The sun had dipped low by the time Liam returned home. The soft orange glow spilled through the windows, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Ragnar sat polishing his old farming tool, while Lily stirred a pot of soup over the hearth. Both looked up the moment Liam stepped in.
"So?" Ragnar asked, setting the tool down. "Did the Master Grey throw you out or finally see some sense?"
Liam paused, unsure how to phrase it. "He… accepted me."
Lily raised a brow. "Just like that?"
"No," Liam said quickly, sitting down at the edge of the table. "He questioned me. A lot. Made me wait outside while he talked to you yesterday, remember?"
Ragnar nodded. "Aye. He sure said about someone's great achievement as a thief , and starting their career at his home."
Liam coughed hearing this.
"What thief you are talking about?" Lily asked
The father and son duo replied-"Nothing."
Lily squinted her eyes looking seriously at the two.
The two whistled like they didn't see it.
"He said if I want to walk the path of magic, I have to be prepared… to make hard choices." said Liam
Lily ladled some soup into a bowl and placed it in front of Liam. "Grey's always been odd, but he's wise in his own way. If he accepted you, then you must've impressed him."
"I didn't tell him everything," Liam admitted, staring into the steam rising from the bowl. "But he knew. Somehow."
Ragnar grunted. "He's not a man you fool easily. So, what now?"
"He'll start teaching me. But… only if I don't back down."
Lily smiled softly. "You've already come this far. Just remember—being strong doesn't mean forgetting who you are."
Liam nodded. His parents' words didn't make the path easier.
The morning sun painted long amber lines across the yard behind Master Grey's house. A dozen human-shaped dummies made of straw and hardened bark stood in rows, like silent sentinels. Some were static, tied firmly to wooden posts. Others dangled loosely on chains and swung with the breeze. Grey stood beside them, his arms folded, his long beard brushing the edge of his cloak.
"Alright, boy," he said, his voice rough as gravel, "Let's see what you've already managed with your toy spells."
Liam stepped forward, suppressing the flicker of nervousness that rose in his chest. "Should I use the ten-mote clump?" he asked.
"Use what you think works," Grey replied, eyes narrowing. "I'll tell you if it's wrong."
Liam inhaled and closed his eyes briefly. He reached within, visualizing his mana core and the motes of golden light swirling inside it. He carefully formed a group of ten, compressed them slightly, and whispered the wind incantation. A concentrated burst of air whipped forward, slamming into the chest of the nearest dummy with a thunk. The straw shuddered but held.
"Again. Stronger."
Liam tried again. Another burst, slightly faster this time, tore at the dummy's shoulder. A small piece of bark cracked off.
Grey gave a small nod. "Better. But anyone with real armor would laugh at that."
He walked over and tossed Liam a few circular discs carved from thick wood, etched faintly with glyphs. "Moving targets next. These simulate aerial targets, not soldiers. Think birds or messenger constructs."
He lifted a finger and mana flared faintly. The discs began to levitate and hover erratically.
"Start."
Liam steadied his breath and watched the path of the discs. With practiced calm, he gathered three clumps of ten motes each, spacing them along the navel-centered core. He launched one spell, missed. Adjusted. The second hit squarely, the disc splintered.
He repeated it again and again. By the time the last disc fell shattered to the ground, sweat rolled down Liam's brow.
"Your aim's not bad," Grey admitted. "But your speed is slow. A fight won't wait for your perfect little clumps."
"I'm working on clumping faster," Liam replied, panting. "It's hard."
"Good," Grey said. "Hard means you're not wasting your life."
Later that afternoon, Liam wiped the sweat from his arms and made his way to the far end of the village, where the small herbalist's cottage stood, tucked beneath the shade of wild plum trees. The place always smelled faintly of crushed leaves and smoke.
Marla, the herbalist, sat on a stool outside, drying leaves over a heated metal plate. She looked up as Liam approached. Her expression was not angry, but not as warm as before.
"Well, look who remembered my door," she said, arching an eyebrow.
Liam scratched the back of his head. "Sorry for not showing up the last few days. I started training under Master Grey. He's strict, and... things got busy."
Marla grunted and turned a leaf with her tongs. "Busy, huh? Always happens when boys start playing with flashy tricks. They forget how much power lies in quiet patience."
"I haven't forgotten," Liam said, sitting beside her. "I'm still working with the herbs you gave me. I've been experimenting on pigs at night."
Marla turned to look at him, surprised. "Pigs?"
"I wanted to make a powdered sleeping agent. Something airborne. I succeeded... sort of. It worked on pigs. Not on humans. There were... complications." He kept his tone vague.
Marla studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp. "You didn't poison anyone by mistake, did you?"
"No," Liam said quickly. "I had backup. And no one was hurt. Just confused."
Marla snorted. "You're walking a fine line, boy. But I won't lecture. If you're learning something, then that's more than most."
She handed him a small bundle of leaves, their edges tinged purple. "Try combining these with crushed doggrass and heating them over low flame. It releases a heavier vapor. Could help your airborne problem."
Liam nodded with gratitude. "Thanks."
That evening, back in the clearing behind Grey's house, Liam was given more advanced dummy targets—ones that moved not just through air but also along erratic rails, mimicking charging enemies. The old mage stood nearby, arms crossed, watching every movement.
"Speed and precision. That's what separates a living mage from a dead one."
Liam nodded, sweat soaking his shirt. He gathered the three groups of ten motes. Instead of using them one at a time, he released them in a staggered rhythm, adjusting aim mid-spell.
One dummy shattered at the head. Another lost an arm. The third staggered from the blast.
Grey raised an eyebrow. "Interesting approach. You're compensating for your slow cast time by pre-loading and launching in sequence."
"I'm trying to make up for my limits," Liam replied.
"Hmph. That's what most people fail to do. They complain about their lack of talent and stop. You're not one of them. Not yet."
By the time stars filled the sky, Liam collapsed in the grass, breath heaving. Grey said nothing but left a flask of cold water beside him.
The next morning, Liam returned to Marla's cottage. This time, she let him help dry and sort herbs while discussing properties of various roots. He asked questions—not just about healing but about toxic compounds, dosages, combinations.
She frowned once. "You've been learning too fast. You're planning something."
"I'm planning a future," Liam replied.
She said nothing but didn't stop him.
That night, he tried the new combination she had recommended. The mixture released a darker smoke, heavier than his last version. It clung longer in the air.
He bottled it carefully, labeled the ingredients, and wrote a small note on the dosage. He smiled to himself, feeling like both a mage and a scholar.
Over the course of two weeks, this rhythm continued. Training with Grey by day—learning new mana control drills, accuracy tests, and even the first theories of spell structure. Grey began to slowly open up, telling Liam of the importance of chant tempo, breath timing, and clump discipline.
"You think a mage wins with power? No. They win with rhythm and timing. Mana follows rhythm. You must train your mind to become a metronome, a conductor of invisible forces, and timing decides all."
By evening, Liam studied with Marla. His knowledge deepened—both in healing and harm. He began identifying compounds by smell alone, understanding the flow of decoctions, how each herb interacted.
And Liam—young, eager, and determined—was still trying to learn both.