The morning beneath the great oak tree was bright and clear, the sunlight streaming through its branches casting dancing patterns on the ground. Lucas stretched lazily, twirling his wooden practice sword, while Bogo tinkered with a small mechanism from one of his projects.
Dorian and Ryssa, however, sat unusually quiet. Their gazes were distant, their expressions sharper and more focused than usual, as though something unspoken lingered between them.
Lucas nudged Bogo. "You seeing this?" he whispered.
"Yeah," Bogo murmured, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like they figured it out."
"Of course they did," Bogo added, quietly proud.
Before Lucas could prod further, Uncle Borr strode into view, his imposing form and distinctive black scales catching the morning light. His chipped scales and old scars spoke of decades of hunting and survival, but his stern demeanor softened with an underlying warmth as he approached the group.
"Bogo," Borr called, his deep voice rough yet steady.
Bogo stood quickly, stuffing his small mechanism into a pouch. "Uncle Borr! Is this about the trap?"
"Something like that," Borr said, crossing his arms. "Let's talk."
From the sidelines, Lucas gave Bogo a wink. "Good luck!"
Ryssa smirked. "Don't forget us when you revolutionize hunting."
Dorian cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out, "And maybe use your newfound fame to build another statues of us! Big ones!"
Borr gave them a flat look, his tail flicking in mild irritation. "This isn't decided yet," he grumbled. "The trap idea's clever, sure—but until we test it, don't go carving my approval into a tree."
"Oh, he's nervous," Lucas teased, grinning. "Quick! Someone call Miss Niendre—he needs emotional support!"
The normally stoic dragonborn's demeanor cracked as his dark-scaled face flushed faintly. "You lot have too much free time," he muttered, turning toward the hunter building. "Bogo. Let's go before I lose my patience."
"See you later, guys!" Bogo said, flashing the group a gleaming smile before jogging to catch up.
Ryssa snickered as the two figures disappeared into the distance. "You'd think a battle-hardened hunter wouldn't flinch at a joke, but... well, Borr's special."
"Too special," Lucas agreed.
Before the banter could continue, Tyrn sauntered lazily into the clearing, his disheveled appearance as unimpressive as ever. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, he regarded the group with a barely disguised yawn.
"Morning," he said simply, dropping to the ground without ceremony. "So, how was it? Are we continuing the lesson, or should I leave you little piglets to your oak-tree shenanigans?"
Dorian and Ryssa exchanged glances before nodding firmly.
Dorian spoke first. "Magic is a tool," he said, his voice resolute. "It's the wielder's conviction that determines how it's used. Good or bad, it depends on us."
Ryssa added, "Exactly. Think about perfumers—back in the pioneer calamity era, they concocted poisonous gases. But now? They make perfumes that brighten our lives."
Tyrn's sharp gaze met theirs, his laziness momentarily giving way to something deeper. For a brief moment, it felt as though he were peering directly into their souls, weighing their words and intentions.
"Alright," he said finally, leaning back against the tree. "Let's get started."
This time, the lesson felt different—structured, deliberate, and unexpectedly inspiring.
When Tyrn handed Dorian the flute, the young bard examined it closely. Unlike his lute, the flute was a simpler instrument: no strings to strum, no natural rhythm to guide him, just a hollow tube with an unfamiliar complexity.
"Feel the music," Tyrn said lazily, leaning back against the oak. "An off note sticks out in music just like it does in magic. Control the notes; you control the intent behind them. The same goes for magic."
Dorian raised the flute to his lips, the first attempt producing an awkward, squeaky note. Lucas smirked from the sidelines. "A bard who doesn't know how to play music? Scandalous!"
Dorian rolled his eyes but smiled, focusing harder on the next attempt. After a few tries, the notes began to take shape—a clumsy but recognizable tune that carried through the clearing.
As he played, Tyrn added a cryptic remark: "Your instrument isn't just for sound. Every string, every key, every note—it's part of you. Magic listens. It bends to music because music has clarity, and clarity comes from intent. Play it wrong? Magic stumbles. Play it right, and... well..."
Tyrn lazily lifted his hand, and without any instrument, a series of perfectly pitched notes echoed through the clearing, weaving with the wind. The sound seemed to linger, reverberating with a harmony that left the group in awe.
"Show off," Ryssa muttered under her breath.
"Exactly," Tyrn replied, hearing her anyway. "Magic, music, art—they're all about showing off what's real. Now, keep at it, Lightning Bard. The next note's yours to claim."
Dorian focused harder, his tune improving slowly but noticeably. The currents of wind and faint traces of lightning began to thread through his music more confidently, the flute responding to the growing stability of his magic.
…
For Ryssa, Tyrn demanded something more challenging. "Learn water magic," he said bluntly.
Ryssa blinked, confused. "Why water? My family specializes in fire. Wouldn't it make sense to stick to that?"
Tyrn smirked, an edge of challenge in his expression. "You think fire defines you? That's small thinking. You're capable of more than what's handed to you. Learn to wield water. Opposites strengthen each other."
Ryssa crossed her arms, raising a skeptical brow. "And you're supposed to be a pyromancer, right? Shouldn't you lead by example?"
Tyrn's grin widened. "Who said I'm a pyromancer? My main magic is... all of them."
The group was left dumbstruck. The flames he conjured danced like living creatures, weaving through streams of water, gusts of wind, and arcs of lightning. Ice formed patterns in the air, glittering like shards of crystal.
Lucas, watching from the sidelines, muttered, "Is there anything this guy can't do?"
Tyrn gave him a sideways glance. "Stay awake through your monologues."
Lucas opened his mouth to retort, then shut it with a begrudging grin.
Dorian and Ryssa, meanwhile, remained stunned, their gazes fixed on Tyrn's magic. He clapped loudly, jolting them from their trance.
"Hey, no gawking," Tyrn said with a smirk. "I told you to think bigger. Turns out you can't think at all when you're staring."
Ryssa regarded Tyrn with folded arms. "How do I even start?" she asked finally.
"Same as fire," Tyrn said casually, "but softer. More flow, less force." He lazily waved a hand, conjuring a small stream of water in the air. "Fire's loud, blunt—like a hammer. Water? Water's a dance. It moves, adapts, flows around the cracks. Get it wrong, and it's just wet air."
Ryssa groaned but extended her hand, trying to mimic Tyrn's movement. "What am I even looking for? It feels... wrong."
"That's because you think fire's your 'thing,'" Tyrn replied, his lazy gaze sharp. "Fire's not you. It's what you started with. People latch onto comfort zones, and magic? Magic thrives when you get uncomfortable."
Ryssa concentrated, her crimson fingers trembling slightly as tiny beads of water coalesced between her palms. The droplets swirled tentatively before collapsing into vapor. She growled in frustration. "This is pointless."
"Pointless? That's the funny thing about water," Tyrn quipped. "It drips. Then trickles. Then flows. One drop's nothing. A thousand? Enough to carve through mountains. Get the drop right first."
Ryssa sighed and tried again, her hands moving with measured care. Slowly, a bead of water formed—small and imperfect. She stared at it as it hovered in the air, her golden eyes alight with both wonder and determination.
"See?" Tyrn said, smirking faintly. "Told you."
…
As the lesson continued, Dorian and Ryssa threw themselves into their tasks with newfound determination, while Lucas watched from the side with a growing sense of admiration. Though Tyrn remained as infuriatingly lazy as ever, his lessons were working—and the group couldn't deny his brilliance, no matter how much it irritated them.
By the end of the day, Dorian's flute-playing was clumsy but confident, each note carrying traces of wind and sparks, while Ryssa managed to conjure a small, wobbling sphere of water in her hands—a small victory but a meaningful step forward.
As they packed up and prepared to leave, Tyrn waved them off with his usual dismissive yawn. "Think bigger. You're worth more than what you think you can do," he called after them, stretching his arms as he wandered off.
The group left the oak tree with a sense of renewal, Tyrn's lessons settling into their minds and hearts like seeds ready to grow.