Rising With My Mystic Power

THE FIRST LESSON

The training grounds of Arcanum Academy stretched wide beneath an open dome of enchanted glass. It shimmered faintly with protective wards, sunlight refracting into shifting colors across the stone floor. Rows of students stood in lines, wooden practice staves in hand, while instructors in robes or armor strode among them.

To Mordaine, it looked less like a school and more like a battlefield in rehearsal.

“First lesson!” barked Master Garrick, the swordsmanship instructor—a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks and a scar running down his cheek. His voice cracked like a whip. “A weapon is an extension of yourself. Treat it like anything less, and it will betray you!”

He paced before the students, his boots thudding on the stone. “You will learn stance, form, and control before you so much as dream of duels. Power without discipline is chaos. And chaos kills.”

Mordaine shifted uneasily, clutching the staff he’d been handed. He could still feel the ache of the wound the shadow-beast had left, though it had already scarred over in a strange, faint glow.

Beside him, Lyra stood steady, her grip on her staff confident. She glanced sideways, smirking. “Try not to hit yourself in the face.”

Mordaine scowled. “I’ll manage.”

“Will you?” came another voice—Kaelen’s, smooth and dripping with mockery. He leaned on his staff a few rows down, his golden hair catching the light. “Some of us have been training for years. Others…” His smirk widened. “Well, some of us are still learning to stand without tripping.”

Laughter rippled among his circle of followers. Mordaine bit down hard on his tongue, refusing to give Kaelen the satisfaction of a retort.

“Enough chatter!” Garrick roared, and silence fell instantly. “Positions! Feet apart, knees bent. The ground is your anchor. Your core is your fortress. Raise your staff!”

The students obeyed, staves lifting. Mordaine copied as best he could, adjusting his stance until his legs stopped wobbling.

“Strike!” Garrick thundered.

A dozen staffs cracked against the air in unison. Mordaine’s swing came late and clumsy, his staff grazing the ground with a jarring thud. His cheeks burned.

Again. And again. Strike after strike, until his arms shook, his shoulders screamed, and sweat plastered his shirt to his back. Lyra moved like water—precise, controlled. Kaelen moved like lightning—fast, sharp, arrogant.

Mordaine moved like a boy who had no place being here.

But you have the flame. The thought whispered at the edges of his mind, unbidden, unwelcome. Why bother with wood when you could burn the world?

He clenched his teeth, shoving it down. Not now. Not ever again unless I choose it.

“Hold!” Garrick barked at last. The students froze, panting. The instructor’s gaze swept across them, pausing—inevitably—on Mordaine.

“You,” Garrick growled, pointing with his sword-hardened finger. “Step forward.”

Mordaine’s stomach sank. But he forced his feet to move.

The instructor tossed him a dulled training blade. It clattered at his feet. “You’ll spar with me.”

Gasps stirred the line of students. Lyra’s eyes widened, worry flickering across her face. Kaelen’s smirk returned, sharper than ever.

Mordaine swallowed hard, bent, and picked up the blade. It felt heavier than it should.

Garrick drew his own practice sword, spinning it effortlessly in one hand. His scarred mouth curved into a grin that was not kind.

“Lesson two,” he said, stance lowering. “The world will not wait for you to be ready.”

And then he attacked.

    The world shrank to the ring of stone tiles, to Garrick’s towering figure before him, to the training blade in his own hand that felt both foreign and heavy.

“Ready yourself,” Garrick barked.

Mordaine raised his sword, awkwardly mirroring the stance Garrick had demonstrated earlier. Knees bent. Core braced. Blade forward. His palms were already slick with sweat.

The instructor didn’t wait.

Garrick lunged. His blade cracked against Mordaine’s with a force that rattled his bones. The impact sent him stumbling backward, nearly losing his grip.

“Too soft!” Garrick roared. He struck again. And again. Each blow was precise, merciless, designed to strip Mordaine of pretense and leave only instinct.

Mordaine barely parried, his arms shaking with the effort. His chest burned, his breath ragged. Garrick pressed harder, the practice blade slamming into his with punishing speed.

I can’t keep this up.

A flicker sparked in the pit of his stomach—the same dangerous heat that had answered him in the alley when the shadow-beast came. The Aetherflame.

No. Not here. Not now.

“Eyes up, boy!” Garrick snarled. “Your opponent will not wait for you to think!”

Another strike came. Mordaine’s blade slipped. Garrick’s sword whistled toward his shoulder.

Instinct roared louder than thought. The heat surged up his arm, and his blade ignited—not with fire, but with a faint, eerie shimmer of blue light, a ripple of Aether itself.

The clash rang out, brighter, sharper than before. Sparks scattered across the warded dome, and for an instant, Garrick’s eyes widened.

Mordaine froze. The shimmer guttered, fading as quickly as it had come. His blade returned to dull metal.

The instructor stepped back, breathing hard. Silence swept the training hall. Dozens of eyes were locked on Mordaine. Some wide with awe. Others narrow with suspicion.

Kaelen’s smirk twisted into something colder, calculating. Lyra, on the other hand, looked almost startled—then carefully masked it behind a raised brow.

Garrick lowered his blade. His scarred mouth curved, this time in something closer to respect than scorn.

“Not entirely useless,” he muttered. Then, louder, for all to hear: “Class dismissed!”

The hall erupted into whispers as students filed out, glancing back at Mordaine with curiosity, envy, even fear.

He stood frozen, the training sword heavy in his hand, his heart pounding in his ears.

Lyra brushed past him, her voice low, meant only for him.

“You’ll need to explain what that was, Carrowell. And soon.”

Then she was gone, her dark hair swaying behind her.

Mordaine’s grip tightened on the blade.

He had wanted to remain invisible. Instead, he had just painted himself in light.