Rising With My Mystic Power

WHISPERS OF FIRE

The next morning, the Academy buzzed like a hive of restless voices.

Mordaine felt them on him the moment he stepped into the main hall—dozens of eyes following, dozens of whispers following closer. He kept his head low, tray in hand, but the weight of attention pressed heavy, thicker than the scent of roasted bread and spiced tea wafting from the long tables.

“Did you see what he did?”

“Blue fire… I’ve only read of such things in forbidden tomes.”

“He’ll burn us all if he loses control again.”

“Or maybe he’ll be the one to finally match Kaelen.”

The last voice drew a sharp snort. Mordaine glanced sideways. A knot of students lounged near the far table, Kaelen at their center. His smirk hadn’t returned since the duel, but his eyes gleamed with venom as they tracked Mordaine’s every step.

Mordaine clenched his tray tighter and moved on.

He sat alone near the end of a long bench. The food might as well have been ash in his mouth. His thoughts circled endlessly: the pendant’s glow, the fire’s hunger, Lyra’s storm-gray gaze when she said If you don’t master it, it will master you.

The wood of the table creaked as someone set a plate down opposite him. Mordaine looked up—

Lyra.

She sat without asking, her posture as composed as ever, but her eyes flicked sharply across the room, daring anyone to comment. A few whispers died immediately.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said flatly.

“I’m avoiding everyone,” Mordaine muttered.

“Not good enough. You don’t have that luxury anymore.”

Her tone made it clear: we don’t have that luxury.

Before he could answer, a third voice cut in.

“Carrowell.”

Mordaine turned. An older student stood there, robes trimmed with crimson—marking him as a Magister’s Aide, one step from graduation. His face was narrow, his smile polite, but his eyes were calculating.

“The Head Magister wishes to see you.”

A hush fell over the hall. Even Kaelen paused mid-laugh.

Lyra’s hand brushed the hilt of her sword under the table, instinctively protective. Mordaine’s stomach knotted.

“Why?” he asked.

The aide’s smile deepened. “The Magisters don’t usually explain themselves to novices.” He gestured toward the door. “Come. Best not to keep them waiting.”

⸻

The walk through the Academy’s upper halls was silent save for the soft echo of boots on stone. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting battles against shadowy beasts—some Mordaine recognized as Wraiths, others far stranger, their forms twisted and monstrous.

He’d passed these halls before, but never this far. The ceilings arched higher, the air carried the faint scent of herbs and parchment, and the torches burned with blue witchlight instead of flame.

Finally, the aide stopped before a vast oaken door inlaid with runes. He rapped twice, and a voice—low, resonant, commanding—answered:

“Enter.”

The aide pushed the door open, ushering Mordaine inside.

The chamber was circular, lined with shelves of ancient tomes and relics glowing faintly with sealed enchantments. At its center, beneath a dome of glass that revealed the pale morning sky, stood a single figure.

Head Magister Elowen.

She was taller than Mordaine expected, her robes the color of midnight. Her hair, silver as starlight, framed a face both ageless and severe. But it was her eyes that froze him—piercing, sapphire-blue, as if they could see not just his face but the fire burning inside him.

“Mordaine Carrowell,” she said. His name rolled from her tongue like a judgment.

He swallowed. “You… wanted to see me?”

Elowen stepped closer. The air shimmered faintly around her, magic as natural to her as breath.

“I did. Because what you unleashed last night should not be possible.”

Mordaine stiffened. “I didn’t—”

She raised a hand. “Do not lie. That flame was not common sorcery. Nor was it any elemental discipline we teach here.” Her gaze sharpened, pinning him in place. “Tell me… where did you learn to summon Aetherflame?”

The word struck him like a hammer. Aetherflame. She knew what it was.

But so did his father. He remembered—vaguely—whispers, fragments of conversations not meant for his ears, long before his parents vanished.

“I… I didn’t learn it,” Mordaine said quietly. “It just… happened.”

For the first time, something flickered across Elowen’s face. Not surprise—recognition.

Then her expression hardened.

“You are either lying to me, Carrowell… or destiny has chosen poorly indeed.”

       

Elowen’s silence pressed heavier than stone. Mordaine shifted under her gaze, but he couldn’t look away.

“Aetherflame,” she repeated slowly, her voice a low thunder in the chamber. “Not seen in nearly a century. Not since the Wars of Shadow.”

The words meant little to Mordaine, but the weight behind them did. His throat felt dry.

“You think I’m lying,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice.

Elowen’s eyes narrowed. “I think you are a boy who doesn’t understand what he has stirred awake. You wield a fire that burns through reality itself. It does not bend to ordinary rules. It consumes.”

Her words wrapped around him like chains. Mordaine clenched his fists. “Then tell me—what am I supposed to do? Suppress it? Pretend it’s not there?”

A flicker of something—pity, perhaps—softened her expression. “No. Suppression leads only to collapse. But mastery…” She circled him slowly, studying him from every angle, like a hawk might study prey. “That requires sacrifice. And you are untested.”

Mordaine bristled. “Test me, then.”

The Magister’s lips curved into something not quite a smile. “Careful, child. You may not like the form the test takes.”

She lifted her hand, and runes carved into the floor glowed to life. The air thickened. Mordaine felt his heart stumble as something unseen stirred beneath the chamber.

From the circle of light, a shape rose. First shadow, then substance. Its body was twisted, skeletal, half-wolf, half-wraith. Its eyes burned with cold, unnatural fire.

Mordaine staggered back. “What is—”

“A fragment,” Elowen said calmly. “A shadow-beast, caught and bound. You want to prove you can command the Aetherflame? Then survive it.”

The creature lunged.

Mordaine’s instincts screamed. He dove sideways, the beast’s claws slashing sparks from the stone where he’d stood. The pendant at his neck throbbed with heat, pulsing in time with his racing heart.

No… not again…

The fire rose in his chest, wild, hungry. He forced it back, teeth gritted. Not here. Not like this.

The beast spun, jaws snapping. Mordaine ducked, rolling across the floor. His hand brushed the pendant, and the surge grew sharper—like an ocean pressing against a crumbling dam.

You need me, the flame whispered. Release me.

He hesitated, sweat running cold down his spine. What if it destroyed the chamber? What if it consumed him?

The beast lunged again. This time he had no room to dodge. Claws raked his arm, pain searing white-hot. Mordaine cried out. The fire inside him answered, roaring.

And before he could resist—he let it out.

Blue fire erupted, blinding, burning the air itself. The beast shrieked, its form unraveling like smoke in a gale. Within seconds, nothing remained but ash and silence.

Mordaine fell to his knees, chest heaving. The stone beneath him was scorched black. His sleeve was burned away, skin beneath raw but already knitting back together in faint blue sparks.

Elowen stood unmoved, her face unreadable.

“You fear it,” she said at last.

“I’d be a fool not to,” Mordaine rasped.

“And yet you called it anyway.” She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Perhaps not a fool. Perhaps something else entirely.”

Her tone shifted, hard as iron. “Hear me, Carrowell. This flame is not a gift. It is a weapon forged for war. If the wrong eyes discover what burns within you, they will come to claim it—beast, man, and worse besides.”

Mordaine’s pulse hammered. “Then what do I do?”

“You learn. You endure. And when the time comes…” She turned away, her silver hair catching the blue glow of the runes. “…you choose whether to be its master, or its martyr.”

The runes dimmed. The chamber felt colder.

Mordaine rose shakily, still trembling from the fire’s echo. He wanted to demand answers—why his parents’ pendant had awoken this, why destiny seemed to have dragged him here. But Elowen’s back was to him, her voice distant as if already dismissing him.

“Go now. And tell no one what was spoken here.”

⸻

When Mordaine stumbled back into the halls, Lyra was waiting. Her arms crossed, her eyes sharp as steel.

“Well?” she demanded.

Mordaine looked at her, at the way her presence steadied the storm raging in him. He opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Just… another lecture.”

Lyra didn’t look convinced. But she let it pass, for now.

Somewhere deep in the shadows of the corridor, unseen, Kaelen watched them both—his smirk returning, cruel and certain.