Rising With My Mystic Power

BLADES AND BONDS

When the light faded, silence fell over the ruined corridor.

The Wraith was gone—its form scattered like smoke into the cracks of the earth, leaving only scorch marks carved into the stone walls. Students huddled against the rubble, wide-eyed, clutching one another.

Mordaine stood at the center of it all, chest heaving, arms trembling, faint blue fire still flickering at his fingertips. His breath burned in his throat. He had done it—destroyed the thing that haunted him in the alley.

But the cost was immediate.

Dozens of eyes bore into him. Fear. Awe. Suspicion. Whispers filled the corridor like a rising tide.

“That fire…”

“Not natural…”

“Did you see what he did?”

“Carrowell…?”

Lyra stepped forward, sword still in her hand, but her stance no longer defensive. Her eyes—stormy gray, sharp with intelligence—studied him like he was both puzzle and weapon.

“You,” she said, voice low, measured. “You’re not what you seem.”

Mordaine’s throat closed. He wanted to deny it, to shove the pendant back under his tunic and walk away. But the flames wouldn’t obey. They still lingered, curling faintly from his palms, refusing to let him return to invisibility.

Halbrecht cut through the whispers like a blade. “Enough!”

The old warrior’s presence filled the hall. His sword was sheathed, but his scarred face carried a weight heavier than steel. He strode to Mordaine, staring down at him as though trying to pierce his soul.

“Carrowell.” His voice was gravel. “Come with me.”

Mordaine opened his mouth, but Lyra’s voice broke in, sharper than before. “No. With respect, Commander, we all saw it. Whatever that was—it saved lives. And it threatens them, too. You can’t hide him away.”

Gasps rippled. Few students dared speak against Halbrecht. Yet Lyra stood tall, shoulders squared, defiance radiating.

The commander’s jaw tightened. “You presume much, Ellowen.”

“I presume the truth,” she said evenly. “If he has power, he should be trained—or watched. Not buried in shadows.”

Mordaine’s stomach twisted. He hated the way she said watched, as though she wasn’t sure if he was savior or danger.

Halbrecht’s eyes flicked between them. At last, he gave a short nod. “Very well. But understand this, boy.” His voice dropped to a growl meant for Mordaine alone. “The fire inside you will not be tamed easily. Fail to control it, and it will consume you—and everyone around you.”

The flames guttered, then died, leaving only the scent of scorched stone.

⸻

Later, in the sparring yard, under the pale wash of moonlight, Lyra found him alone.

She didn’t hesitate, simply drew her blade and pointed it at his chest.

“Show me,” she demanded.

Mordaine blinked. “What?”

“That flame. That power. If you don’t learn control, you’ll kill us all. Better you burn against my blade than unleash it blindly.”

Her eyes shone—not with hatred, but with challenge. A fire of her own.

Mordaine’s pulse quickened. Part of him wanted to refuse, to run. Another part—the one that remembered the Wraith’s scream—tightened his grip around the pendant.

Slowly, blue sparks flickered to life along his arm.

Lyra’s lips curved, not in a smile, but in readiness.

“Good,” she whispered. “Then let’s see if you’re truly worthy of it.”

And she lunged.

         

The moonlight painted silver lines across the sparring yard, the cobblestones cool beneath Mordaine’s boots. The night was still, the air sharp, and yet he felt heat rolling off his skin as the pendant pulsed in rhythm with his racing heart.

Lyra stood opposite him, her stance perfect, sword poised with precision born of relentless training. Every muscle in her body moved like a dancer’s—graceful, deadly. Her eyes, however, were storm clouds locked on him.

“You hesitate,” she said. “That hesitation will kill you.”

Mordaine swallowed. “Or it will keep me from burning this place to the ground.”

Her mouth quirked—the faintest ghost of a smirk—but it vanished as quickly as it came. “Excuses. If you want to survive here, you can’t be afraid of your own strength.”

She lunged without warning.

Steel sliced the air, her blade whistling toward his shoulder. Mordaine barely lifted his arm, the flame flaring instinctively—clang! The sword struck against a barrier of fire, sparks scattering like falling stars.

The students who had gathered at the edges of the yard gasped. Some murmured nervously; others leaned forward with hungry fascination.

Lyra pressed harder, testing the resistance. The flame flexed and wavered under her steel. Mordaine gritted his teeth, sweat stinging his brow.

Control. Control. Don’t let it consume you.

He thrust his palm forward. A burst of blue fire lashed out, forcing her back a step. The ground where the flame struck glowed faintly red, stone singed and cracked.

Lyra steadied herself, eyes flashing. Instead of fear, there was something else there—interest. Challenge.

“Again,” she said.

They clashed.

Lyra’s blade darted in precise arcs, each strike a test of his reflexes. Mordaine’s flames responded almost as if they had a will of their own—coiling, striking, protecting him. The pendant’s glow deepened with every surge, humming in his bones like a living thing.

But each moment the fire grew wilder. He felt it tugging at him, whispering promises of destruction, urging him to unleash it all. His hands shook with the strain of holding it back.

Lyra must have seen it in his eyes. She drove her blade downward in a fierce strike aimed at his chest.

The fire exploded.

A wave of searing light blasted from Mordaine, sending Lyra skidding backward across the stones. The students cried out, shielding their faces from the sudden blaze. When it faded, scorch marks radiated from Mordaine’s feet in a circle, cobblestones cracked and smoking.

Silence.

Lyra rose slowly, brushing soot from her cheek. Her sword trembled in her hand—but not from weakness. From exhilaration.

“You nearly burned me alive,” she said, voice ragged but steady.

“I—” Mordaine’s chest heaved. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t—”

“You must.” She stepped closer, lowering her sword. Her storm-gray eyes bored into his. “That power doesn’t care about your intentions. If you don’t master it, it will master you. And when it does, you won’t just burn Wraiths—you’ll burn everyone.”

Her words struck like a blade sharper than her steel.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Mordaine’s flame finally flickered out, leaving him trembling in the cool night air.

Lyra sheathed her sword with finality. “I’ll train with you. If anyone’s going to make sure you don’t kill us all, it’s me.”

The students erupted in whispers, some fearful, some admiring.

But Mordaine stood frozen, heart pounding, a single thought echoing in his head:

He wasn’t just fighting monsters. He was fighting himself.