The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 11: FIRE SPELL 101

The stones of Aetherstone University hummed with a magic older than kingdoms, it was a stark contrast to the chaotic, unbridled power that had erupted from him just the day before. The memory of the Arcum gauge shattering, a sound like a star cracking, was a fresh wound. Whispers had followed him from the testing chamber, ghosts clinging to his heels.

Professor Archum walked beside him, his steps measured and echoing in the grand, vaulted corridor. He was a man of severe lines, from the sharp cut of his grey robes to the granite set of his jaw. He didn’t offer platitudes. He offered purpose.

“They will talk,” Archum said, his voice a low rumble. “Let them. Your actions, not their gossip, will define you.”

He stopped before a polished oak door and produced a slim, gold-silver bracelet. It looked like a wristwatch from the mortal world, impossibly sleek against the ancient backdrop. “Your schedule, your assignments, your university life. It will all be managed through this.”

Tristan took it, the metal cool against his skin. He pressed a small, indented button on the side. A soft chime echoed, and a holographic blue screen shimmered to life an inch from his wrist, displaying a complex grid of classes and times. Advanced Elemental Theory, Applied Charms, and Spell Casting, three classes, for the day.

“You have the strongest affinity we have recorded in a century, Tristan,” Archum continued, his gaze drilling into him. “The sun and the moon. A reservoir so vast it’s terrifying. But it is a wild ocean. If you cannot build a ship to sail it, you will drown, and you may take the rest of us with you. Control is everything.”

The door swung open, revealing the Spell Casting classroom. It was a circular room with tiers of stone benches rising around a central, sand-floored arena. Arcane symbols of all six elements were etched into the stone, glowing with a soft, internal light. Professor Vance, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that missed nothing, stood in the center.

“Professor Archum,” Vance said with a respectful nod. He then turned his attention to Tristan. “Class, we have a new student. His name is Tristan.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the students seated on the benches, a susurrus of sound that was quickly laced with venom.

“That’s the one… the anomaly.”

“Heard he broke the Arcum. Completely destroyed it.”

“Freak…”

Professor Vance’s gaze hardened, his expression transforming into a glare that could wither enchanted vines. The classroom fell silent, the air growing heavy.

“What happens in the testing chamber stays there,” he commanded, his voice ringing with authority. “Gossip is the pastime of the small-minded. In this class, we focus on magic, not murmurs. Is that understood?”

A chorus of mumbled “Yes, Professor” answered him.

Tristan felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. He scanned the room and his eyes locked with Gildart, sitting near the front. The other boy’s face was a mask of resentment. He shot Tristan a look of pure, undisguised loathing. Gildart had been the university’s golden child, the one whose record on the Arcum gauge test was supposed to be unassailable... 666,666 MSI.

Tristan hadn’t just passed it; he had obliterated it. The humiliation was a potent poison, and Gildart’s punishment—a week of grueling service in the library after classes—only soured his mood further.

“Today, we begin with the most fundamental of elements,” Vance announced, turning his back on the class and facing the sand pit. “Fire.”

He tapped the sand with his staff, and a small circle ignited with a controlled, harmless flame. “For those who naturally wield fire, this is an extension of your will. For the rest of you, you must build it from its components. Fuel, spark, and air.”

As if on cue, Gildart flicked his wrist. A perfect orb of fire, larger than Vance’s demonstration, flared into existence above his palm. He wore a smirk, a clear dismissal of the lesson.

Professor Vance didn’t even turn. “Mr. Gildart,” he said, his tone dangerously calm, “while your arrogance is impressive, your listening skills are lacking. Five points from Serpent House. Now, pay attention, or you will find yourself scrubbing cauldrons with the first years.”

Gildart’s smirk vanished, but the fire in his hand remained a silent, sullen protest.

“Everyone, close your eyes,” Vance instructed. “Feel inward. Find the reservoir of your magic, the wellspring within you. Do not force it. Gently tap its surface. Be patient.”

Tristan closed his eyes, shutting out the world. Start with building elements. He remembered his life before, the cold, hard reality of the mortal world. He had worked in a blacksmith’s forge. To start a fire, you needed fuel. He reached inside himself, trying to grasp at the immense power he knew was there. He felt it surge at his touch, a tidal wave of energy that threatened to sweep him away.

“Patience, Tristan,” Vance’s voice cut through his concentration, calm and steady. “Don’t hasten it. Gently, now.”

Tristan took a breath, forcing himself to relax. He pictured the forge, the smell of damp earth, the memory of a massive tree. Fuel. He imagined wood, and decided to build it from its roots. He drew on the feeling of water, cool and life-giving. A deep blue orb shimmered in his mind’s eye. Then earth, solid and grounding. A rich brown orb formed beside it. He brought them together, imagining water nurturing the earth to create life. A third orb, this one a vibrant, sap-green, joined the others, representing the plant, the wood. The triad of orbs floated before his inner vision.

Next, the spark. He thought of flint and steel, the sudden, violent strike that birthed flame. A crackling, feisty red orb ignited beside the first three.

He drew them together, merging the brown, green, and red into a single, pulsating sphere of potential. He opened his eyes, raised his palm, and channeled the gathered energy.

“Condure fierre!”

A tiny, perfect flame flickered to life on his palm. It was small, no bigger than his thumb, but it was his. A wave of triumph washed over him.

He remembered the forge master, blowing on the embers through a long pipe to feed the fire. Air. He imagined a clean, sharp gust of wind, a pure white orb that he carefully guided into the flame.

The fire on his palm brightened, burning cleaner and stronger. It was a masterful piece of elemental construction for a first try.

“Excellent, Tristan!” Professor Vance praised, a rare smile touching his lips. “A perfect application of theory.”

A wave of impressed murmurs, this time free of malice, swept the classroom.

Gildart, however, was not impressed. He extinguished his own fire with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “Impressive?” he sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He built a campfire. I did it with one flick. Slow and clumsy. You’re a loser, anomaly.”

The words were like stones, striking Tristan at his core. The triumph he’d felt curdled into a hot, pricking anger. Don’t let them get to you, he told himself, but it was too late.

”Shut up, Gildart!”, Tristan hissed.

”Can't swallow it? Loser!” Gildart mocked.

His focus shattered. The anger, raw and potent, flooded the connection he had with his magic. It was no longer a gentle stream; it was a deluge. He felt his rage pour directly into the flame on his palm.

The fire responded.

It wavered, then roared. It swelled from a flicker to a torch in the space of a heartbeat. Heat washed over the front row, making students recoil. The flame grew, stretching and twisting, until it was a swirling vortex of incandescent orange and yellow the size of a dinner plate, then a shield, then the big wheel of a carriage. The light painted the worried faces of his classmates in demonic shades. The sand at his feet began to turn to glass.

“Tristan!” Vance shouted, his calm replaced with urgent alarm. “Control it! Put it out!”

Panic seized him. The fire was a monster of his own making, feeding on his fury. He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know the counter-spell. In a moment of sheer desperation, he did the most instinctual thing he could think of. He balled his hand into a tight fist, intending to crush the flame.

“Tristan, no! Don’t contain it!” Vance screamed, lunging forward.

But it was too late. The moment Tristan’s palm closed, the roaring fire had nowhere to go. It didn’t vanish. It imploded, folding in on itself with a deafening hiss.

A searing agony, not on his skin but inside his very bones, tore through him. It was a white-hot backlash of his own untamed power. His body convulsed, a vessel shattered from within. He felt his skin grow impossibly hot, his vision swam, and the last thing he saw was Professor Vance’s horrified face rushing towards him. The world dissolved into a flash of blinding white, then nothing.