Forged in Shadows

The room was silent save for the rasp of his mother's breathing.

Caelith sat hunched in the corner, the flickering candlelight carving hollows into his bloodshot eyes. 

His fingers trembled as they traced the cracked leather cover of Principles of Mana Circulation, its pages splayed open on his knees.

 Across the room, his mother shifted in her sleep, a faint sigh escaping her lips as the threadbare blanket slipped, revealing mottled bruises along her arms—souvenirs from Elowen's latest lessons.

He clenched his jaw. 

'I'll make them pay.'

Kaden's voice echoed in his mind, sharp as a blade. "You want to survive? You'll need more than stubbornness."

The vice-captain had given him a week. A week to prove he wasn't just another broken thing.

Caelith's thumb brushed the candle's flame, letting the heat sear away the fatigue. The wax pooled like molten defiance, dripping onto the book's pages as he leaned closer.

"Mana is the lifeblood of all things…"

His mother stirred again, her breath hitching as she curled tighter into herself.

Caelith didn't look up.

He read on.

The room was stifling, the walls pressing in like a tomb.

 His entire world comprised two small straw beds, a rusted basin, and a broken shelf.

 The faint scent of damp straw and sweat lingered in the air, mixing with the mellow aura of melted wax. A servant's room. A bastard's cage.

But none of that mattered now.

He repeated the sentence in his mind:

"Mana is the lifeblood of all things, flowing through the body in paths known as mana veins. To wield it is not to control it, but to guide it—like a river shaped by its banks."

Caelith closed his eyes and exhaled. Mana veins. Flow. Guidance.

He had no blessing, no divine gift, but the book did not speak of gods—it spoke of the method. And methods could be learned.

His fingers flexed over the page, the words searing into his mind like a brand.

"There are three core principles to mana circulation: Generation, Refinement, and Manifestation."

"Generation: All living beings could create mana veins, thin channels running through the body. Unlike the Blessed, who were given mana veins already attuned to an element."

Ordinary practitioners had to ignite their flow—coax the mana from within and awaken the dormant energy.

Refinement: Raw mana was chaotic. Without discipline, it would clog the veins, leading to inefficiency or even rupture. Refinement meant training the body, aligning the flow until it moved freely, like sharpening a dulled blade.

Manifestation: The final step—where will met reality. Whether it was flame, ice, or raw force, manifestation required intent. A focused mind. A body that could withstand its own strength.

Caelith flipped the page, absorbing the diagrams and the pathways of mana drawn in meticulous lines, like veins branching through a body.

 If he could not wield fire, then he would wield knowledge.

His candle sputtered, the flame shrinking.

Outside, the castle breathed its nightly rhythm—guards shifting at their posts, the distant clang of armor, the murmurs of patrols. Somewhere, his father slept in gilded chambers; his siblings rested in feathered beds.

Caelith clenched his fists. They had been given the chance for power. He would take it.

The candle burned to its final stub, and in the darkness, he kept reading.

Day One: The Rhythm of Survival

Morning came too soon.

Caelith was already scrubbing bloodstains from the training grounds when the first bell tolled. The cobblestones bit into his knees, the iron stench of dried blood mixing with the sharp tang of lye soap. Nearby, guards sparred, their boots slapping stone as they drilled formations.

"Feint left, strike high!" barked a sergeant.

Caelith's scrub brush paused. His eyes flicked to the guard's footwork—light, deceptive, a pivot on the heel. He mimicked the motion with his boot, tracing it in the grime. Feint. Strike. Guide.

By midday, his arms trembled as he hauled water barrels to the barracks. The weight threatened to buckle his legs, but he forced himself into the Ivalian stance—light on your feet, pivot, slide. He imagined mana coursing through his veins, steadying his balance. A guard shoved him aside—"Out of the way, rat!"—and Caelith twisted instinctively, the barrel sloshing but not spilling. Deception. Agility.

In the armory, he polished rusted breastplates, his reflection warped in the steel. Guards muttered about patrol routes: "Bandits in the eastern pass—strike hard, vanish quick." Caelith's hands moved mechanically, but his mind carved their words into memory. Strike. Vanish. Flow.

That night, in the peasant courtyard, he balanced Principles of Mana Circulation on a hay bale, its pages lit by a stolen candle stub.

"Mana veins branch like rivers," he whispered, tracing the book's diagrams with a bloody fingertip. The wooden post loomed beside him, its surface already dented from his fists.

As the guards had demonstrated, he lunged, driving his elbow into the post. Pain flared, but he channeled it into the Ivalian pivot—slide, feint, strike.

"Generation requires awakening dormant pathways," the book warned.

Caelith gritted his teeth. Awaken. Adapt. Survive.

Days Two to Four: The Blur

Scrubbing floors: Knees raw, hands cracked, he mouthed mana principles ("Guided flow precedes control") while studying guards' stances through the steam of soapy water.

Hauling sacks: Shoulders screaming, he replayed their formations—feint left, strike high—adjusting his grip to mimic swordplay.

Polishing boots: Fingers bleeding, he traced mana diagrams in the leather's sheen, whispering, "Generation. Refinement. Manifestation."

At night, he returned to the post.

Fists bloodied. Broomstick splintered. Candle stub melted to nothing.

"Focus," he hissed, striking the wood. "Control."

Mana flickered in his veins—a spark, a whisper—but it slipped away, drowned by exhaustion.

Day Five: The Guards' Mockery

The laughter came as soon as he entered the training grounds.

Caelith had been tasked with delivering bandages to the barracks. The moment he set foot in the courtyard, the jeering began.

"Look who it is. The little mongrel still playing servant."

"You sure you belong here, bastard? Or did you get lost looking for scraps?"

Kiernan, a guard with a serpentine scar, slammed a hand against Caelith's chest. "You walk too straight for a rat."

Caelith met his gaze, unflinching.

"He thinks he's one of us. Poor bastard," another guard chuckled.

Kiernan shoved him back. "Go on, get out of here. Before someone decides to teach you a lesson."

Caelith swallowed his pride and left.

But as he walked away, his fingers twitched at his sides. He had memorized every one of their faces.

One day.

Day Six: Refinement

Caelith dipped his fingers into the cold water of the basin, staring at his reflection. His eyes were sharper now, dark hollows forming beneath them.

His bruises ached, and his muscles throbbed. But when he closed his eyes, he could almost feel it—the faintest pulse of something beneath his skin.

"Mana, once stirred, moves like a current. To wield it is to refine it—to make the raw flow smooth, to control the tide before it drowns you."

Refinement.

He focused.

The hum in his veins—he reached for it.

And then—pain.

His breath hitched as a sharp burning sensation flared in his chest. His limbs locked, his heartbeat stuttering.

Too fast. Too uncontrolled.

He gasped, the pain fading as he let go.

His hands shook. He had nearly ruptured something.

He exhaled, steadying himself. Again. Slower.

Day Seven: The Spark

The days bled together.

Morning: Wake before dawn. Scrub floors, clean weapons, serve without being seen.

Afternoon: Endure the guards' jeers, listen to their lessons, memorize their movements.

Evening: Deliver supplies, avoid conflict, steal moments to observe the training grounds.

Night: Study. Meditate. Feel the mana. Shape it. Control it. Fail. Try again.

His body weakened, but his mind sharpened.

By the seventh night, he no longer needed the book to recite its lessons.

The candle had long since drowned in its own wax, leaving Caelith in darkness. Moonlight bled through cracks in the stable walls, painting silver stripes over the book's diagrams—veins of mana he could almost see beneath his skin.

He sat cross-legged on the frozen dirt, palms upturned, breath ragged. The spark he'd nurtured all week writhed in his chest, restless and hungry.

Almost. Almost.

He pushed harder, fingers clawing at his knees. The spark flared—a searing thread of heat snaking through his ribs.

Guide it.

 Control it.

But the thread frayed. Splintered.

Pain erupted—white-hot, vicious—as if a blade had gutted him from within.

Caelith doubled over, retching vomit onto the straw. His lungs burned, his veins screamed. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering the pages of Principles of Mana Circulation.

Failure.

He gasped, tears blurring the diagrams. The spark was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

But the book had warned him: "Mana unchecked is a wildfire. To rush is to burn."

Caelith laughed, a raw, broken sound.

He dragged himself upright, blood smearing the stable wall as he steadied himself. 

His reflection stared back—pale, hollow-eyed, lips cracked and bleeding.

Stumbling to his feet, Caelith lurched toward the guards' courtyard, his boots dragging through mud and muck. Every breath felt like glass in his lungs, but he didn't stop.

Kaden stood in the center of the training grounds, moonlight glinting off the two wooden swords in his hands. Without looking up, he sensed Caelith's approach.

"You're late."

Caelith swayed, clutching his ribs. "I… need help."

Kaden finally turned, his gaze flicking over Caelith's bloodied face and trembling limbs. "You look like a corpse."

"I think I ruptured something," Caelith rasped. "The mana—it won't—"

Kaden cut him off, tossing one of the wooden swords at his feet. It clattered against the stone. 

"You're not dying," he said flatly. "You're just bad at this."

Caelith stared at him, confusion and desperation mingling in his eyes.

"Pick it up," Kaden ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Or crawl back to your stable and stop wasting my time."

For a heartbeat, Caelith hesitated, but the fire in Kaden's gaze ignited something inside him. With a snarl, he snatched the sword from the ground.

Kaden's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something darker. "Better. Now try not to die before sunrise."

Without warning, Kaden lunged forward, the wooden sword slicing through the air as he aimed straight for Caelith.