The days that followed were a blur of practice and study. My routine at the Observatory became relentless: mornings spent cataloging relics and transcribing notes for Cerys, afternoons practicing mana flow and control, and evenings immersed in books about the fundamentals of magic. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I knew.
But the sparks of progress were there.
Each time I summoned a flame or drew mana from the air, the process became a fraction smoother. The energy felt less foreign now, its rhythm familiar, though still unpredictable. The pendant at my chest continued to pulse faintly, as if attuned to the magic I was working to harness.
Cerys, as always, was exacting in her critiques. "Sloppy," she would say after most attempts, though occasionally she'd offer a begrudging, "Better."
Lyra, on the other hand, kept her distance during my lessons. She'd watch from the edges of the room, her expression unreadable as I fumbled through exercises. I caught her practicing in the evenings, her sword cutting arcs through the air, accompanied by faint flickers of flame or bursts of wind.
"Why don't you teach me?" I asked one night, watching her from the corner of the room.
She paused mid-swing, lowering her blade. "Because you don't need me for this," she said simply. "Cerys is a better teacher when it comes to magic."
"And when it comes to fighting?" I pressed.
Her lips twitched into a faint smirk. "You're not ready for that yet."
The next morning, I arrived at the Observatory earlier than usual. The hallways were quiet, the air filled with the faint hum of latent magic. Cerys was already in her chamber, seated at her desk and poring over a book nearly as thick as her arm.
"You're early," she said without looking up.
"I need more practice," I said, setting my bag down.
"Good," she said, gesturing to the center of the room. "We'll start with control exercises. Your connection to mana has improved, but your precision is still lacking."
I stepped into the center of the room, closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing. The flow of mana came easier now, a soft, steady current that I could draw toward me without the same strain as before.
"Good," Cerys said. "Now hold it. Shape it into a flame, but keep it contained."
I followed her instructions, the energy gathering at my fingertips. A small flame flickered to life above my palm, its light steady and warm.
"Expand it," she said, her tone firm.
I pushed more energy into the flame, watching as it grew larger, its edges flickering like a candle caught in a breeze. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I fought to maintain its shape, the energy threatening to spiral out of control.
"Steady," Cerys said sharply. "Don't let it overwhelm you."
I gritted my teeth, focusing on the flame's core. Slowly, the flickering steadied, the edges smoothing into a perfect sphere of fire.
"Better," Cerys said, nodding. "Now disperse it."
I released the energy, the flame vanishing in a wisp of smoke. My shoulders sagged with relief as the strain lifted, but the faint warmth of the mana lingered, a reminder of how far I'd come.
"You're learning," Cerys said, her tone almost approving. "But you still have a long way to go."
After the lesson, I helped Cerys catalog a collection of relics that had been delivered to the Observatory that morning. Most were small, unassuming objects—broken shards of metal, cracked stones etched with faded runes, and scraps of parchment so old they crumbled at the edges.
But one item caught my attention.
It was a dagger, its blade blackened as if scorched by fire. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, and faint runes were etched along its edge, similar to the ones on my sword.
"What's this?" I asked, holding the dagger up to the light.
Cerys glanced at it, her expression sharpening. "Careful with that. It's pre-Shattering—a fragment of the old world."
"Pre-Shattering," I repeated, the weight of the word sinking in. "What's its purpose?"
"That's the mystery," she said. "The runes suggest it was part of a larger set, possibly ceremonial or linked to a specific type of magic. But without more pieces or context, it's impossible to say for sure."
I turned the dagger over in my hand, studying the faint glow of the runes. They seemed to hum faintly, as if responding to the pendant at my chest.
"Why does it feel... familiar?" I asked, more to myself than to Cerys.
"Because magic from that era was tied to the natural flow of energy," Cerys said. "Artifacts like this resonate with the ambient magic around them—and with anyone sensitive to it."
I set the dagger down carefully, the hum fading as I let it go.
That evening, Lyra and I sat by the window of our room, the city lights casting long shadows across the walls.
"You've been quiet," I said, glancing at her.
"Just thinking," she said, her gaze fixed on the distant spires of the Grand Archive. "This place... it's dangerous, Aric. The Concord, the relics, even Cerys—none of it feels right."
"She's helping us," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
"For now," Lyra said. "But people like her always have their own agenda. Don't forget that."
"I won't," I said, the weight of the pendant against my chest a constant reminder of how much was still unknown.
The road ahead felt more uncertain than ever, but one thing was clear: the deeper we delved into the secrets of Ebonreach, the more dangerous the journey would become.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were exactly where we needed to be.