The morning after my breakthrough felt like the first clear day after a storm. The memories from the night before lingered on the edges of my thoughts, vivid and sharp, as if they had always been there, just out of reach. They weren't fragments—they were pieces of myself returning, filling gaps I hadn't even realized existed.
Lyra noticed the change immediately. As I moved through my morning routine, her sharp gaze tracked me, curious but cautious.
"You seem... different," she said finally, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe.
"I feel different," I admitted. My hands moved with confidence as I buckled the sheath of my sword. "Something happened last night. I—" I paused, unsure how to explain the flood of memories, the sense of familiarity they had brought. "I remembered things. From my past."
Her expression shifted, a flicker of concern crossing her face. "What kind of things?"
"Training," I said, meeting her gaze. "Magic and swordsmanship. It was like... rediscovering a part of myself I didn't know was missing. Everything felt precise, purposeful, like I've done it all before."
Lyra's brow furrowed as she studied me. "And these memories just came to you?"
"More like they broke through," I said, shaking my head. "I can't explain it, but it's real. I can feel it in the way I move, the way I think."
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before she nodded. "If that's true, then don't waste it."
Cerys noticed the change during our lesson that afternoon. I stood in the center of her chamber, the pendant at my chest warm against my skin as I focused on drawing mana from the air. The flame I summoned flickered to life with a steady glow, its edges sharp and controlled.
"Impressive," Cerys said, her voice calm but her eyes narrowing as she observed. "You've made progress."
I extinguished the flame, breathing steadily. "Is it enough?"
"For what?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"For the competition," I said, the weight of the question hanging between us.
Her expression didn't waver. "Perhaps. But don't mistake progress for readiness. The competition will demand more than just technical skill. You'll need strategy, precision, and the ability to adapt under pressure."
"Then I'll train harder," I said, determination hardening my voice.
Cerys tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. "We'll see."
The spells I was learning weren't complex, but mastering them required an attention to detail I hadn't expected.
One of the first spells Cerys had drilled into me was Ignis Orbis, the creation of a small flame orb. It was deceptively simple—drawing mana from the air, shaping it into a sphere, and maintaining its stability. The trick wasn't in summoning the flame but in keeping its shape balanced. Too much energy, and it would flare out of control; too little, and it would flicker out entirely.
"Ignis Orbis is more than just a beginner's spell," Cerys had explained during one of our lessons. "It teaches control, balance, and focus. Without these, you'll never progress beyond the basics."
Another spell, Aer Tempesta, involved harnessing the air to create a controlled burst of wind. It required channeling mana outward and shaping it into a forceful push. This spell was particularly challenging, as the flow of energy had to be both steady and precise—too much force could destabilize the spell, while too little rendered it ineffective.
"This isn't about brute strength," Cerys had said as I struggled to shape the spell. "Magic is a dance, not a hammer. You must guide the energy, not force it."
My favorite, though, was Vitae Aegis, a simple defensive spell that created a translucent shield of shimmering light. Unlike the others, it required pulling energy inward, shaping it into a protective barrier that surrounded me.
"You'll find shields invaluable," Cerys had said, her tone unusually serious. "No matter how skilled you are offensively, you won't last long if you can't protect yourself."
Each spell felt like a puzzle, its pieces slowly falling into place as I practiced. The memories from my past helped guide me, filling in gaps that would have taken weeks—or months—to bridge.
One evening, as Lyra watched me practice, she finally spoke. "Those spells look smoother," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp.
"They feel smoother," I said, extinguishing the flame orb in my hand. "It's like my body knows what to do, even if my mind is still catching up."
She leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed. "You're learning fast, but don't let it go to your head. The competition isn't just about individual skill. You'll be facing people who've trained in tandem, learned how to counter techniques like these."
"I know," I said, though her words settled uneasily in my chest.
"You'll need more than spells to win," she continued. "You'll need strategy. Adaptability. And a willingness to fight dirty, if it comes to that."
"Noted," I said, though the thought of fighting dirty didn't sit well with me.
As the days passed, the spells became second nature. The flame orb hovered steady, the wind burst pushed with precision, and the shimmering shield held firm against minor impacts. Each success brought a flicker of satisfaction, but it wasn't enough.
The competition loomed closer with every sunrise, a constant reminder of how far I still had to go.
One night, after hours of practice, I stood in the quiet of our room, staring at the glowing edge of a flame orb. The pendant at my chest pulsed faintly, its warmth a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the flow of mana through my veins.
"You're getting there," I muttered to myself, extinguishing the flame.
But in the back of my mind, a single thought lingered: Was it enough?