Rising With My Mystic Power

BLADES AND SECRETS

The training yards of the Academy were alive before dawn. Frost clung to the stones, and the air bit with winter’s edge. Students gathered in clusters, blades strapped to their backs or staffs gripped tightly, yawning into the morning chill.

But Mordaine stood apart.

Master Kaelen had summoned him before the others, dragging him into the shadowed corner of the yard where two practice rings sat unused.

“Draw your weapon,” Kaelen ordered, his voice clipped as steel.

Mordaine unsheathed his sword, its metal catching the faint glow of the rising sun. The memory of last night’s flames flickered through his mind. The thought both thrilled and unnerved him.

Kaelen circled him slowly, a predator studying prey. “You’ve talent. But talent is a curse when it lacks discipline.”

Without warning, Kaelen struck.

His wooden practice blade cracked against Mordaine’s sword, jolting his arm. He stumbled back, barely managing to keep his grip.

“Again!” Kaelen barked, striking once more. Faster this time. Harder.

Mordaine parried clumsily, each clash rattling his bones. Kaelen moved like water, precise and relentless, his strikes flowing in patterns Mordaine couldn’t read.

“You hesitate. You think too much,” Kaelen snarled, driving him backward with a flurry of blows. “A true fighter feels. Anticipates. The blade is not separate from you—it is you.”

Mordaine’s chest heaved as he blocked another strike, his arm trembling from the impact. “You’ll break me before I learn anything.”

Kaelen’s eyes glinted. “Then break.”

With a vicious twist, Kaelen swept Mordaine’s legs out from under him. Mordaine crashed to the ground, the breath punched from his lungs. His sword clattered against the stones.

Kaelen’s blade hovered inches from his throat. “Or rise.”

For a moment, time froze. Mordaine’s frustration boiled. His chest burned. And then—

A spark flickered at the edge of his vision.

Blue flame licked along the fallen sword, faint but undeniable.

Kaelen’s gaze flicked down, and for the first time, something other than cold disdain crossed his face. Curiosity.

Mordaine snatched the weapon, rising in one fluid motion. His strike came without thought, guided by instinct. The sword whistled through the air, flame tracing its path.

Kaelen barely caught the blow, his wooden blade splintering at the impact. He stepped back, eyes narrowing, measuring.

The flames guttered and died, leaving only smoke curling from the edge of Mordaine’s blade.

Both stood in silence, breaths sharp in the cold morning air.

Kaelen lowered the ruined practice weapon. “So. It’s true.”

Mordaine blinked. “What’s true?”

Kaelen studied him for a long, unreadable moment. Then he turned sharply, tossing the broken blade aside. “Again tomorrow. Same hour. Bring everything you have—or don’t come back at all.”

And just like that, Kaelen walked away, leaving Mordaine with more questions than answers, and a dozen students staring at him from across the yard, whispers already beginning to spread.

Mordaine sheathed his sword slowly, his pulse still racing. Whatever fire burned within him, Kaelen knew about it. Maybe even more than the cloaked messenger.

And that meant one thing.He was running out of time before everyone else knew, too.

     

By mid-morning, the training yards had shifted from Kaelen’s ruthless drills to the Academy’s usual rhythm. Students were divided into groups—each following a distinct path of mastery.

Mordaine moved among them, still feeling the echo of Kaelen’s blows on his body. His arm ached, his ribs throbbed, yet his mind burned brighter than ever.

The first yard was devoted to the Elementalists, those who bent fire, water, air, or stone to their will. Young mages stood in tight circles, palms outstretched, shaping streams of water into serpents, or weaving sparks of lightning into crude patterns in the air. Their chants mingled with the scent of ozone and damp earth.

The second yard belonged to the Martial Adepts, warriors who enhanced their bodies through spirit energy. Their movements blurred with speed, fists cracking like thunder as they struck practice dummies made of hardened oak. Sweat shone on their skin as they pushed human limits to breaking.

Beyond them, under the arching trees of the inner courtyard, the Scholars of the Veil practiced their subtle arts—illusion, charm, and shadowcraft. They murmured quietly, their spells bending light and sound until the air shimmered with half-seen images.

Mordaine watched it all with hungry eyes. Each path had its rules, its traditions. Its limits.

But his flame… it hadn’t followed any rule he knew. It had risen from within, unbidden, like something ancient and wild.

“Hey, Carrowell!”

Mordaine turned to see Korrin Hale, a broad-shouldered Martial Adept, grinning as he approached. His dark hair stuck up in tufts, his knuckles already bruised from sparring.

“You’re the one who lit up the yard this morning, aren’t you?” Korrin said, voice carrying just enough to draw attention.

Mordaine stiffened. Whispers followed almost immediately, eyes flicking his way.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

Korrin chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t play dumb. Half the yard saw it. Blue fire. Never seen anything like it.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “What are you, anyway? Not just a swordsman, that’s for sure.”

Before Mordaine could answer, a sharp voice cut in.

“Leave him be, Korrin.”

Lyra appeared at his side, her expression cool as ice. Her pale silver hair caught the sunlight, and her violet eyes flicked between the two boys. “You’re loud enough to wake the dead.”

Korrin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. But you can’t hide fire that bright forever.”

He strode off, laughing, while Mordaine fought to steady his breathing.

Lyra studied him for a long moment. “He’s right, you know. Whatever power you’ve touched—it won’t stay secret long. Not here.”

Mordaine met her gaze. “Then maybe you can tell me what it is. You’ve seen more of this world than I have.”

For once, her expression softened, just a flicker. “Some fires,” she said quietly, “aren’t meant to be controlled. They’re meant to consume.”

She turned and walked away, her cloak whispering against the stone.

Mordaine stood frozen, her words heavy in his chest.

Was that what he carried? A gift? Or a curse waiting to devour everything around him?

His hand drifted to the sword at his side, and he swore the metal pulsed faintly with warmth, as though listening to his thoughts.

And from across the courtyard, Master Kaelen watched him in silence, unreadable as ever.