The soft rustle of leaves overhead accompanied the warm hum of morning beneath the great oak tree. Dorian and Ryssa arrived first, each carrying their books and tools for what they hoped would be another enlightening—but almost certainly unorthodox—lesson with Tyrn.
"Do you think today will make any sense?" Dorian asked, adjusting the pendant at his neck. "He's the laziest teacher I've ever heard of."
Ryssa, balancing her own pyromancy book under one arm, rolled her eyes. "Sense? No. But he's teaching us something—if we can figure it out through the yawns."
Settling into the shade of the tree, they noticed Bogo hunched over a large roll of parchment, scribbling and erasing with uncharacteristic focus. He muttered to himself as he worked, nodding occasionally like he was solving a puzzle only he could see.
"What are you working on?" Ryssa asked, setting her book aside.
Bogo barely looked up, his hand busy sketching crude shapes and arrows. "A new trap design."
Dorian perked up. "Traps? Did you finally get tired of working with wood and move on to the art of mischief?"
Ryssa smirked, kicking a small stone toward the sketch. "Let me guess: inspired by Borr?"
Bogo nodded. "Uncle Borr's been complaining about the boars lately. Apparently, some of the larger ones keep running off, even after he lands a shot. He says the arrows only 'scare their butts.'"
The group burst into laughter, the words sounding absurdly funny in the morning stillness. "Scaring their butts! You'd better be careful, Bogo—word's going to get out, and you'll be the official Butt Trapper of Suntails Hollow," Dorian teased.
Bogo grinned and continued. "Anyway, the idea's simple—a wooden barrier with a one-way door. The boar comes in, but it can't get out." He tapped the diagram. "We lure it in with food, and Borr doesn't have to chase them down anymore. Cleaner, safer hunting."
Before they could say anything more, Tyrn's familiar lazy voice spoke from nowhere.
"That's a clever idea," Tyrn drawled, emerging from behind the tree with his hands tucked behind his head.
The group jumped in unison.
"How long have you been there?" Ryssa demanded, her tail lashing irritably.
Tyrn ignored the question, his gaze fixed lazily on Bogo. "You might consider adding a two-way door for piglets. Hunters don't go after piglets—they're bad luck. Plus, no need to trap a baby if it doesn't feed anyone."
Bogo blinked, then smiled. "Thanks, teacher Tyrn. That's a great idea."
Tyrn waved him off, yawning deeply. "Speaking of little piglets, let's get today's lesson started."
The group shifted as Tyrn dropped unceremoniously onto the ground under the oak tree. For a moment, it seemed like he might fall asleep right there. But after a prolonged sigh, he leaned back, fixing Dorian, Ryssa, and the others with a lazy but sharp stare.
"Tell me," Tyrn began, "where do you think your magic comes from?"
Dorian raised a hand as though preparing to give a speech. "Ourselves. It's a cost—a drain on our stamina or strength. One time, I tried casting lightning three times in a row, and—"
"Stop," Tyrn interrupted, holding up a finger. "Not your life story. You, flame girl?"
Ryssa frowned but answered, "We can exchange magic energy with the environment—draw it from what's around us. Right?"
Tyrn tilted his head, considering her. "Not bad." Then he shrugged. "But that's it? That's all you know?"
Dorian and Ryssa exchanged puzzled glances, their confidence wavering.
Tyrn's gaze shifted, losing its usual laziness, replaced by something sharper. For the first time, his voice took on a weight that demanded attention. "A person."
Silence fell.
"What do you mean?" Ryssa asked slowly.
"In the early days of magic," Tyrn explained, his tone cold and measured, "the pioneer battle mages weren't just using their own energy. They used others. Slaves. Prisoners of war. Magic energy in exchange for their lives. They burned them as fuel to cast spells so powerful they could obliterate whole platoons of fully-armored knights in seconds."
His words hung in the air like a heavy stone, sinking into their minds.
Dorian's green eyes widened in shock. "That can't—"
"It's the foundation," Tyrn said flatly. "The same magic system you study, the thing you aspire to control—it has blood in its roots."
Ryssa's tail lashed sharply, her face pale beneath her crimson complexion. "Why didn't you tell us this... yesterday? On the first lesson?"
Lucas, leaning on his stick nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, wouldn't that have been... you know, important?"
Tyrn yawned, shrugging again as if he'd already lost interest. "Forgot."
All four stared at him in stunned disbelief, their expressions ranging from exasperation to outright indignation.
"That's it?" Ryssa demanded.
"That's it," Tyrn replied, his usual indifference returning. He stood lazily, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. "Think about it. See you tomorrow."
With a slow, almost dismissive wave, he turned and ambled back toward the village, muttering something about finding an inn with softer beds.
As the teacher's figure disappeared into the distance, the group remained rooted under the oak tree, the weight of Tyrn's words pressing down on them.
Dorian sat down heavily, staring at the grass beneath his boots. His mind raced, but no clear thought came to the forefront.
Ryssa folded her arms, her tail curling protectively around her feet as she stared into the distance. "Is that... really where it all started?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Neither spoke for a long while. Yet, as the silence stretched, they each knew they had to answer the question in their own way—alone.
Lucas and Bogo exchanged glances but said nothing, watching their friends leave in quiet contemplation.
"You think that's going to stick with them?" Lucas asked after a long pause, breaking the tension with his usual sarcasm. "Or do you think Mr. Snooze is just trying to mess with their heads?"
Bogo studied his partially drawn parchment, his thoughtful expression shadowed by a hint of worry. "Maybe both," he said quietly.
The two of them remained under the great oak tree, its leaves rustling like whispers as the afternoon wore on.
**A/N**
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**A/N**