The training hall yawned before Ian, its vaulted ceiling lost in shafts of mid‐morning light. Polished flagstones, each etched with swirling wind‐glyphs, gleamed under high arched windows. A dozen Air‐magic novices stood in a wide semi‐circle, their white and sky‐blue robes fanning out like petals in a breeze—and at the edge of their circle, Ian felt every pair of eyes burn into his back. His heart thundered; every breath tasted of ozone and possibility.
At the hall's center, Master Aeris waited. She was tall and lithe, with storm-silver hair bound in a single braid, and her presence was all quiet authority. She raised both arms in a graceful arc. Instantly, the air before her shimmered, ripples like heat rising off desert sands. A loose silk cloth, left on a nearby pedestal, lifted into a swirling dervish, spinning in perfect circles as though choreographed by the wind itself. The novices watched in respectful silence; Ian could almost hear the crackle of latent power humming through the chamber.
"Gift of Illyra," Aeris's voice was soft but carried to every corner of the hall, "demonstrates the raw harmony of air and intent. Now, mirror my motion." She lowered one hand, palm outward. The cloth eased to rest on the pedestal as the ripple in the air stilled like water finding shore.
Ian swallowed. He stepped forward on legs that felt made of molten lead. Master Aeris's pale eyes met his, and in their calm depths Ian saw both challenge and promise. He raised his trembling hand, fingers brushing the very air. A hush fell, thick as fog. Then—at the barest thought—pale blue motes, flecked with inner lightning, coalesced at his fingertip. They flickered, swelled, and with a crack like distant thunder, a slender stream of air shot upward.
A gasp broke the silence. Ian's heart vaulted as the runes on the floor blazed with soft azure light, amplifying the pulse he felt in his chest. He tasted the sharp tang of ozone on his tongue; every nerve sang. The novices exhaled in unison, a collective breath of wonder that rippled through the semicircle.
Master Aeris's lips curved into a small, proud smile. She stepped forward, the air around her parting like water around a prow. "Hold it steady," she instructed, her voice a steadying anchor. Ian coaxed the stream of air into a gentle arc, its edges humming with raw energy. For a moment, he lived fully in that perfect edge between control and abandon.
Then, as if persuaded by a silent command, the air‐form dissipated. The luminous motes winked out, and Ian lowered his hand. The hall was still for the briefest heartbeat—then applause exploded, echoing against stone and rune. Novices stamped their sandals, and some let out cheers that rippled through the crowd.
A sudden draft swept through the hall as the great doors at one end swung open. Cherry-blossom petals, stirred by an outside breeze, drifted inward in swirling patterns. They danced at Ian's feet, a living echo of his triumph. He caught the petals fluttering in his palm and pressed them to his chest, cheeks aflame.
Master Aeris inclined her head. "You have a rare gift," she said, voice soft amid the celebration. "I will report your aptitude directly to Archmage Ilyana."
Ian's chest tightened. The promise in her words was both an honor and a new weight. He met her gaze and inclined his head. "Thank you, Master Aeris. I will learn."
Among the watching novices, a few exchanged wary glances—some eager, some unsettled. Ian sensed rivalry flicker in their eyes. He straightened, letting the echoes of his first victory settle in his bones.
Beyond the hall, he knew, the grand courtyard awaited—and with it, the morning's tournament where every ounce of his fledgling power would be tested before temple and court alike. As petals settled and the apprentices' cheers died to murmurs, Ian inhaled the scent of polished stone and fresh air, his resolve hardening like runestone under wind. His first breath of true magic had been taken—and the next would claim his destiny.