gently, like a bird dipping into a stream. [Cure Heal] was heavier, a steady pour. Something new—maybe a shield spell or a minor elemental trick—would pull mana in ways I hadn't felt yet. Heavy bursts, pulsing streams, or maybe a slow burn. Each would stretch my instincts, force me to adapt, to sense the ebb and flow of mana in real time.
Mastering that? That's how you stop wasting mana. Not by memorizing the exact measurements for one spell, but by learning to read the current, to adjust on the fly. Like a musician picking up new instruments to understand sound itself, not just one song. A new spell would be a teacher, not just a tool. And in a world where magic could mean the difference between a healed kid and a dead one, I needed every lesson I could get.
My eyes fell on a small grimoire as such thoughts swirled in my mind. I had pestered Darnis to get one for me from the Guild's collection, it was a small collection of three to four grimoires. Luckily, they had one on Light magic.
I pulled the grimoire from the small stack of books on my bedside table, its cover worn leather, edges frayed from years of guild hands flipping through it. The title was etched in faded gold: Fundamentals of Luminary Arts. Not exactly a page-turner by name, but Darnis had sworn it was the best the guild had for light magic beginners. I trusted her judgment—mostly because she'd threatened to make me scrub the guildhall floor if I pestered her for another.
I opened it, the spine creaking like it was annoyed at being disturbed. The pages smelled faintly of dust and old ink, and the script was tighter than my notebook's, more deliberate, like the writer knew their words would outlive them. My eyes scanned the table of contents, landing on two spells that caught my interest: [Luminous Lance] and [Radiant Aegis]. Simple enough to learn, the text promised, but versatile enough to matter. Perfect for someone like me—eager to expand but not reckless enough to try summoning a light dragon on day one.
I started with [Luminous Lance]. The description was straightforward: a spell that shaped mana into a spear of condensed light, sharp enough to pierce or be thrown as a projectile. It wasn't meant to kill—light magic rarely was—but it could sting, disorient, or, with enough focus, punch through weak defenses. The grimoire's notes were clinical: "Concentrate mana into a linear form, stabilize with intent, release with precision. Mana cost: moderate. Duration: instantaneous." A diagram showed a mage holding a glowing shaft of light, its tip tapered like a needle, with annotations about mana flow converging at the point of release.
I leaned back against the headboard, picturing it. My experience with [Light Orb] helped—creating a stable sphere of light was all about balance, letting mana pool evenly. This sounded different, more aggressive, like sculpting a blade instead of a bubble. I closed my eyes, feeling for the familiar hum of mana in my chest. It was there, steady, like a heartbeat I could nudge. I coaxed it into my hands, letting it gather, then pushed it into a shape—long, narrow, pointed. The air shimmered faintly, but the form wobbled, collapsing into a sad puff of sparkles before it could solidify.
"Alright," I muttered, shaking out my hands. "Linear. Intent. Precision. Got it."
The grimoire emphasized focus—visualizing the lance as an extension of will, not just mana. I tried again, slower this time, imagining a spear in my grip, its weight, its edges. Mana flowed, warm and pliant, and this time it held longer, a faint glow stretching into a rod about a foot long. It flickered, sharp at one end, but the tail end frayed like a bad haircut. I clenched my jaw, willing it to stabilize. The light snapped into focus—a proper lance, maybe two feet long, humming softly. I could feel the mana draining, not a flood but a steady pull, like pouring water from a jug.
I aimed at the far wall, careful not to point at anything breakable—Martha would have my head if I scorched her inn. With a mental push, I released it. The lance shot forward, a streak of white-gold, and hit the wall with a soft thunk, leaving a faint char mark before dissipating. Not exactly world-shattering, but it felt… right. Like I'd thrown a dart and hit the board, if not the bullseye.
I scribbled a note in my notebook: Lance works. Aim needs practice. Don't test in small rooms.
Next was [Radiant Aegis]. This one intrigued me more—a hemispherical shield of condensed light, meant to block or deflect. The grimoire described it as "a barrier woven from mana, solidified by resolve, capable of repelling minor physical and magical assaults." Mana cost was higher than [Luminous Lance], and the spell required sustained focus to maintain the shield's integrity. The diagram showed a mage standing behind a curved wall of light, arrows bouncing off its surface. A side note warned: "Overextension risks mana depletion. Do not attempt during fatigue."
I stood, moving to the center of the room for space. [Radiant Aegis] felt closer to [Cure Heal] in its mana demand—steady, deliberate, less about bursts and more about control. I spread my hands, palms outward, imagining a curved wall forming in front of me. Mana flowed, slower this time, weaving into a faint shimmer in the air. It was like stretching a sheet of light, thin at first, then thickening as I poured more into it. The shield flickered into view—a half-dome about three feet wide, glowing softly, its edges wavering like heat haze.
I held it for a few seconds, feeling the strain. It wasn't just mana; it was mental stamina, like holding a heavy book at arm's length. I tossed a rolled-up sock at it—best test I could manage without breaking anything. The sock bounced off, landing with a sad flop. The shield flickered but held. I grinned, then felt a wave of dizziness. The grimoire wasn't kidding about mana depletion. I let the shield dissolve, sitting heavily on the bed.
Another note: Aegis is solid but drinks mana like a drunkard. Practice duration.
I spent the next few hours alternating between the two spells, tweaking my approach. [Luminous Lance] needed less raw power and more precision—too much mana made it unstable, too little and it fizzled. [Radiant Aegis] was the opposite; it demanded a steady stream, and my focus kept slipping, letting the shield thin at the edges. By noon, I was sweaty, slightly lightheaded, and grinning like an idiot. Two new spells, rough but functional, added to my arsenal. Not bad for a morning's work.
I closed the grimoire, marking my place with a scrap of cloth. The notebook lay open beside it, new pages filled with my observations: mana flow patterns, mental cues, even a sketch of the lance's shape. Learning these spells wasn't just about the spells themselves—it was about understanding mana's language. Each one taught me something new about its rhythm, its limits, my limits. [Luminous Lance] was a sprinter, quick and sharp. [Radiant Aegis] was a marathon runner, demanding endurance. Together, they'd make me better at reading the flow, at bending it to my will.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Elze and Linze were probably halfway to the next town by now, dealing with muddy roads and pompous nobles. I didn't envy them. But I missed their noise—the banter, the balance they brought. Reflet was quieter without them, but the work wasn't. There were herbs to study, spells to master, and a town full of people who'd need a healer sooner or later.
I stood, tucking the grimoire under my arm. Time to head to the guildhall—maybe Darnis had another book, or at least some advice on not passing out mid-shield. The day was young, and I had mana to burn.
One step at a time. That's how you build a workshop. That's how you make a home.