Nox Sillon (5)
The first rays of dawn stretched across the sky, painting it in hues of violet and pale gold.
The air carried the crisp chill of morning, untouched by the warmth of the rising sun.
Nox stood in the center of the training courtyard, his small figure casting a long shadow beneath him.
He did not move, did not blink, only stared at the wooden dummy standing before him—a silent, unfeeling opponent.
He raised his right hand, fingers slightly curled.
His crimson eyes darkened with focus.
A thin strand of mana stirred beneath his skin, rising from the depths of his body like an unseen tide.
Mana Detection.
The world around him shifted.
His vision blurred for a brief moment before sharpening.
The mana in the air pulsed—some threads strong and steady, others weak and fleeting.
It existed everywhere, in the ground beneath his feet, in the leaves that rustled in the wind, in the very air he breathed.
Yet, he could barely grasp it.
Insufficient.
His mana pool was small.
He had known this for a while now.
Though he possessed a natural affinity for magic, his mana reserves were laughable compared to others of noble birth.
Mana pools were a measure of one's magical potential, dictated by both innate talent and training.
The larger the pool, the greater the spells one could wield.
Some were born overflowing with mana, able to cast powerful spells from childhood.
Others had to build their reserves through years of rigorous practice.
And then there were those, like him, who barely had enough to be considered a proper sage.
Nox hated inefficiency.
He exhaled slowly, letting the mana slip from his grasp before attempting again.
He needed control.
Arcane Sparks.
A tiny ember flickered at his fingertips, weak and unsteady.
It sputtered, crackled—then vanished.
Not enough.
Again.
Another flicker.
Another failure.
Unacceptable.
The tension in his fingers grew. Magic was a formula.
A structure.
It should be controllable, predictable.
Yet every attempt yielded the same pitiful result.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Master Nox, pushing yourself this early again?"
He did not turn.
"I do not require rest."
Yeni sighed, stepping into view. In her hands was a silver tray, carrying a porcelain teacup that let out a gentle stream of steam.
"You do not require many things,"
She said, setting the tray down on a nearby stone bench.
"Yet, here I am, making sure you take them anyway."
He remained silent.
Yeni was no ordinary maid.
She had been with the household for years, long before he had even begun his training.
She carried herself with quiet confidence, her movements precise, effortless.
There was a sharpness to her gaze, one that often reminded him of seasoned warriors rather than mere servants.
It was something that had puzzled him for some time.
How could a maid, bound to a noble house, possess such a presence?
More importantly—how could she understand magic?
"You have been attempting the same spell for the past hour,"
Yeni noted.
"It is insufficient."
"By whose standards?"
"My own."
Yeni chuckled.
"Ah, yes. And naturally, those are the highest, aren't they?"
Nox ignored the remark.
He lifted his hand once more.
Another flicker of light.
Another instant of failure.
Yeni studied him carefully.
Then, she asked,
"What do you see when you use mana?"
Nox frowned slightly.
"The flow of energy. The structure of spells. The formula necessary to shape them."
"A structured approach,"
She murmured.
"Not wrong, but… limited."
He turned to her.
"Explain."
She gestured toward the wooden dummy.
"You think of magic as something mechanical, like solving an equation.
You force it into shape, demanding it to obey your will. But magic is not a number to be solved, Master Nox."
"Then what is it?"
Yeni extended a hand, palm facing upward.
A warm glow pulsed at her fingertips—gentle, fluid.
The light twisted, shifting as if responding to her breath.
It moved in a rhythm, neither forced nor restrained.
"Flow,"
She said simply.
Nox narrowed his eyes.
"Mana exists in formulas. It can be measured, controlled. If it lacked structure, spellcasting would be impossible."
Yeni smiled.
"Yes, but control is not about forcing mana into a rigid shape. It is about guiding it. Like a river—you do not block it; you direct its course."
She closed her fingers, and the light flickered out.
Nox considered her words.
He had spent 3 years studying magic.
He understood the theories, the mechanics.
He had memorized spell structures, practiced his incantations.
And yet, his magic remained weak.
Perhaps… he was approaching it incorrectly.
Yeni crossed her arms.
"Try again, but this time, do not force it. Let it breathe."
Nox hesitated.
Then, slowly, he raised his hand once more.
This time, he did not command the mana.
He let it move.
A flicker.
A spark.
A pulse.
The ember at his fingertips held for a moment longer before fading.
It was still weak.
Still insufficient.
But something had changed.
Yeni smiled.
"Better."
Nox lowered his hand.
His mind was already processing, analyzing.
If magic had a natural rhythm, then perhaps his approach needed adjustment.
It was not a matter of raw control—it was about precision, about understanding.
Perhaps magic was not simply numbers and logic.
Perhaps, like everything else, it required something beyond calculation.
He would learn.
He always did.
*****
(Yeni's POV)(Important)
The first rays of dawn stretched across the sky, painting it in hues of violet and pale gold.
The crisp morning air bit at my skin, but I had long learned to ignore such things.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching him.
Master Nox.
A small figure, rigid as stone, his crimson eyes locked onto the wooden dummy before him.
He did not move.
Did not blink.
I had seen this sight many times before.
And yet, something about it always made me pause.
I had served the household for years, tending to its affairs, ensuring order in its walls.
But Master Nox—he was different.
He was not like the other nobles, with their grand speeches and empty ambitions.
He did not chase fleeting pleasures or bask in the luxuries afforded by his birthright.
No, he was someone who hated inefficiency.
And that included himself.
I stepped forward, tray in hand, careful not to disrupt the focus etched into his expression.
His fingers curled ever so slightly, a thin strand of mana stirring beneath his skin.
Mana Detection.
His gaze sharpened, his breathing slowed.
I could see it—the subtle furrow of his brow, the slight twitch of his fingers.
He was calculating, analyzing.
Always breaking things apart, trying to understand their structure.
I knew what he would see.
Mana existed in all things, from the stones beneath our feet to the air that carried our words.
It was the foundation of magic, the invisible thread that connected all life.
And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he could barely grasp it.
Insufficient.
The word hung unspoken in the air.
Master Nox had a small mana pool.
It was an undeniable fact, one that had shadowed him since he first began his training.
He possessed a natural affinity for magic—his mind grasped concepts faster than most, his calculations sharper than seasoned scholars.
And yet, when it came to actual spellcasting, he struggled.
To the world, he was a noble son of great lineage.
A prodigy in theory.
But to himself?
A failure.
I exhaled softly.
How many times had I watched this cycle repeat?
How many mornings had I found him standing here, pushing himself beyond reason, chasing something just out of reach?
He exhaled, his fingers twitching.
Arcane Sparks.
A flicker of light.
Weak.
Unstable.
It sputtered, cracked—then vanished.
Not enough.
Again.
Another failure.
My grip on the tray tightened.
Master Nox, for all his brilliance, did not understand patience.
He demanded perfection from himself in ways no one else dared.
But magic was not something to be conquered through sheer will alone.
I had seen enough.
"Master Nox,"
I called softly, stepping forward.
"Pushing yourself this early again?"
He did not turn.
"I do not require rest."
Ah.
That again.
I placed the tray down on a nearby stone bench, my voice laced with familiarity.
"You do not require many things,"
I said.
"Yet, here I am, making sure you take them anyway."
He said nothing.
Silence had always been his shield.
I studied him.
He was a boy, barely past childhood, yet he carried himself like a seasoned scholar—calculating, precise, always chasing an invisible standard only he could see.
How cruel.
"You have been attempting the same spell for the past hour,"
I noted.
"It is insufficient."
"By whose standards?"
"My own."
I chuckled.
"Ah, yes. And naturally, those are the highest, aren't they?"
Still, nothing.
His fingers curled again.
Another flicker of light.
Another failure.
I sighed.
"What do you see when you use mana?"
He frowned, just slightly.
"The flow of energy. The structure of spells. The formula necessary to shape them."
"A structured approach,"
I murmured.
"Not wrong, but… limited."
He turned to me then, crimson eyes sharp.
"Explain."
I gestured to the wooden dummy.
"You think of magic as something mechanical, like solving an equation. You force it into shape, demanding it to obey your will. But magic is not a number to be solved, Master Nox."
"Then what is it?"
I extended my hand, letting my mana flow freely.
A warm glow pulsed at my fingertips—gentle, fluid.
The light twisted, shifting as if responding to my breath. It did not fight me.
It did not resist.
It moved with me.
"Flow,"
I said simply.
Master Nox narrowed his eyes.
"Mana exists in formulas. It can be measured, controlled. If it lacked structure, spellcasting would be impossible."
I smiled.
"Yes, but control is not about forcing mana into a rigid shape. It is about guiding it. Like a river—you do not block it; you direct its course."
I closed my fingers, letting the light fade.
Master Nox did not respond immediately. But I saw it—the flicker of doubt.
The gears in his mind turning, re-evaluating.
He was always thinking, always seeking answers.
That was his strength.
And his greatest weakness.
How long had he been carrying this weight alone?
Three years.
Three years of studying magic.
Of memorizing theories.
Of trying, failing, and trying again.
And yet, for all his effort, he had never once considered that his approach might be wrong.
He was a boy born into logic, into calculations and precision.
But magic was more than that.
It was alive.
"Try again,"
I said.
"But this time, do not force it. Let it breathe."
He hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then, slowly, he raised his hand once more.
This time, he did not command the mana.
He let it move.
A flicker.
A spark.
A pulse.
The ember at his fingertips held for a moment longer before fading.
It was still weak.
Still insufficient.
But something had changed.
I smiled.
"Better."
He lowered his hand, already lost in thought. His mind was analyzing, processing.
He was beginning to understand.
Master Nox had always believed magic was something to be conquered.
But perhaps, for the first time, he was beginning to see it for what it truly was.
A conversation.
A rhythm.
A flow.
He would learn.
He always did.