Days blurred together as Dorian immersed himself in Tyrn's teachings, the clearing beneath the great oak tree transforming into his training ground. Each day began with a new instrument: first the flute, then a small hand drum, followed by a simple tuning fork.
The lessons were deceptively difficult. Though he had natural talent, Dorian's frustration grew as Tyrn continued to harp on connection rather than skill.
"You're fighting it again," Tyrn said, his voice low but firm, watching as Dorian played a halting tune on the flute. The faint crackle of lightning in the air wavered in time with each off note.
"It's hard not to," Dorian muttered, lowering the instrument. "I can play the lute just fine. Why do I have to learn this one?"
Tyrn crossed his arms. "Because it's new," he said simply. "Your lute is comfortable—you know it too well. This flute, though? Every time you miss a note, it's loud and clear. Easier to spot. Fix it here, and you'll understand magic better there."
Dorian sighed, lifting the flute again. The next tune was smoother, though still imperfect. A gentle breeze accompanied his melody, the air bending to his intent.
Tyrn smirked faintly. "See? You're learning. When your magic stops feeling like work and starts sounding like a song, that's when you'll be more than a bard."
The cryptic remark lingered in Dorian's thoughts, sparking his determination anew.
…
For Ryssa, Tyrn's lessons were just as challenging, though for different reasons. Having spent years perfecting her family's fire magic, the sudden pivot to water magic felt like an entirely new language.
"You can't make it work," Tyrn said one afternoon, leaning lazily against the oak tree as Ryssa clenched her fists, trying to form a stable sphere of water in her hands. "You're trying to treat it like fire. Fire needs control. Water?" He gestured vaguely. "Water needs guidance. You have to ask it, not command it."
Ryssa glared at him but held her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she unclenched her hands and tried again. The water droplets swirled into place more fluidly this time, forming a wobbling sphere.
"Better," Tyrn said. "Not great, but better."
Her golden eyes narrowed. "You're seriously the worst motivator in the history of teachers."
"Motivation's not my job," Tyrn replied with a grin. "Getting you to stop thinking like a perfectionist is."
To push her further, Tyrn often paired her with Dorian, forcing them to balance their opposing elements. One afternoon, he instructed Dorian to cast small arcs of lightning into the air while Ryssa counteracted them with streams of water.
"Match his charge," Tyrn said, watching closely. "Don't fight it. Flow with it."
Ryssa concentrated, sweat beading on her brow as she intercepted one of Dorian's lightning arcs with a perfectly timed spray of water. The resulting steam hung in the air like a soft veil, marking her small but significant progress.
"Fire devours. Water restores," Tyrn murmured. "Learn to master both, and you'll have balance—not just in magic, but in yourself."
The words lingered in Ryssa's thoughts long after practice ended.
…
Lucas and Bogo continued to observe the lessons from the sidelines, often exchanging quiet jokes and commentary.
"She's getting the hang of it," Lucas said one afternoon as he watched Ryssa sustain a perfect water sphere for several seconds. "Finally proving she can do more than roast bread."
"You'd last ten seconds if Tyrn put you in her shoes," Bogo quipped, whittling a small figure out of wood.
Lucas smirked. "I wouldn't need to learn water magic. I've got my blade—my soon-to-be shiny and glorious blade."
"Still wooden," Bogo muttered with a grin.
The gentle banter blended seamlessly into the group's dynamic. Though they had their own pursuits, Lucas and Bogo remained constant sources of support, their playful camaraderie keeping the atmosphere light even when the lessons grew intense.
By the end of the week, both Dorian and Ryssa began showing measurable progress. Dorian's melodies on the flute became steady and purposeful, his wind magic weaving through his songs with effortless grace. Ryssa, meanwhile, managed to conjure a sphere of water and sustain it for nearly a full minute, her fire magic instincts now balanced by newfound adaptability.
"That's more like it," Tyrn said, watching them both with rare approval. "Still rough, but we'll iron out the details."
Dorian grinned. "Careful—you almost sounded encouraging."
Tyrn rolled his eyes but smiled faintly, letting the group's laughter fill the clearing.
…
As the day's lesson wrapped up, the group was gathering their things when a familiar voice called out, "Guys!"
They turned to see Bogo sprinting toward them, his face alight with excitement. In his hands was a large roll of parchment.
"Bogo? What's up?" Ryssa asked.
"The trap!" Bogo exclaimed, skidding to a stop in front of them. "It worked! Uncle Borr tested it, and it worked like a dream. The boar walked right in, and the piglets got out safely!"
"That's amazing!" Dorian said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I knew it would work."
Lucas crossed his arms with mock seriousness. "So what's next, genius? Traps for dragons?"
Bogo laughed. "Not yet. But I've got a ton of new ideas—traps for bigger animals, maybe even tools to help around the village."
"You're unstoppable, Bogo," Ryssa said with a grin. "Keep going. Suntails Hollow needs you."
The group's cheers echoed under the oak tree as the day faded into a vibrant sunset, their bonds stronger than ever.