Embers and Echoes

The egg pulsed again.

That same steady thump against my palm—warm, quiet, and alive. It hadn't stopped since the night I first heard it. That heartbeat was mine now.

Dawn hadn't broken yet, but I was already up, sitting on the edge of my bed with the egg beside me. I wasn't sure if I was more anxious or excited. Today was the day I'd start training for real.

I dressed quickly and quietly. Tunic. Belt. Boots. My uniform still felt stiff and strange. It fit me the way this life did—close enough to pretend, never close enough to forget.

Outside, the academy was cloaked in mist. The eastern training field was almost empty, except for one figure standing at its center—Kaelen.

She turned as I approached.

Kaelen wasn't like the other instructors. No flashy robes. No jeweled sword. Just a black jacket, gloves, and a gaze that cut straight through pretense. Her reputation was already well-known among students: ex-duelist, war veteran, and zero patience.

"Stormveil," she said. "Let's see what you know."

She tossed me a wooden blade. I caught it easily.

"Begin."

No time to think.

I fell into a basic stance. Not too rigid. Not too sharp. Just enough to seem like I knew the basics—barely. I moved slowly, striking the air with clumsy swings, letting my weight shift the wrong way now and then.

Kaelen watched in silence. When I finished, she stepped forward, circled me once, then stopped at my side.

"You've held a real sword before."

I didn't flinch. "Once or twice."

She stared a second longer, then gave a single nod.

"Join the group. You're with the red-threaded."

The sword students.

I stepped into formation with the others. Some glanced at me. One or two smirked. They had watched my duel with Renald. I hadn't made friends that day.

Over the next hour, we practiced drills. Stances. Footwork. Repetition. Kaelen corrected us with brutal precision. She didn't yell. She didn't need to.

One look was enough.

By the end, sweat clung to my skin. Muscles ached in all the places I'd pretended didn't exist. But I welcomed the pain.

"Good footwork," Kaelen said as I left. That was high praise from her.

After training, I skipped the dining hall and went straight to the library.

The librarian barely glanced at me before waving me toward the beginner section. I tried not to look at the sealed doors leading deeper into the archive. I already knew first-years weren't allowed beyond them.

Still, what I could access was enough—for now.

I found a few books on mana sparks and body enhancement. Dry, overly academic, but useful. Sparks formed in the chest. Concentrated bursts of mana, tied to will and intent. They allowed for brief surges—speed, power, reflex. The foundation of a swordsman's path.

Another section detailed mana circles—what mages used to channel and refine their magic.

But one note caught my eye: "Rare hybrids of spark and circle—known as spellblades—must achieve harmony between the two. Most fail. The body rejects the imbalance. Those who succeed… change."

That part was underlined.

So I wasn't the only one asking questions.

In another book—half-worn and stuffed into the wrong shelf—I found odd references to erased lineages and shifts in magical records. Gaps in family trees. Discrepancies in historical scrolls.

I traced my finger along one entry: "Stormveil estate burned. No survivors recorded."

Wrong.

I closed the book quickly.

Back at my dorm, the egg sat where I'd left it. Still warm. Still pulsing.

I sat cross-legged in front of it and let my breathing slow. I focused inward, searching for that feeling I'd touched once before—the flicker of something deep in my chest.

At first, nothing.

Then a flicker.

A pull.

Like a match waiting to be struck.

I concentrated. Not on strength. Not on force. But on focus.

On intent.

The warmth grew.

Suddenly, something ignited inside me.

A flash of heat surged through my body—brief but sharp—like being punched from the inside. I gasped, falling forward, bracing my hands against the floor.

The spark had formed.

Rough. Unstable. But real.

I had taken the first step.

Later that night, I returned from the showers to find a crumpled piece of paper stuck under my door.

The handwriting was big and messy, letters uneven like they'd been scratched out in a rush.

"You think you're so cool? Well, you're not! Bet you can't even lift a sword without falling over! Go home before someone pantses you in the yard!"

A badly drawn stick figure with big ears and crossed eyes was underneath.

No name. No signature.

Childish. But a message all the same.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, I folded the note and tossed it into the corner.

Not worth burning.

Oren found me the next morning, right before spell theory class.

"You look awful," he said. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Didn't need to," I replied.

He stared at me, then shrugged. "Cool. Want to sit together?"

We entered the lecture hall. Professor Rhalin stood at the front again, tapping the crystal orb that projected diagrams into the air—today's topic: mana resistance and channeling efficiency.

I barely heard him.

Inside me, the spark still burned.

Low, but steady.

Alive.