Cerys' chamber was shrouded in its usual dim light, the air carrying the faint hum of latent magic. The relic sat in its usual spot, surrounded by her notes, but my focus wasn't on the artifact. Instead, it was on the growing weight of frustration pressing against my chest.
"You're settling into your role," Cerys said, not looking up from the parchment she was examining.
"I suppose so," I replied, the words clipped.
She finally raised her sharp gaze to meet mine. "That doesn't sound like enthusiasm. Speak your mind, Aric."
I set down the stack of books I was organizing, the thud of their weight echoing in the quiet room. "I became your assistant to gain access to the Grand Archive. I've done everything you've asked, but I'm no closer to seeing what's inside than when I arrived."
Her lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "And you thought becoming an assistant would grant you instant access?"
"I thought it would mean progress," I countered, my voice firmer than I intended.
Her smile widened slightly, though there was no warmth in it. "The Archive is the heart of the Arcanum Concord's knowledge, Aric. Its restricted sections are not open to just anyone—not even to those who work directly under me. Gaining access takes time, trust, and the approval of the Concord itself."
"That could take years," I said, the words escaping in a frustrated breath.
She leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled. "It could. Or it could take months. It depends on your ability to prove yourself worthy."
My jaw tightened, and I glanced at Lyra, who stood near the door, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. "And how do I prove myself worthy?"
Cerys tilted her head, her gaze appraising. "There's no single answer to that question. But there is... an alternative, though I warn you, it's not one you're likely to succeed at."
Lyra's attention sharpened at Cerys' words. "What alternative?"
"The Concord holds a magic competition once every two years," Cerys explained, her tone measured. "The winner is awarded a bronze medallion—a token of favor that can be redeemed for a wish of equivalent value. With such a medallion, you could request access to a specific section of the Archive."
I straightened, the flicker of hope her words ignited quickly followed by caution. "And what's the catch?"
Cerys' expression didn't change. "The competition isn't for the faint of heart. It's a proving ground for novices and apprentices who have trained for years. You've been studying magic for barely a fortnight. Entering such a contest now would be—"
"Foolish?" Lyra interjected, her voice sharp.
Cerys nodded. "Exactly. You wouldn't last a single round."
The words stung more than I wanted to admit, but I forced myself to meet her gaze. "I can learn. I've made progress already."
"You've made progress in the context of someone just beginning," Cerys said evenly. "The competitors in this contest will have refined their skills over years of training. They've mastered spells you've barely read about and techniques you can't yet grasp. The gap is... significant."
My fists clenched at her bluntness, frustration simmering beneath my skin. "So, what are you saying? That I shouldn't even try?"
"I'm saying you should understand your limits," she said. "Recklessness isn't bravery. It's just foolishness wrapped in desperation."
The room fell silent, the weight of her words pressing heavily in the air.
After we left the Observatory, the late afternoon sun bathed the streets of Ebonreach in a warm golden light, but I barely noticed. Lyra kept pace beside me, her silence more pointed than any comment she could have made.
"Say it," I said finally, glancing at her.
She raised an eyebrow. "Say what?"
"Whatever it is you're thinking. That I'm being reckless. That I'm wasting my time."
Lyra sighed, her expression softening slightly. "I'm not going to say that. But I will say this: Cerys isn't wrong. Magic takes time, Aric. You can't force progress just because you want it."
"I know that," I said, though my voice betrayed my frustration.
"Do you?" she asked, her tone gentler now. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to sprint through a marathon."
Her words stung, but I couldn't deny their truth. The gap between where I was and where I needed to be felt insurmountable, and the pressure of it was suffocating.
That night, after Lyra had gone to bed, I sat alone in our room, the pendant at my chest warm against my skin. The book Cerys had given me lay open on the desk, its pages filled with diagrams and descriptions of mana flows and spellcasting techniques.
The words blurred together as I stared at them, the weight of my frustration pressing against my chest. I could feel the magic around me, the faint hum of it brushing against my skin, but every attempt to channel it felt clumsy and incomplete.
You're not ready.
Cerys' words echoed in my mind, each repetition twisting the knot of doubt in my chest tighter.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to focus. "I don't care what she says. I have to be ready."
The flame I summoned flickered weakly at first, its shape unsteady. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I fought to stabilize it, the strain pulling at my focus like a riptide.
"Feel the flow," I muttered, repeating the mantra Cerys had drilled into me. "Shape it. Release it."
The flame steadied, its edges smoothing into a faint but stable sphere of light. My chest heaved with the effort, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
The hours slipped away as I practiced, each attempt pushing me closer to the edge of exhaustion. The room grew colder, the faint hum of the pendant at my chest the only thing grounding me as the night deepened.
When Lyra stirred from her cot hours later, she found me still at the desk, my head resting against my arms and the faint glow of a flame flickering weakly above the open book.
"Aric," she said softly, shaking my shoulder.
I stirred, groaning as I sat up. My body ached with fatigue, and the flame in my hand sputtered out as my concentration faltered.
"You're going to burn yourself out," she said, her tone a mix of exasperation and concern.
"I have to keep going," I said, my voice hoarse.
"Not like this," she said firmly. "You won't make it to the competition if you collapse before you get there."
Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, I felt the weight of my own limits pressing down on me. The path ahead felt impossibly steep, but I couldn't turn back now.