IT WASN'T LISTENING

Immediately after the Grandmasters dismissed Marvel, he eagerly confirmed his theory. Elated and almost insane with the electric thrill racing through his veins, he marvelled at the fact he had a month to learn with the Novices. The idea that he might be an actual mage made him shiver.

Dropping onto his bed, he slowly pushed up the right sleeve of his tunic to check— and there they were: two dark green lines circling his forearm near his elbow. Thin but distinct. The tallies signifying the first step of mage philosophy.

It hadn't sunk in the first time he looked, nor the third or fifth. Only after staring at it for nearly half an hour did it finally hit him.

Marvel wasn't just hoping anymore. He was a Novice, an actual mage.

But how?

The tally system, invented by the founders of the Academy, showed the status of each mage in their alchemical journey. Different colours showed different levels of ascension in alchemical power. The number of lines on a Mage's arm represented the number of golems a mage had killed.

Kill one golem and you qualified as a Novice. Kill a hundred, and you might qualify for the Ascension Trial to potentially move to the next stage.

Marvel had somehow killed two golems at the mountain. He pushed aside questions about how that could still be true, considering he had made it so the golems never existed in the first place.

Who cares? he shouted at the nagging voice in his head. I'm a Novice now.

If he died right then, he wouldn't complain.

I should test it out. He couldn't sit still, unable to stop staring at his arm. I should find out how this works.

He delayed for a few more minutes, just staring at his arm. When he finally managed to tear his attention away, he sorted through a stack of spellbooks he'd 'borrowed' from Baylin's library. He selected one containing easy Novice-level spells he could try.

Book under his arm, he found a candle, lit it, and left his room. Nearly running up several flights of stairs to the ludus where Novices trained during the day. He knew it would be empty at this hour, allowing him to practise magic out of the sight of any Novices.

Unless the Grandmasters were watching him. The thought stopped him cold. They knew about his broken centre. If they sensed him performing spells, he would probably get hauled in for questioning again. He doubted his chance of survival this time.

I don't even know if I can do magic yet. He forced himself to continue up the stairs. I have to try. I owe this to myself.

Marvel had spent many long nights studying Baylin's books, learning about Alchemy. He'd experimented with elixirs or esoteric spells to fix his magical centre. Tonight, he might be practising actual magic. It would be the culmination of nearly a decade of dreaming and hoping if he managed it. It would be all he'd ever wanted.

The doors to the ludus were large and ancient, groaning in protest as Marvel struggled to open them. They swung apart to reveal an enormous arena surrounded by seats and stands.

He chose a corner not too far from the door. Setting the candle holder and spellbook on the floor, he bent over to flip through the pages. An athar detection spell would be a good spell to start with for several reasons. On one hand, it was the easiest Novice spell he could think of. On the other, he wanted to see exactly how his athar looked.

He was familiar with the spell, and a quick skim brought him up to speed on parts he'd forgotten. Sitting cross-legged on the dusty stone floor, he tried to contain his excitement, calm his shaking hands.

He'd practised seeking inward plenty of times, always hopelessly checking on his weak centre to see if it had improved any. Because of that, cycling part of the spell shouldn't be too difficult. He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, and looked inward.

As he had been told, his centre had been ruthlessly shattered. Traces of it remained, little broken scraps of himself. Like twisted, half-melted, broken pieces of metal. It made him sick to look at. It hadn't been much of a centre, but it had been his.

He shouldn't be able to do magic with a primary part of himself so shattered. He shouldn't even be alive. And yet, he was.

Seeking deeper, he found something that stole his breath.

That. He stared in awe at the spectacle before him. That was the reason why the fire call worked. Why his body had healed itself. How the golems died.

It was as thick as an ancient tree and as stronger than gryphon steel. The sort of centre a mage could only develop after centuries of alchemical practice. He wondered if this was what a Grandmaster's centre looked like.

Wrapped around it, like yarn on a spool, was athar. It was unbelievable. Bright, the same impossible brightness he had seen earlier. The sheer amount of energy Marvel was looking at was staggering. It was as if someone had wrapped an ocean around a spoon. All of that sheer power and magnificence was overwhelming.

Shit. That's supposed to be mine?

With that, he could beat the Novice class easily. Novice, Tester, Trainee, Apprentice, maybe even an Adept. He had no reference for what sort of power Higher Mages possessed. He wondered whether with this, he could beat them too.

He just needed to figure out how to use it.

Okay. Marvel took a calming breath to avoid getting overwhelmed. I just need a little bit of it for the spell.

He moved on to the next step, pushing some of the athar through his magical arrays so it was ready to use.

Agony ripped through him the moment the athar touched a single vein. He shrieked from the pain. Stop. Stop. STOP.

But the athar wasn't listening. It continued to knife its way through his arrays, roasting him from the inside out as it pushed out of him. The blinding torment made Marvel writhe on his back, screaming for it to stop.