Learning Control

Rashan arrived the next morning, mid-morning as expected.

This time, Adrien was already there.

The man sat slouched in a chair, his one arm resting on the table, fingers lazily drumming against the wood. He looked halfway put together—his hair combed back in a loose, careless manner, as if he had run his fingers through it a few times and called it good. His clothes were fresher, though still slightly rumpled, and his face, though lined with age and exhaustion, bore an undercurrent of sharpness that hadn't been there the day before.

But the smell of alcohol still lingered. It wasn't overwhelming this time, just a faint, bitter trace that clung to the air like the last remnants of a night poorly spent.

Acceptable, based on what Rashan had told him yesterday.

Adrien leaned back, stretching his remaining arm before exhaling heavily. "Well, guess you're here to learn how to cast magic and use your magicka."

Rashan tilted his head slightly and replied dryly. "Definitely not here for your charming personality."

Adrien laughed, a rough, genuine sound that came from deep in his chest.

"Alright, I'll give you that one." He smirked, rubbing his jaw. "Yesterday's answer was solid—good, even. But still superficial. A respectable take from someone who's only ever read about magic in books."

That got Rashan's attention.

Adrien's posture shifted slightly, and for the first time, he seemed to really engage rather than just go through the motions.

"I'm an adept in Restoration and Alteration. Barely. No matter what stories your father told you, I am not some great master. But Conjuration?" He tapped his chest with his thumb. "I am an expert. The others? A novice at best."

He leaned forward then, his gaze sharp and measured.

"But Battlemage? Spellsword? Before I lost my arm, I was a master. Others may cast better than me, but if you want to learn how to fight while slinging magic, I can be your guy."

Rashan listened intently, taking in his words.

"Your father says you remember everything you see with a look?"

Rashan gave a small shrug. "Remember? Yes. Comprehend? That depends."

Adrien grinned, teeth slightly bared.

"Good. Then first things first—let's go train."

Rashan narrowed his eyes. "What about theory?"

Adrien waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, we'll get to that. Come on."

They made their way out of the study and onto the training grounds.

The sun had risen higher, casting long shadows across the sand-covered sparring ground. The estate's personal guards and warriors trained nearby, steel clashing against steel as soldiers drilled with precision. The air smelled of heated stone, dry earth, and faint traces of sweat and leather.

Rashan expected Adrien to start with basic spellcasting drills, maybe some breathing exercises or a lecture on magicka flow—something structured, something he had read about.

Instead, Adrien pointed to a wooden bucket sitting by a nearby well.

"Alright, kid. Grab that bucket. Fill it with water."

Rashan raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, bringing back a full, sloshing wooden bucket.

Adrien grinned.

"Good. Now balance it on your head."

Rashan stared.

"What?"

"You heard me. Put it on your head. Don't drop it."

Rashan narrowed his eyes but obeyed, carefully lifting the bucket onto the top of his head. The wood felt rough against his fingertips as he steadied the weight, feeling the cool liquid shift inside. He quickly realized that simply keeping it upright **wasn't the hard part—**it was the constant movement of the water inside that made it difficult.

Before he could fully adjust, Adrien held up a finger.

"You can hold onto the bucket. But listen carefully—you cannot let the water splash. That's the real challenge."

Rashan frowned. "Hold it, but not spill it?"

Adrien nodded. "Exactly. The water is your magicka. You think you can just will it into obedience? No. You learn to guide it. Feel how it moves. Every shift, every ripple—that is what happens inside your body when you cast magic. The more erratic your control, the more wasted energy."

Rashan adjusted his grip, placing both hands lightly against the sides of the bucket. His fingers barely pressed against the wood, just enough to feel the vibrations of the shifting liquid. He straightened his spine, aware of every tiny movement he made.

"Now walk."

Rashan took a careful step forward, feeling the water shift.

"Congratulations. You've just learned the first lesson of combat magic—control."

Rashan's brow furrowed.

"What does walking with a bucket have to do with spellcasting?"

Adrien smirked. "Everything. You think magic is about power? It's about control. About balance. Magicka is a force, just like water. You don't force it, you guide it. You learn how it moves. And if you don't learn that now? You'll be casting like a wild fool instead of a warrior."

He tapped his temple. "You want to be a Battlemage? That means controlling both magic and your body—at the same time. If you lose balance while casting? You die. If you don't learn to feel your own momentum? You die. If you get hit while summoning a spell and you can't recover? You die."

Rashan remained silent, absorbing the lesson.

"Good. Now do it faster."

Rashan clenched his jaw and took a quicker step. The water sloshed violently, but he compensated, keeping his grip light yet firm.

"Faster."

He moved into a jog.

"Now sidestep."

He shifted, footwork quick but still controlled—barely. He felt the water threaten to splash, his fingers adjusting his hold just enough to steady it without clamping down too hard.

"Now duck."

The water nearly tipped over, but Rashan corrected at the last second, his heart pounding as he rebalanced.

Adrien snorted. "And that, kid, is why you're starting with this instead of throwing fire around like a damned fool."

Rashan exhaled slowly, realizing the exercise was deceptively difficult.

It **wasn't just about walking—it was about managing movement, focus, weight distribution—all the things he'd need if he ever wanted to cast while fighting.

Adrien crossed his arms, watching. "Now keep doing that until it's second nature. Then we'll actually get started."

Rashan said nothing, only adjusted his posture and started again.

For weeks, this was all they did.

Every morning, Rashan arrived at the training grounds, balanced the bucket on his head, and moved.

At first, it was simple, careful steps.

Then, it was walking without letting the water shift too much.

Then, it was walking while holding the bucket lightly, ensuring not a single drop spilled.

By the second week, Adrien pushed him further—sidesteps, pivots, sudden stops. Rashan had to react instantly without disturbing the water's surface.

By the third week, he was jogging in tight circles, the bucket balanced on his head, his fingers barely touching the wood to adjust for movement.

By the fourth week, Adrien added obstacles.

Rashan had to duck under swinging wooden poles, leap onto raised platforms, weave between moving targets—all while keeping the water from spilling.

It was maddening.

He had thought he would have mastered it in a matter of days.

He was wrong.

His body wanted to move like a warrior—quick, efficient, powerful. But this training wasn't about raw physical ability.

It was about control.

Adrien made him repeat the same absurd motions over and over, until his legs burned, his balance wavered, and frustration set in.

But every time Rashan gritted his teeth, controlled his breath, and adjusted, he improved.

Not because he had gotten stronger, but because he had gotten smarter.

By the sixth week, he could step, dodge, turn, and duck in one fluid motion. He could feel the weight of the water before it moved and correct it instantly.

It wasn't about thinking anymore. His body simply reacted.

It wasn't just training. It was conditioning.

And only when Rashan could do it without spilling a drop, did Adrien finally ask him:

"Alright, kid. What schools of magic are you interested in?"

Rashan, still holding the bucket steady, answered without hesitation.

"Conjuration, Alteration, and Restoration."

Adrien nodded once, like he had expected that answer.

"Good choices."

And then—without another word, he motioned for Rashan to get back to the exercise.

Rashan didn't argue. He resumed the drill, stepping carefully, the weight on his head steady.

It wasn't until the eighth week that Adrien finally called him over and had him sit.

"Alright, kid. You've learned control of your body. Now, it's time you learn control of something else—your magicka."

He set a small brass bowl on the ground in front of Rashan and poured a thin layer of water into it. The water settled, completely still.

"Close your eyes."

Rashan obeyed.

"Breathe. Slowly. Focus."

The warmth of the afternoon sun pressed against his skin, the air thick with the scent of earth and sweat. The distant clanging of swords and the murmur of voices in the training yard blurred into the background.

"Feel inside yourself," Adrien instructed. "Not your body—something deeper. Something beneath the flesh, beneath the breath. It's there, waiting."

Rashan sat still. Listening. Feeling.

At first, there was nothing.

Then—something faint. A pulse. A presence.

Not his heartbeat. Not his breath. Something else.

He knew what it was.

He had always known.

His HUD displayed his magicka bar just like his stamina, an ever-present reminder of the energy he had yet to wield. But this was the first time he truly focused on it.

It was there—a quiet, waiting reservoir inside him.

And the moment he acknowledged it—the water in the bowl rippled.

Adrien visibly tensed.

His sharp Breton eyes flickered to the bowl, watching the movement, his posture shifting ever so slightly.

"Open your eyes."

Rashan did.

The water was still now, but Adrien had seen it.

He hadn't even needed to guide him further.

Rashan had sensed his magicka instantly.

Adrien leaned back, exhaling, a rare look of genuine surprise on his face.

"Huh," he muttered.

Then, after a pause, he let out a low chuckle.

"Well, kid… that was faster than expected."