The object of orientation
"Once a blind man walked till he was able to see with this sight he gained greed jealousy and pride sight is the most temperable of senses all sins derives from pride and pride derives from seeing once one happens the others fall suit" (hishnicker; the storyteller; wives tail 1 pg 3)
Polshner was studying in a small room lit by a single candle. The furniture was all wood, and the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. His desk, a cross between a podium and a workbench, bore the marks of its age: deep grooves from nails and splashes of black ink that had soaked into the grain.
Polshner considered himself a humble man. He had survived a famine with his family intact, thanks to his father's hard work and harsh mercenary jobs. Due to his father's status as a mercenary with decent political connections, Polshner was allowed to train over the summer. He decided to focus on perfecting his illusions to a degree that would satisfy him.
As he studied his book, A Beginner's Guide to Illusions, He came across a quote from the court mage Lishnider, whose second affinity was illusion magic. "Illusion isn't about creating mystical visions," Lishnider wrote. "It's about deceiving your opponent on a whim. This is the power that wins battles; slowly driving your opponents insane!"
Intrigued, Polshner read further. The book explained the basics of conjuring objects, detailing the spell "rein: reinfro," which translates to "illusion: illusion of an object." He decided to try it himself. The spell required an image in the caster's mind to be assigned to a word. For practice, Polshner chose a simple object—a rubber ball—and assigned it the word "hentin," which meant rubber in the old tongue.
He began chanting, "Rein: reinfro, hentin." As he finished, a ball formed in front of him. It felt real enough, but upon closer inspection, it appeared as a black void. When he bounced it, there was a subtle but noticeable distortion in the environment, revealing the illusion for what it was. It was an obvious fake, but he kept practicing, determined to improve.
I made steady progress. I was able to gradually add color and a sense of realism to my illusions, reducing the distortions more and more. As the distortion became less of an issue, the objects began to look real. I could now create simple shapes, like a stick, with some degree of realism. If I'm correct, as long as I visualize an object in full detail, I should be able to combine those objects within a single casting. That's why I focused on mastering all two-dimensional shapes and some three-dimensional shapes, although those lacked finer details.
To test this theory, I decided to cast a combined object. I began chanting: "Rein: reinfro wentin, heintin, renshtien, jiurenel, minusil." An arrow formed before me, and I imagined the arrow as a sphere in my mind. I tried again, this time assigning a sense of velocity to it and an imagined feeling of speed. "Rein: reinfro, sphere." An arrow shot out and lodged itself in the wall, but the wall showed no damage, and the arrow made no sound.
Realizing that sound needed to be added manually, I recalled sounds from my memory. I assigned the arrow's whistle as "den" and reused the ball's thunk sound, which was "el." I cast again: "Rein: reinfro, sphereelden." This time, an arrow flew out with an extremely high-pitched whistle and made a soft thunk as it hit the wall.
Now, I needed to simulate damage and the sensation of pain. I assigned the cracks forming on the surface it hit as "yuin" and intense pain as "ohnn." I decided to try it out. I chanted, "Rein: reinfro, ohnn, yuinsphereelden," and an arrow zipped past, embedding itself into the wall. From a distance, the damage looked realistic enough.
Driven by curiosity, I decided to pick up the illusionary arrow and stab it into my arm. That was my first mistake. The moment it pierced my skin, I screamed in pure agony—the pain was as real as any I had ever felt. I spent the rest of the afternoon recovering from the shock of that painful experience.
This segment is an interesting delve into the political intrigue and the machinations of the council members. Here's a refined version of it with improvements for clarity, flow, and structure:
In Streed's house, the council member known as Streed—infamous for his magic of pain—pondered his next move. His mastery over his unique magic, coupled with a keen sense for politics, was what had earned him a seat on the council. Streed often voted against many of the oppressive bills targeting magists, which gave him an appearance of having some semblance of morals. However, that didn't mean he wasn't a magist himself; he was simply one of the few with a streak of conscience.
Despite this, Streed and another council member were deeply embroiled in a plot—a conspiracy aimed at assassinating Ytrise. This plan, set to unfold during school hours next school year, was spearheaded by Lyrique, with the best underworld informant of their time, Hurishe, providing the intelligence. Hurishe was also a council member, one slightly more corrupt than the rest. His talent for gathering information was unmatched, yet even he had hit a stumbling block when it came to Munshider Private School and Ytrise himself.
Hurishe's face was twisted in frustration as he slammed his fist against the wall, saliva gathering between his clenched teeth like a rabid dog. Inside, he seethed with anger. Every attempt to wiretap or infiltrate Ytrise's domain had failed spectacularly, whether it was an elaborate break-in or a simple infiltration. Nothing worked. The runes on Ytrise's doors and the etchings he carefully placed before bed every night made all attempts futile.
Ytrise wasn't leaving a paper trail and was exceedingly cautious, which only made Hurishe more suspicious. What kind of man took such precautions if he didn't have something to hide? This was Hurishe's dilemma—he either needed a skilled rune cracker or he had to enter Ytrise's inner circle to plant a key in the rune system himself. Both options were tedious, arduous, and fraught with danger. As he stood there, fists still trembling with rage, Hurishe could only wish himself the best of luck in his dark endeavor.