Mirror mirror who is the most handsome of all?

After the tea was finished, I let Alric examine what was left of me.

He was surprisingly gentle. His gnarled hands, steady despite their age, unwrapped the bandages at my shoulder and thigh with care, revealing the stumps which were cleanly healed, faintly glowing where the skin gave way to pale scar. But more than that, they were marked.

He muttered under his breath as he leaned in, squinting. "Fascinating… residual divine etching, laced directly into the aura. Arcane memory, maybe... or symbolic locking?"

Then he shuffled over to a cluttered shelf, grabbed a journal that looked like it had been bound when the ink trade was invented, and began scribbling notes with a quill that refused to stop squeaking.

He studied the stump at my elbow first, tracing the faint glow of the rune just above it. It was elegant, almost like a coiling ribbon of script woven into a loop. When I looked at it, I felt the faintest pressure behind my eyes the subtle presence of understanding, like it had unlocked something.

Then my thigh another rune, different in shape but equally intricate. This one had sharp lines and branching forks like lightning caught in a snowflake. As he traced its outline, my leg ached with phantom pain.

Finally, Alric brought over a small, worn mirror.

"Here," he said, holding it up with a hand more excited than steady. "The last one's over your empty eye socket."

I leaned forward and pulled back the loose bandage.

There, just above my left eyelid nestled in the hollow where my eye used to be was the final rune. Unlike the others, it didn't glow. It was more like a faint scar, faded but unmistakable, carved like soft ink beneath the skin. A spiral of glyphs folded inward, like a pupil made of language.

As I stared at it, I let my gaze drift to the rest of my reflection.

Despite everything, I looked… the same. A little paler, sure, and the bags under my eyes were worse than ever which was no surprise after the magical trauma and existential weight of god-chosen combat but otherwise…

My hair still held its sheen, black as a raven's wing. My remaining eye, still the same sharp azure blue. A little drawn, maybe, but the same angular jawline, the same slightly tilted smile I used to flash in the store mirrors when no one was looking. I was still me.

More or less.

Alric cleared his throat loudly.

"Boy, are you even listening to me?"

I blinked. "Yeah. Just… admiring my charming devastation."

He snorted. "Narcissist. Anyway..." he pointed at my shoulder, then thigh, then face "these runes were left behind by your sacrifice to Lady Deyinara. Each corresponds to one of your blessings. I can't decipher their full meanings yet, but I'd wager they're more than just decorative."

He stared at them again, eyes gleaming.

Then, in a tone that was almost hopeful maybe even pleading he added, "You seem to have no place to go, and this temple has room. Why not stay? At least until I've studied the marks more thoroughly. These are divine traces, boy. The kind of thing most priests would drown in joy just to glimpse."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want to use me as your magical research dummy?"

"Absolutely."

I laughed not mockingly, just surprised by his honesty.

He scratched his beard, then softened a little. "You wouldn't just be a specimen. You'd have food, a roof, space to rest, a bed better than the temple floor... and frankly, I could use the company."

I mulled it over. I didn't know where else to go as Deyinara had dropped me into this world without a map, and every instinct I had told me to learn, fast. Florence was a land of magic, and power, and gods playing games with mortals like me.

If I was going to survive, I'd need more than blessings. I'd need knowledge.

"Alright," I said finally, looking him square in the eye. "I'll stay. On one condition."

His eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

"You teach me. Magic. Circle theory. Everything."

He stared at me, unreadable for a moment then, slowly, a grin spread across his lined face.

"Deal," he said. "But you'd best keep up, boy. I don't slow down for amateurs."

I smirked. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm a fast learner."

The next morning, after a breakfast of something halfway between porridge and regret, Alric led me to a small circular chamber in the back of the temple. The walls were smooth stone, the floor bare save for a few old cushions and a faded diagram etched into the centre — a spiral inscribed with glyphs I could now read without effort.

"Circle of Quiet Thought," the runes read. "Where the noise of the world is swallowed and the soul learns to speak."

I settled onto one of the cushions, my posture awkward as I tried to balance my weight on one leg. Nyx curled up nearby in his black cat form, tail flicking as if unimpressed with the entire situation.

Alric stood in front of me, leaning on his cane like a lecturer preparing for a long lesson.

"Before you can conjure even a wisp of magic," he began, "you must become a first-circle mage. That means forming your core — the inner font from which mana flows."

"Right," I nodded. "So how do I do that?"

He gave me a long look, like a craftsman inspecting cheap tools.

"Cultivation," he said. "And before you ask, no — it's not planting herbs. Cultivation is the process of turning your body into a vessel for magic. It begins with sensing the mana in your surroundings."

He gestured to the air.

"Mana is everywhere. In stone, air, light, shadow. But it is subtle. Slippery. You cannot see it — not yet — but you can feel it, if you're still enough."

He stepped closer and tapped the centre of my forehead with two fingers.

"Close your eye. Breathe. And listen to the quiet."

I did as he asked, slowing my breath, steadying my thoughts. I felt the stillness settle over me — not silence, but something more primal, like the soft hum of a forest when all the birds have stopped singing.

Then, slowly… I felt it.

Not sound. Not scent. A presence. A kind of pressure in the air, like the temple was holding its breath.

"That's it," Alric said, voice quieter now. "You're sensing ambient mana. Step one."

"Alright," I whispered. "Now what?"

"Now," he said, "you breathe it in."

He knelt beside me, surprisingly spry for his age, and demonstrated a slow, deliberate breathing technique — each inhale deep and expanding from the diaphragm, each exhale long and controlled.

"This pattern isn't just for focus," he explained. "It opens channels in your body. Makes it easier to absorb ambient mana. You'll feel it, if your body is ready."

I mimicked him, breath by breath. At first, it felt no different from meditation.

But then — warmth.

Not heat. Something subtler. Like air turning liquid, drawn in through my lungs and pulled deep into my bloodstream. My skin tingled. My chest vibrated faintly with each breath.

"You feel it?" he asked.

"Yeah," I breathed. "It's… filling me."

"Good. You'll need to do that many times," he warned. "Again and again. Every day. Until your body reaches its threshold. Then, if you have the talent, something will change."

"Change how?"

He tapped his head. "You'll evolve. A new gland will form — deep in your brain. Something like a second heart, but for mana. A core. Once you have it, you'll stop losing the mana you breathe in. You'll store it. And only then will you truly be a first-circle mage."

I nodded slowly. "And what if I don't have the talent?"

"Then all the breathing in the world won't do a damn thing," he said flatly. "But Deyinara chose you. I doubt she picked a dud."

I cracked a small grin.

"What about warriors?" I asked. "How do they cultivate?"

Alric smirked. "Ah, warriors. Thick of arm and thicker of skull."

He leaned on his cane again. "They use a different path. No runes. No chants. They push their bodies to the brink — gruelling training, heavy strain — until the flesh begs for healing. And then, while their muscles are shredded, they use the same breathing technique to draw in mana. But instead of storing it in a core like us, the mana gets pulled directly into the body — bones, tendons, organs."

"Mana-enhanced muscle?" I murmured.

"Exactly," he nodded. "Their bodies rebuild faster. Stronger. Denser. Over time, they become faster, more durable, and harder to kill. Eventually, their entire physical form carries mana."

"Do they ever store it like mages?"

"No," Alric said. "Not until they reach the Aura Realm — their version of the third circle. Only then do they begin storing mana for release. Before that, it's all embedded in the flesh."

I whistled. "That's… a lot."

"You asked."

We sat in silence again for a few moments.

Then I took another breath. Deeper. Slower.

And I felt it again — the flow, the warmth, the slow gathering of mana like water in a dry well.

It was working.

Maybe not fast. Maybe not dramatic. But real.

And for the first time since I arrived in this strange world, I felt something close to hope.