The days blurred together as the competition loomed closer. Each morning began with a lesson from Cerys, her sharp critiques driving me to refine every movement, every spell. Afternoons were spent with Lyra, her sparring sessions a constant reminder that magic alone wouldn't be enough. By the time the sun set, I was exhausted, but the faint pulse of the pendant at my chest urged me to push further.
"Again," Cerys said, her tone clipped as she gestured toward the hovering flame orb in my hand.
I clenched my jaw, focusing on the flickering edges of the orb. The challenge wasn't summoning it—that part was second nature now. The real test was shaping it, compressing the energy into a sphere so stable it could withstand disruption.
I drew a deep breath, channeling the flow of mana through my fingertips. Slowly, the flame tightened, its edges smoothing into a perfect globe of fire.
"Good," Cerys said, her eyes narrowing. "Now hold it."
A gust of wind swept through the room, swirling papers and scattering dust. I gritted my teeth as the flame wavered, its edges flickering.
"Steady," Cerys snapped. "Control the flow. Don't fight the wind—move with it."
The pendant at my chest pulsed, its warmth spreading through me like a steadying hand. I adjusted the flow of mana, matching the rhythm of the wind instead of resisting it. The flame steadied, its glow unwavering despite the chaos around it.
"Better," Cerys said, her voice grudgingly approving.
After hours of spell practice, Lyra took over. She tossed me a wooden sword, the weight of it familiar but not comforting.
"This isn't about winning," she said, circling me. "It's about survival. Most mages don't train for close combat. If you can hold your own with a blade while casting, you'll have an edge."
I nodded, gripping the hilt tightly as she lunged.
The first clash sent a jolt up my arm, her strike faster and stronger than I expected. I barely managed to parry, the force of her blade throwing me off balance.
"Too slow," she said, spinning to strike again.
I ducked, sweeping my blade upward in a desperate counter. She sidestepped with ease, her foot catching mine and sending me sprawling to the floor.
"You're thinking too much," she said, offering me a hand. "Fighting isn't about overanalyzing. It's about instinct."
"I thought magic was supposed to be about control," I muttered, taking her hand and hauling myself up.
"Magic is," she said. "But combat isn't. Learn the difference."
The evenings were my time to reflect. I sat cross-legged on the floor of our room, the hum of the pendant steady as I practiced combining spells.
One exercise involved using wind to amplify fire, creating a spiral of flames that danced around the room. It was a delicate balance—too much wind, and the flames would spiral out of control; too little, and they would fizzle out.
Another exercise focused on Vitae Aegis, the shimmering shield I'd grown fond of. Lyra would throw objects at me—small stones, wooden practice swords, even bursts of her own magic—and I had to react fast enough to summon the shield before they hit.
"You're improving," Lyra said one night, her tone softer than usual. "Your instincts are sharper."
"Still not sharp enough," I said, extinguishing the flame in my hand.
"Not yet," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "But you're getting there."
The days continued like this, each one a step closer to the competition. Cerys introduced me to more complex spells, pushing me to expand my range.
One was Aqua Sculptura, a water spell that required shaping streams of water into intricate forms. I started with simple shapes—spheres, spirals—before moving on to more complex structures like cubes and rings.
Another was Umbra Lance, a shadow-based spell that involved condensing darkness into a spear-like projectile. It was more challenging than the others, requiring precise focus and a deep connection to the mana around me.
"These aren't just spells," Cerys said as I struggled to maintain the shape of the shadow spear. "They're tools. Learn to wield them like extensions of yourself."
I nodded, gritting my teeth as I pulled the strands of shadow into a sharper point. The spear solidified, its edges glinting faintly in the dim light.
"Good," she said, her tone approving. "Now use it."
I turned, hurling the spear at a target Lyra had set up. It struck dead center, the force of the impact sending shards of wood flying.
As the competition drew closer, the tension in the air grew heavier. The streets of Ebonreach buzzed with anticipation, rumors of the upcoming event spreading like wildfire.
Lyra and I overheard snippets of conversations during our walks—whispers of favored competitors, past champions, and the challenges that awaited.
"The control stage is supposed to be brutal this year," one mage muttered to his companion. "I heard they're adding illusions to throw people off."
"Doesn't matter," his friend replied. "The second stage weeds out the weak. Only the smartest make it through."
Their words stayed with me as we returned to our quarters.
"You're thinking again," Lyra said, breaking the silence.
"Always," I replied, forcing a smile.
She smirked, shaking her head. "Don't let it distract you. Focus on what you can control."
That night, as I practiced shaping a flame orb into a spinning ring of fire, I couldn't shake the weight of the competition from my mind.
The path ahead was daunting, the stakes higher than ever. But with each flicker of flame, each burst of wind, each shimmering shield, I felt the weight of my doubts lessen.
For the first time, I felt ready to face whatever lay ahead.