The celebratory fire crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows on the faces of Luke and Master Borris as they sat opposite each other in a secluded corner of the camp. The air hummed with the distant sounds of merriment as the camp celebrated Luke's ascension to the Silver Fist rank.
Luke, his heart still brimming with the elation of the ceremony, turned to the old mage. "Master Borris," he began, his voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity, "your guidance has been invaluable. But there's something I've been meaning to ask."
Borris, his rheumy eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement, leaned back in his chair. "Always questioning, young Luke. What is it that troubles you?"
"It's about you," Luke confessed. "Your knowledge of magic is vast, and your insights are profound. Yet, here you are, relegated to dusty archives."
A flicker of sadness crossed Borris' face, a fleeting shadow that deepened the wrinkles etched on his weathered skin. He sighed.
"Ah, young one," he began, his voice soft, "the well of magic is a fickle mistress. It grants power, but it also demands a price."
He fell silent for a moment, gazing into the dancing flames. Luke waited patiently, sensing the weight of a story waiting to be told.
"Many years ago," Borris continued, his voice turning low and introspective, "I was not the wizened scholar you see before you. I was a force to be reckoned with, a Tier 8 Pinnacle Mage, my very name whispered with awe across the kingdom."
A spark ignited in Luke's eyes. Tier 8? The pinnacle of magical prowess!
"But power," Borris continued, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice, "is a double-edged sword. I… overestimated my own capabilities. In a great battle, I faced a formidable foe, a creature of immense power. The fight was long and arduous, pushing both of us to our limits."
He paused, his hand unconsciously reaching up to touch a jagged scar that ran across his temple. The scar pulsed with a faint, dull light, a stark contrast to the vibrant glow that emanated from healthy origins.
"I emerged victorious," Borris said, his voice strained, "but at a terrible cost. My origin, the very source of my magic, was irreparably damaged. My power, once a raging inferno, dwindled to a flickering ember."
Luke felt a pang of sympathy for the once-mighty mage. To lose such power, to have your potential snatched away…
"So, that's why…" he murmured, understanding dawning on him.
"Indeed," Borris confirmed. "Now, I am but a shadow of my former self, a Tier 7 Middle Stage Mage, forced to watch from the sidelines as others wield the power I once possessed."
A heavy silence descended upon them, broken only by the crackling fire. Luke didn't offer empty platitudes; he understood the weight of Borris' loss.
"But Master," Luke finally spoke, his voice firm, "you still possess immense knowledge. You guide me, you help me unlock the secrets of the stele. Your contribution is invaluable."
A faint smile touched Borris' lips. "Perhaps," he said, a hint of his old fire flickering in his eyes. "Perhaps there is still purpose in my twilight years. By guiding you, young Luke, by helping you unlock the secrets of the Ignis, maybe, just maybe, a fragment of my lost potential can live on."
Luke looked at the old mage with newfound respect. Borris wasn't just a scholar; he was a warrior who had fought and lost, a testament to the fickle nature of magic. But his spirit remained unbroken, his thirst for knowledge undimmed.
"We will unlock the secrets of the stele, Master Borris," Luke declared, his voice filled with determination. "Together, we will honor the legacy of the Ignis and forge a new future, a future where knowledge is not a weapon, but a beacon to guide us all."
Borris met his gaze, a spark of hope igniting in his cloudy eyes. In that moment, under the flickering light of the fire, a bond was forged—a bond between a student and a teacher, a warrior and a scholar, united by a shared quest for knowledge and a burning desire to leave their mark on the world.