Rising With My Mystic Power

THE FIRST SPARK

The morning bell of Halewick Academy rang clear and resonant, echoing across the spires and courtyards. The sound always carried with it a weight—an invisible reminder that within these walls, students weren’t merely pupils; they were heirs of legacies, bearers of bloodlines, and chosen vessels of magic and steel.

For Mordaine Carrowell, the bell felt more like a summons to judgment.

He adjusted the strap of his worn satchel and kept his hood low as he crossed the academy’s cobblestone courtyard. Sunlight gleamed against the soaring towers of pale stone, their windows etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the morning haze. Around him, groups of students clustered in lively chatter, their robes trimmed in the colors of their chosen disciplines—crimson for elementalists, silver for healers, green for martial adepts. Sparks of magic flickered in careless hands, fireballs the size of apples tossed like toys, lightning arcing harmlessly between fingertips.

Mordaine ignored the spectacle. He always did.

Because compared to them, he was nothing.

“Carrowell!” a voice jeered from across the courtyard. “Try not to trip on your own shadow today, eh?”

Laughter followed. Mordaine didn’t bother turning. He recognized the voice—Tarren Deyne, a second-year who could summon storms with a flick of his wrist. Tarren and his friends thrived on tormenting the one student who hadn’t awakened even the faintest spark of magic in three years of training.

Useless. That was the word they whispered. Sometimes to his face.

Mordaine clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep walking. Let them laugh. He had survived their scorn for years.

But this time, there was something different coiled inside him. Something alive. Something that burned whenever their mockery reached his ears. He shoved the thought down, gripping the strap of his satchel tighter. No one could know what had happened last night. Not yet.

Not until he understood it himself.

    Inside the Academy’s grand hall, banners of the founding houses draped from vaulted ceilings, each embroidered with sigils of power—a flaming phoenix, a crescent blade, a storm-wrapped tower. Mordaine slid into his usual seat at the far end of a long oak bench, unnoticed by most, which was exactly how he preferred it.

Professor Aldwyn swept into the hall, a stern man with silver hair tied back in a warrior’s knot, his robe edged in gold runes that shimmered with restrained power. He carried himself like one who had faced battlefields, not just classrooms.

“Attendance is down three this week,” Aldwyn announced, his voice carrying without effort. “Three families have withdrawn their heirs, citing the dangers in the outer districts. You’ve heard the rumors.”

The hall quieted. Students exchanged uneasy glances.

“Creatures in the shadows,” Aldwyn continued. “People vanishing without trace. The Council of Magisters assures us the city remains safe, but…” His eyes swept the room, sharp as blades. “You would do well to remember that beyond these walls, danger stirs. And if the stories are true, the creatures feed on the weak.”

Mordaine felt a chill creep down his spine. His mind flashed back to the basement, to the Wraith’s red eyes burning through the dark.The Aetherflame pulsed faintly in his chest, as if in answer.

     The morning passed in a blur of lectures: elemental theory, combat stratagems, rune deciphering. Mordaine copied notes in silence, every stroke of his quill hiding the storm within him.

He noticed things he’d never paid attention to before. The way fire-element students struggled to control their flames’ intensity. The way healers wove light through sigils etched on parchment. The discipline it took for martial adepts to blend steel with enchanted energy.

And then there was him. The one who had never managed a spark.

Except now… he had something none of them did.

A flame that wasn’t learned. A flame that had chosen him.

But if Aldwyn’s warning was true, it also painted a target on his back.

          By midday, the students gathered at the training grounds—a wide field enclosed by enchanted walls that shimmered faintly, containing stray blasts of magic. The air buzzed with anticipation. Combat practice was the one part of the day everyone looked forward to.Everyone except Mordaine.

He kept to the edges, stretching idly as pairs of students squared off in the ring. Fire clashed with water, steel met lightning. Cheers erupted from the onlookers each time someone landed a spectacular strike.

Mordaine watched, silent. His thoughts churned.

Could he control the Aetherflame? Or would it control him?

He flexed his hand, half-expecting the ghostly fire to flare again. Nothing happened. Just skin. Just fingers. Just him.

“Carrowell!”

His head snapped up.

Instructor Halbrecht, a grizzled veteran with a scar down his cheek, pointed his way. “You’ve avoided combat long enough. Today, you fight.”

A ripple of amusement spread through the crowd. Mordaine’s stomach sank.

And then Kaelen Veynar stepped forward.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of molten copper, Kaelen was the Academy’s golden son. Lightning crackled faintly around his fists even when he wasn’t trying, and his victories in the arena had become legend among students.

“I’ll take him,” Kaelen said smoothly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Let’s see what the powerless Carrowell has learned from years of watching.”

The crowd roared approval.

Mordaine’s heart thudded painfully. He swallowed hard, stepping reluctantly into the ring. The dirt beneath his boots felt unsteady, shifting with every uncertain step.

He glanced at Kaelen—confidence radiating off him like heat from a forge.

Mordaine? He felt like a lamb walking into a storm.

But deep inside, beneath the fear, something stirred.

The Aetherflame.Waiting.

Hungry.

     Chapter Two – The First Spark (Part B)

The circle closed around them, students pressing near, eager for blood or spectacle—maybe both. The warded walls shimmered brighter, sealing the combatants in.

Kaelen rolled his shoulders, arcs of lightning crackling faintly across his arms. “Don’t worry, Carrowell,” he called, smirk broadening. “I’ll make this quick. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself too badly.”

Mordaine didn’t answer. His mouth was dry, his pulse hammering. He could hear the whispers, feel the weight of dozens of eyes waiting for his failure.

Halbrecht’s voice cut sharp across the ring. “Begin!”

Kaelen moved first.

A flash of lightning shot from his palm, sizzling across the arena. Mordaine dove aside, the bolt striking the dirt where he had stood, leaving the air thick with ozone. The crowd roared approval.

“Too slow!” Kaelen taunted, launching another.

Mordaine dodged again, barely. His lungs burned, his movements clumsy compared to Kaelen’s fluid strikes. He had no sword, no shield, no spell—only instinct and desperation.

But as he ducked under a crackling arc, something inside him stirred. A pulse. A whisper.

Use me.

He stumbled, clutching his hand. Not now. Not here.

Kaelen didn’t let up. He pressed forward, each strike faster than the last, lightning dancing along his fists. Mordaine barely kept his feet, dirt scuffing under his boots.

“Pathetic,” Kaelen spat, drawing energy into his palms until they glowed white-hot. “You don’t belong here, Carrowell. You never did.”

The words hit deeper than the strikes. Rage flared in Mordaine’s chest, colliding with the spark that had been waiting, simmering.

And then it happened.

Kaelen lunged, fist wreathed in lightning—

Mordaine raised his hand, more in defense than defiance—

And a torrent of ghostly blue fire burst forth.

The Aetherflame.

It surged like a living storm, swallowing Kaelen’s lightning, scattering it like sparks in the wind. The flame roared outward, heatless yet consuming, its light casting jagged shadows across the arena.

Gasps echoed from the crowd.

Kaelen staggered back, eyes wide, his aura sputtering as the flame licked dangerously close. For the first time, his smirk vanished.

Mordaine stared at his hand, horror and awe colliding. The fire danced across his fingers, alive, eager, straining against his control. He clenched his fist, willing it to stop—

And, as suddenly as it came, the Aetherflame flickered out, vanishing into smoke.

Silence....The students stared, whispers hissing like snakes through the crowd.

“What was that?”

“Impossible—he has no magic!”

“I’ve never seen flame like that…”

Halbrecht’s scarred face tightened. “Carrowell…” His voice carried both suspicion and something darker—fear.

Kaelen straightened, eyes narrowing. The awe had already curdled into something colder. Jealousy. Hatred.

“You…” Kaelen’s voice trembled with fury. “What are you?”

Mordaine swallowed hard, his chest still throbbing with the echo of the flame. He wanted to answer. He wanted to understand it himself.But all he could do was lower his gaze, fists clenched, as the circle of eyes closed tighter around him.

For the first time in years, Mordaine Carrowell was no longer invisible.And that was far more dangerous than being powerless.