Azel stared at his fingers in amazement. The zombie had been practising his magic, attempting to cast a simple flame spell with serpent speak, it didn't seem to be showing the same results that it had been the night just before he met Niva until something unexpected happened.
Unfortunately Azel could not command the mana to unleash a plume of flames from his finger tips, but instead his other hand- the one pinched in an okay gesture- acted as a spy glass. Looking through it Azel saw in brilliant detail the other end of the room like he was standing directly in front of it.
In theory, it seemed impossible. The chant was communicating to the mana inside him to release as fire, instead the space between his fingers acted like a telescope, showing Azel the space hundreds of meters before him.
In a strange way, the zombie felt bitter sweet. On one hand he had seemingly learnt a new spell, but that was only possible because he had mispronounced the novice chant so poorly.
It was still a phenomenal achievement, though. The only people who could realistically create their own spells are mages who don't just recite the ancient languages but understand them. After all Azel, who only knew the words to conjure flames, would never be able to create a spell that calms a fierce tide.
Hesitantly, Azel rescinded the spell, before repeating the same chant in the same way he had before. And like before, the wild mana inside of him rushed to his pinched fingers. In an instant the space between his fingers distorted, like the very light was being twisted before unravelling in a completely different view.
Tilting his head in confusion, Azel paused. He wandered for a moment what kind of element this magic belonged to. The other spells Gryphon had demonstrated were easier to deduce their nature, but this didn't seem connected to any of the basic elements.
Could this be an entirely new branch of magic? Or perhaps some sort of hybrid form—an accidental fusion of fire's energy with something more abstract? If that were the case, what element could this belong to? It wasn't fire, water, earth, or air. It wasn't lightning or ice or any of the secondary elements he'd read about.
So maybe lost magic? It was supposed to be impossible for someone to be born with an affinity for the lost magics, yet people like Rio existed anyway so it wasn't too farfetched of a theory.
The idea that Azel had stumbled onto an affinity for a lost magic excited him. After all, at their core lost magics were incredibly powerful. According to the journal about regalia's Colwyn had given him, lost magics were the only way a mage could defeat a regalia holder.
He began experimenting further, trying slight variations on the chant. Could he expand the field of view? Change the focus? He squinted as he tried to twist his fingers slightly, wondering if altering the shape of the "lens" would affect the spell's output. With each attempt, the spell responded in subtle but meaningful ways. Narrowing his fingers made the image more zoomed in, while widening them slightly reduced the magnification but increased the area visible.
The level of precision required was immense, and Azel's frustration began to grow. For every successful cast, there were several failures—instances where the spell fizzled out or distorted too much to be usable. He'd need time to perfect it, but at least he'd discovered the basics.
His earlier bitterness began to fade, replaced by a growing determination. If this really was a lost magic, he couldn't squander the opportunity. It might be his only chance to level the playing field against Rio, Colwyn, and the countless others who stood leagues above him.
The cat on the table yawned loudly, stretching its paws in a dramatic display before settling back into its lazy sprawl. Azel shot it a glance, half-expecting some sarcastic remark from the uninvited observer. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck. "This could be the edge I need."
The feline blinked at him, unimpressed.
Azel shook his head in annoyance. "Not a thought behind those eyes," the zombie muttered under his breath as he left the small, run down cottage he called a home.
It would be embarrassing to tell Gryphon that his failure was so incredible that he stumbled into a spell of a completely different nature, but hearing the old man's insights were worth sacrificing the zombies pride. After all, although Azel was unaware of gryphons old rank, he had no doubt that the man was once a prestigious mage.
Azel thought this because of how Gryphon selected the most optimum magic language for him to learn. More specifically, it was because Gryphon could select the most optimum magic language. Most mages only new one or two ancient languages, so just the fact that Gryphon knew enough to pick one tailored for Azel spoke volumes about his skill.
He had to admit it—Gryphon would likely have an explanation for this, though it would come at the cost of enduring the old man's smug amusement. Gryphon would have a field day with this, and Azel was going to have to suffer through it.
Trudging through the dark city, Azel thought about Colwyn for the first time since the drake knights departure. It had been a few days now, So Colwyn was either dead or on his way back from scouting out the nebulous vulture.
And when he returned, they would be wasting no more time, Azel would officially become Colwyn's squire and the two of them would begin planning a proper strategy to eliminate Rio. That was easier said than done of course.
Azel's boots splashed through shallow puddles on the cobblestone streets as he wound his way through the quiet city. The rain had left the air damp and cool, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of magic that lingered in the distance, probably from one of the city's countless clandestine duels or experiments. The place always had a way of feeling alive, even when it was asleep.