“Y-You don’t make anything easy. You k-know that, right?”

  Alarion frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Bergman didn’t answer with words, but with a steady, deadpan expression that more or less screamed, ‘What do you think I mean? ’ A fair response, given the extent of Bergman’s preparations.

  The young Ashadi had cleared out another of the fortress’s cellars for the final stage of Alarion’s training. This one was deeper than most, far enough beneath Ilvan-Trai that the stone walls were slick with condensed moisture. It gave the air an earthy scent, mold perhaps, though hopefully nothing dangerous.

  Bergman had been preparing the chamber for a week, but even knowing that, Alarion was shocked at the extent of the alterations laid out before him.

  Every surface—walls, support pillars, even the arched ceiling—had been inscribed with runes.

  Some glowed faintly, a soft blue-white pulse of well-restrained arcane power. Others shimmered with threads of sapphire or jade, their lines so fine they must have taken hours to inscribe. More still seemed inert, etched into the stone but waiting for activation. Put together, the array gave the impression of being wrapped in a three-dimensional spell diagram.

  In truth, it was precisely that, though Alarion was far too inexperienced to comprehend what he was seeing.

  He did, however, feel the magic in the air the moment he stepped inside. His ears popped, and he felt a chill roll across his skin, followed by a light pull toward the centre of the room where two circles overlapped, as though gravity itself were twisted by the arcane.

  The magic was focused inward, concentrated. It bled nothing into the surrounding stone or out through the open doorway. Despite the strength of the workings involved, the cellar had barely even registered with his [Unraveller’s Sense] until he entered. Once he did, Alarion felt powerful, and a cursory look at his Status showed that his MP regeneration had nearly doubled.

  “What… is this?” Alarion asked, turning slowly in a circle. He had an idea, but the sheer complexity suggested there was more to it.

  “S-Several things,” Bergman replied, gesturing to various aspects of the magical working as he called them out. “A c-condensation field to pull mana from the surroundings and keep it from escaping, along with a f-filter and a sympathetic s-shroud to keep outside contaminants at bay. Some channelling runes, then some f-fortification for… accidents, and some privacy w-wards. Just in case. And s-some other odds and ends.”

  It was an array of magical effects the likes of which Alarion had never seen, but the casual way Bergman described the setup suggested that it said more about Alarion’s destitute upbringing than anything else. Surely Elena could have provided such an environment for his education if necessary, but they’d had no need, not with the natural power, open space, and isolation of the Trinity Isles.

  “N-Normally I wouldn’t need anything this extensive, but better safe than s-sorry for an unbound spellcaster.”

  “It is impressive,” Alarion declared, doing his best to mollify Bergman’s annoyance. “Great work.”

  Bergman allowed himself the shy smile of a man who wasn’t expecting a compliment, but was happy to receive one, before gesturing to a set of two interlaced circles at the centre of the room. “Y-You can put your mace there, and we will get s-started.”

  Alarion nodded and approached the circles with care. Though many of the markings were carved into the stone floor, others had been painted with delicate care. The last thing he needed to do was ruin hours of prep work with an errant step. He set the mace in the centre. Balanced on its head, the dull metal drank in the light of the symbols glowing around it.

  Across from him, Bergman awkwardly sank onto the cushion at the centre of his circle, and Alarion was quick to join him. Once settled, Bergman produced a wrapped leather pouch from his side and rolled it open in front of him. Inside were an array of items that Alarion initially mistook for cutlery but soon recognized for what they were—spell formulas. Engraved on thin silver sticks, each held familiar latent powers: Void, Sun, Time, and Body. Some were singular in their affinities, others mixed, with a few so familiar that Alarion recognized them on sight.

  “Upgrades?” he asked, gesturing to one of the formulas on the far left of the arrangement. “That looks like Mend Body.”

  “R-Rank II,” Bergman confirmed. “Solar Burst and Quicken as well. I wasn’t able to find a rank II formula for Void Slash, since it is a V-Vitrian spell, but we should be able to upgrade Void Crush o-ourselves.”

  Alarion’s head bobbed in agreement with the words, though his expression was pinched together in concern. “Those must have been expensive.”

  “B-Barely,” the other man said, waving off the concern. “Our family has an i-inscriptionist on staff.”

  The answer did little to soothe Alarion’s concern. Spell formulas weren’t cheap, something he’d learned during his early months in the Auxilia. Spellcasters were provided with the tools they needed for their role and nothing else. If they wanted to expand their arsenal, they were expected to either teach or trade with one another or buy them on the open market with the meagre salary the Auxilia provided.

  Thirty rank II formulas, such as those Bergman had brought with him, would have cost Alarion several years’ worth of his modest salary.

  “I can-“

  “S-Stop,” Bergman interrupted him, a blush already forming on his cheeks. “I k-know this is a lot of money to you. To me it is n-nothing.” He bit his lip and sighed. “Mothers, that sounds so c-conceited.”

  Alarion laughed. “It does not. I promise.”

  “Hmm,” the wealthy scion replied. “I-If you say so. J-Just don’t worry about the cost. If it becomes a p-problem I’ll tell you.”

  “Mm,” Alarion reluctantly agreed, before turning his attention to the mace. “We are learning new spell formulas today, then?”

  “N-Not today,” Bergman answered. “T-Today we’re going over the structure of your i-implement. We’re looking for ways to streamline and improve, with the ultimate goal being a full revision that includes and maximizes your preferred spells.”

  “Is that necessary?” Alarion asked. “I do not intend to brag, but this creation was overseen by a literal god, or at least an incarnate.”

  “W-What does it sound like when you do intend to brag?”

  “I-“

  “It is necessary,” Bergman continued. They had swapped stories of their childhoods more than once during the last several months, and the Ashadi boy was familiar with the tale of Alarion’s time in the challenge dungeon and the fragmented nature of those memories. “This V-Valentina probably told you as much at the time. Even the best tutors are limited by the c-capacity of their students. Your mana control was worse back then, and so was your perception. This tool is very good for r-rank I, but there is a reason most Awakened spellcasters replace their t-tools at every rank.”

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  “Replace?” Alarion frowned.

  Bergman dismissed the concern with a laugh. “I-If we could find another mace like this, I would s-seriously consider it. Or if I could c-convince you of the value of a s-spellbook or more traditional implement?”

  Alarion’s deadpan expression killed the idea before Bergman had even finished speaking.

  “T-Then we keep it, and revise it,” Bergman continued without missing a beat. “It w-will be a little worse at rank II than if you had started fresh, but by rank III the sympathetic ties you’ve formed should compensate for those early flaws. By rank IV, it should be an overall improvement.”

  “Why does anyone ever change it, then?”

  “B-Because most people never r-reach rank III, let alone rank IV or above.”

  Alarion winced. He’d done his best not to let his Aptitude go to his head, but slip-ups like that were bound to happen. He’d always assumed that rank IV or V were within his grasp, so long as he chose to reach for them, and it was easy to forget how impossible those seemed for the average Awakened.

  “And we need to do this?” Alarion prompted, moving the conversation away from his faux pas.

  “Y-You need a proper implement to evolve your Spellcraft skill, and your s-stagnant Spellcraft skill is probably what has held you back from being offered a rank up at your last m-milestone.”

  “Mm,” Alarion conceded. “So where do we start?”

  “F-Fill it with mana,” Bergman gestured to the mace. “I’m going to restrict it so you can better see the pathways.”

  Alarion leaned forward on his knees, stretching somewhat awkwardly for the haft of his mace before he saw Bergman giving him a befuddled look. “What?”

  “T-The channelling runes.”

  Alarion cocked his head to one side.

  Bergman sighed, then placed a hand to the runes on either side of his knees. They pulsed with mana, a chain of light and energy running along the floor and into Alarion’s mace.

  “Ah,” Alarion said sheepishly as he sank back on his knees. He fumbled around at his sides until he found the runes, then cycled his mana until he was able to activate the runes. The floor erupted in a dazzling display. Then Bergman yelped.

  “I said fill, not flood,” the young man complained, shaking his hands as though he’d touched a hot stove. He continued cussing under his breath for several moments, then scowled as he finally met Alarion’s gaze, and realization set in. “You can’t control your output here at all, can you?”

  “A little?” Alarion offered. He was better at it than he’d been during those everwick tests so many years earlier, but only marginally. The floor hadn’t exploded, so that was a positive. “Are you alright?”

  “J-Just a little damage and a minor condition,” Bergman reassured him. “Nothing to worry about and only m-myself to blame. D-Do you have any way to tone it down?”

  “I have more control if I am touching the mace,” Alarion suggested.

  “O-Okay. Yeah. L-Lets do that,” Bergman agreed wholeheartedly. This time, he waited for Alarion to fill the object with his mana before pushing against it, though even with the reduced flow, he found it challenging, “Can you tone it d-down a little?”

  “I am trying.”

  “T-Try harder.”

  It took nearly an hour to find a functional middle ground, though it was far from comfortable for either of them. Alarion fell back on old techniques, pinning large bundles of mana within himself before allowing the remainder to flow into the mace. At the same time, Bergman relied on sheer brute force to push back against mana that was far more attuned to the item than his own.

  It wasn’t easy, but they did it.

  “S-so what do you see?” Bergman asked.

  “You are blocking off parts of the existing channels,” Alarion answered, after a moment of study. “No, you aren’t blocking them. You are segmenting them. Cutting some in half, others into thirds or quarters, but the flow is uninterrupted.”

  “T-That’s good, what else?”

  Alarion saw nothing else, but the question presupposed that he was missing something. So rather than reply, he focused. It was difficult to do while managing his mana flow, akin to reading a book while hopping on one leg and tapping his head with a hand, but over the next few minutes, he studied the item to the best of his abilities.

  Until at last he found it.

  “Some of my mana is bleeding off from the inscribed channels,” he said. “It is running parallel and then reconnects further up the chain.”

  “G-Good, you can see it. You can let go.”

  Both men felt a weight fall from their shoulders as they released their grip on the weapon and the runes, respectively. While far from the worst thing Alarion had ever experienced, he was far from a fan of the dull headache and the distant ringing in his ears that resulted from such intense concentration, and Bergman hardly looked any better.

  “Are you alright?”

  The young Ashadi scowled this time, “S-stop asking. I am n-not that fragile.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I-It’s fine.” If anything, Bergman seemed more embarrassed about his own outburst. “So, what I was d-doing there was restricting the flow of mana to the proper channels, both to help you recognize them, and then to force overflow into the ones you didn’t mark.”

  “Proper channels…” Alarion mused, studying his weapon.

  Like most of his memories of Valentina, his recollection of inscribing the mace was somewhat fragmented, but the challenge dungeon had let him keep most of the details. He understood the purpose of each golden line and crimson sigil, how they were connected, and why some were placed more prominently than others. He also remembered why certain lines were thicker than others, and he could not for the life of him understand why fragmenting them would be ‘proper’.

  His face must have said as much, as Bergman finally interrupted his thoughts. “Y-Your work was good, for rank I, but remember, you’re better at it now than you w-were then.”

  Refinement, Bergman had called it. On a hunch, Alarion reached out and touched the mace again. Then he took a focusing breath and said, “Empowered Mend Body.”

  A wave of vital energy washed over him in search of an injury to heal. When it found none, the energy began to condense, bringing a sense of sickening nausea with it; soon after, a notification appeared at the corner of his vision.

  The spell was dangerous if kept up indefinitely without an injury to heal, but even with Bergman’s condensation field spiking his regeneration, he’d run through his MP in roughly a minute, well before any side-effects set in.

  Ignoring the system prompt, Alarion focused on his mace. In particular, he concentrated on one of the areas most affected by Bergman’s pushback, a small section of connections surrounding the communion rune that linked the Body, Reality, and Earth affinities. The golden lines there were thick and uncomplicated, one of the simpler parts of the whole design, something he’d been proud of at the time he made it. But now that he knew to look, both with Bergman’s help and the vastly improved precision of [Unraveller’s Sense], Alarion could see the flaws.

  At first, he thought that the straight line connecting the Body sigil to the communion rune was thicker than it needed to be, but that wasn’t quite right. The whole system of connections had been explained to him as a series of pipelines; they needed to be thick enough to permit sufficient mana flow while maximizing pressure. He’d done that well enough at the time, but looking at it with new eyes, he understood how surface-level the analogy had been.

  The liquid metal of his Inscription tools served as the conduit for the mana to flow within the mace; but the mace itself was not a perfectly flat surface. There were dips and divots imperceptible to the human eye or touch, a thousand minor imperfections that were meaningless on their own but could be far more significant in the aggregate. Worse still, the underlying metals of both the mace and the inscription kit were impure. Mana flowed more easily in some places than others, taking the path of least resistance and overloading some parts of the inscription while completely ignoring others. At the most extreme, the mana occasionally jumped off the diagram entirely, taking a shorter path through the far less mana-reactive metal of the mace and bleeding out most of its power as a result.

  There were hundreds of small improvements that Alarion could already see. He owed Bergman an apology. The design Valentina had approved—with one core rune at the crown of the mace connected to his primary Affinities by a system of hubs—was flawless. It was his execution that was the problem. He’d connected each rune with single, straight lines, but he’d drastically misunderstood the amount he needed and the way mana would travel within the implement.

  Most of his connections were twice the width they needed to be—if not more—because of that lack of efficiency, but it wouldn’t be as simple as just shaving off the sides. They needed to be carved up, split from one thick line into two, or three, or four that represented the path the mana actually wanted to travel. In a perfect world, he’d strip them to their bones, rewriting each from the ground up with an ideal path. But what would that even look like?

  Alarion blinked a few times as a memory struck him like a slap in the face.

  He was staring at a wall, a complicated mess of a mana control puzzle. He’d been at it for what felt like hours, splitting his attention between the excruciating mana exercise and beating some sort of… water man to death. The memory was vivid, but broken, like still images of a recollection rather than the whole thing, but it was enough. He remembered the entire puzzle.

  It was very much like Valentina, from what little he’d been able to remember of her, to hint at a future struggle within an early lesson. Each challenge and reward from her dungeon had built upon the last, with [Introverted Mana Sense] leading to his binding and pinning techniques, which had been critical tools in his final struggle against Lal Viren’s gaze.

  She’d known that he would revise his work when he was ready. And she’d given him the blueprint for a perfect implement.