Chapter 16
Kelan stepped hesitantly into the wide courtyard, his footsteps echoing against sandstone archways that soared above. The Imperial Academy's advanced telekinesis training grounds lay before him: an open-air space reminiscent of a madrasa's courtyard, complete with a shallow fountain at its center. Morning light poured through the colonnades and danced on the surface of the water, casting rippling reflections onto carved pillars. This is it, he thought, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. The beauty of the surroundings did little to calm the flutter in his stomach. Today was his first session among the advanced telekinetics, and every fiber of his being brimmed with anxious energy.
He clutched his satchel of notes tighter as he scanned the gathering students. They formed small clusters across the courtyard's mosaic-tiled floor, each group of peers exchanging murmurs of anticipation. Unfamiliar faces everywhere—dozens of them, older and self-assured. Kelan felt a pang of isolation. Most of these students had likely been at the Academy longer than he had, some perhaps raised in noble families with private tutors instructing them from childhood. He tugged at the simple cotton of his academy-issued tunic, suddenly conscious of how plain he must appear next to those wearing embroidered robes and gleaming belts indicating higher status or rank.
At the far end of the courtyard, a tall instructor in dark flowing robes emerged beneath an archway, his presence commanding immediate silence. Master Dahan, Kelan recalled, the instructor for advanced telekinesis—stern, exacting, reputed never to smile during training. Dahan's gaze swept over the students with hawk-like intensity. Kelan straightened his back instinctively as those eyes briefly passed over him. Dahan continued forward, hands clasped behind him, and Kelan stood near the periphery of the courtyard, alone, unsure whether to approach any of the clusters of students. Instead, he fixed his attention on Master Dahan.
"Welcome to Advanced Kinesis," the instructor announced, voice resonating off the domed arcade encircling the courtyard. The tone was formal and clipped. "Today we begin with fundamentals. Advanced or not, you will demonstrate control and coordination from the ground up. Place your satchels aside. Form a circle around the fountain."
There was a rustle of motion as everyone obeyed. Kelan hurriedly set his leather satchel down by a pillar, careful not to let his shaking hands spill its contents of quills and parchment. He joined the outer edge of the forming circle. The sandstone beneath his boots felt cool even through the soles—perhaps a sign of how early the day still was. Across the fountain, he noticed a blond young man with a finely tailored vest smirking confidently. The young man—Kelan was almost certain he had heard someone call him Cassian—twirled a small sphere in the air above his palm absentmindedly as he took his place. Telekinesis, done with such casual ease it was like a parlor trick. Kelan felt a flicker of envy and self-doubt. He forced his eyes away, focusing instead on the instructor.
Master Dahan motioned with a slight wave of his hand. From the edges of the courtyard, wooden crates slid forward of their own accord, each lid popping open to reveal identical sets of objects. Kelan saw them clearly: a bronze coin, a quill, a thick leather-bound tome, a polished stone sphere about the size of a fist, and a small unlit candle. Five objects in total per student, neatly arranged. The crates stopped a few paces in front of each person in the circle, and Kelan realized with a start that Dahan had distributed them telekinetically with precise control—a feat that caused a few murmurs of appreciation among the students.
Without preamble, Dahan began the exercise. "Lift the coin," he said sharply.
Kelan took a steadying breath. One object, simple enough, he told himself. He extended his hand slightly, not because it was necessary, but because the gesture helped him focus his will. In his mind, he visualized reaching out—not with flesh, but with the invisible extension of his mind that he had been cultivating. The Mind's touch, his first mentor back home had called it: the projection of one's will into the world. Kelan located the coin in that inner sense, feeling the faint echo of its form and weight. The bronze coin trembled, jittered, and then rose a finger's width off the wooden crate. Kelan's heart skipped in excitement—he had done it, quickly and on the first try.
Around him, coins floated effortlessly for most of the students. A few even spun their coins playfully or moved them in lazy circles in the air, as if bored by the simplicity. Kelan held his coin aloft carefully at chest height, concentrating on maintaining an even pressure beneath it. The coin's metal surface glinted in the sunlight while tiny beads of sweat formed on Kelan's brow. Steady... steady, he urged himself. After a few moments, Master Dahan gestured, and everyone guided their coins gently back down to the crates.
"Quill," the instructor barked next.
Kelan exhaled slowly, releasing the tension from the first task, and centered himself for the second. A quill was lighter—oddly sometimes trickier to control due to its feathery asymmetry catching any stray breeze. He focused his mind again and felt for the quill's presence. With a gentle mental nudge, he coaxed it upward. The quill floated up, wobbling as an early morning gust swept through the courtyard. For an agonizing second, Kelan feared the draft would send the quill skittering away out of his control, but he adjusted, extending his other hand as if to calm the air around the quill. He imagined encasing the feather in a still bubble of force. It worked—the quill steadied, now hovering a foot above the crate.
Kelan allowed himself a small smile. Maybe I do belong here, he thought tentatively.
But then came the next command: "Tome."
The heavy leather-bound book. Kelan's stomach tightened. He had moved books before, back in the basic classes and on his own in the library reshelving practice, but never more than a slow slide across a table. Lifting one fully off the ground was another matter entirely. He watched as the other students around the circle turned to the thick volumes before them. Some raised hands confidently; a few tomes were already rising into the air. Across the fountain, he saw Cassian lazily flick his fingers—the large book in front of him leapt up as if yanked by an unseen cord, coming to rest waist-high in the air. Cassian didn't even bother to hold out his hand; he crossed his arms, watching the tome float with an almost bored expression.
Kelan tore his focus away from the show of ease. Envy and frustration bubbled up, threatening his concentration. Focus on your own task, he chided himself. One step at a time. He wiped his palms on his tunic, then extended them toward the tome. The cover was scuffed, the pages yellowed—a well-used volume, likely of theory. He fixated on the feel of it: dense with knowledge, and physically dense as well. Reaching with his mind, Kelan imagined finding purchase on the book as if grasping it with invisible hands.
The tome shuddered, its pages fluttering slightly as a hint of his power brushed it. Lift, he thought, pouring more will into it. His temples began to ache as he strained. Slowly, the book's corners lifted off the crate, tilting the volume onto its side. Kelan could feel its inertia resisting him. It was like trying to lift a sleeping animal that kept sagging down. He grit his teeth and summoned a reservoir of determination, pushing harder with his mind's touch. At last, the tome broke free of the crate's surface and wobbled upward into open air.
A surge of triumph filled Kelan—only to be shattered an instant later. The tome jerked in an erratic spasm as his concentration wavered from premature excitement. He tried to correct it, but too late—the heavy book slipped from his mental grasp. It fell, striking the crate's edge with a loud thud before bouncing to the stone floor in an explosion of dust and parchment. The sound echoed embarrassingly across the otherwise quiet courtyard.
Several heads turned. A few of the students snickered, the silence punctured by hushed laughter. Kelan's cheeks burned hot. He ducked his head and quickly knelt to retrieve the fallen tome with trembling hands. Stupid, I was careless, he berated himself silently. As he set the book back in place, he sensed Master Dahan's steely gaze on him.
"Again," Dahan said, not unkindly but firmly.
Kelan swallowed, nodding, though the instructor likely couldn't hear the gesture. He steadied himself, ignoring the lingering chuckles from his peers. Clear your mind. Try again, he told himself. This time he did not rush. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the cool morning air and the faint scent of jasmine from the courtyard's potted plants. The familiar fragrance reminded him of home for a heartbeat, of simpler practice sessions in an empty barn where he first discovered his gift. The memory calmed him.
On the exhale, he extended his mind to the tome once more. He visualized, not just grabbing the book, but surrounding it in a gentle cushion of force. Slowly, smoothly, rise, he urged. The tome lifted off the ground steadily now, enveloped in the telekinetic grip of his will. Inch by inch, it ascended until it hovered at knee height. Kelan's heartbeat drummed in his ears as he held it there, hands out and trembling slightly with effort though he touched nothing physical.
He heard footsteps as Master Dahan approached. The instructor circled behind Kelan, watching closely. The pressure of his presence was almost as heavy as the book itself. "Higher," came the quiet instruction from just over Kelan's shoulder.
Kelan bent his knees slightly, bracing as if he were physically about to bear a weight. He lifted the tome further. It rose to his waist, then chest. At chest level, he felt a dangerous wobble—his mind strained to keep the full weight aloft. It was like balancing a bowl of water on a tray with one hand; any shake in focus sent ripples. He fixed his gaze on the book's cover, picking out the embossed Imperial crest on the leather, using that detail to anchor his mind.
"Good," Master Dahan's voice sounded from just over his shoulder.
Relief and pride bloomed in Kelan's chest. He dared not smile yet; the challenge was not over. "Now, move it to your left, along the circle," Dahan continued.
Kelan nodded faintly. Lateral movement, he thought. Holding the tome steady, he slowly attempted to shift it sideways through the air. His control was uneven—the book dipped slightly, then corrected. It inched leftward from his position, and Kelan took a sidestep to follow, afraid to let it drift too far from directly in front of him.
He managed perhaps two yards of this cautious slide before fatigue gnawed at the edges of his concentration. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples. His head throbbed. The tome wavered again.
"That's enough. Gently down," Dahan instructed.
With gratitude, Kelan obeyed. He carefully lowered the heavy tome back into the crate. As soon as it settled, he released his mental hold, and the rush of relief that flooded him was almost dizzying. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. Now he gulped in air, feeling the coolness soothe his raw throat. His limbs felt weak, even though it was his mind that had done the heavy lifting.
Around the circle, other students were finishing the same task with varying degrees of success. A couple of books still hovered smoothly—one, Kelan noted ruefully, was Cassian's, which the young man now spun in a slow circle as if to flaunt his mastery. Another student, a petite girl with dark braided hair, had her tome hovering albeit shakily near the ground, determination etched on her face.
Kelan offered a small, understanding smile to her from across his crate, recognizing the strain in her eyes. She returned a tight grin before refocusing, and Kelan felt a little less alone. Not everyone here was perfect after all.
Master Dahan stepped back to the center of the circle. "By session's end, you all will hold the tome aloft as a minimum standard," he declared. His tone made it clear this was expectation, not aspiration. "Some of you already find this trivial. If so, you will push yourselves further—perhaps manage two tomes, or move to heavier objects. Those of you struggling, take heart. Control comes with practice and focus. Do not be discouraged by failure—learn from it." Kelan felt the instructor's words aimed at him and the few who had wavered. He stood up a bit straighter, absorbing the advice.
The session wore on. Under Master Dahan's watchful eye, they repeated the exercise multiple times. Kelan's arms ached from being held out—an instinctive but unnecessary mimicry of physical effort. Each attempt to raise the tome taxed him mentally. He failed twice more, once dropping the book entirely again (to a chorus of groans from one onlooker), and another time barely managing to catch it before it hit the crate. Frustration built inside him like a tightening coil with each mistake, but he remembered Dahan's counsel: learn from it.
He started to notice things—how a moment of panic or self-consciousness instantly made the object dip, how when he kept his breathing even the task felt marginally easier, how clenching his jaw too hard actually distracted him. Bit by bit, he adjusted. He tried different mental images: imagining the tome was weightless as a feather, envisioning a hundred invisible hands supporting it, picturing threads of energy cradling the book. Eventually, one of these visualizations clicked for him—the notion of threads. In his mind's eye, Kelan imagined fine, silken threads of light extending from his fingertips, wrapping around the tome and cinching tight just enough to hold it.
In the late morning sun, dust motes drifted lazily around them as books rose and fell, some under shaky control, others more confidently. The fountain's gentle burble provided a soothing backdrop to the otherwise silent concentration of dozens of minds at work. The scent of old paper, candle wax, and stone filled Kelan's nose with each breath. He tasted a hint of copper on his tongue—a sign of pushing his telekinetic ability to its limit, as if magic itself had a flavor of metal and ozone.
By the last quarter of the session, Kelan felt near exhaustion. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, and hunger gnawed at his stomach from the energy expended. Still, he persevered. On what Master Dahan announced would be their final attempt for the morning, Kelan centered himself one more time in front of the obstinate tome. Across the way, he caught a glimpse of Cassian rolling his shoulders nonchalantly, clearly not tired at all. Kelan dismissed the distraction and focused on the visualization of threads of light.
The book rose. Steadier this time than any before. Kelan drew it upward with a calm slowness, stopping at chest height. His threads of light held it firm, and he reinforced them with a mental whisper of hold. It hung there in the air, stable.
Now, for a final measure, Kelan dared to inch it sideways as he had before. The tome moved left, just a hand-span's distance—and remained aloft. He managed a slow stop, then carefully brought it back to center. A broad smile tugged at his lips. Sweat dripped from his chin, and his legs felt ready to collapse, but he had done it: he was holding the tome aloft, under control.
"Good," Master Dahan said quietly as he passed by Kelan. The single word of acknowledgment felt as rewarding as a round of applause.
Kelan gently placed the tome down into the crate, his entire body sagging with relief. A rush of pride warmed him. He glanced again across the courtyard and noticed Cassian regarding him, one eyebrow slightly raised—not quite a look of respect, but perhaps a flicker of surprise that Kelan had managed even that. Cassian's own book hovered alongside a second tome (which he must have appropriated from a neighbor's crate), a show of one-upmanship that Kelan found himself no longer envying quite so bitterly. For now, his single steady tome was victory enough.
As the session concluded, Master Dahan clapped his hands once. The wooden crates slid back toward the edges of the courtyard of their own accord, objects neatly returning to their places—except for one or two stray books whose students hadn't gotten them back in the box in time. Dahan hardly needed to reprimand those lagging; their sheepish faces and the prospect of extra practice were punishment enough.
"Next week we continue with multiple objects and fine control. Dismissed," the instructor announced.
A gentle sigh rippled through the group. Students began to disperse, stretching limbs and rubbing temples. The low buzz of chatter resumed now that concentration was no longer demanded. Some compared experiences—Kelan overheard snippets of a conversation between two girls marveling at how one boy managed to juggle the stone sphere and the coin simultaneously. Another pair laughed about nearly dropping the candle.
Kelan remained standing by his crate for a moment longer, closing his eyes and simply breathing. The cool air on his sweat-damp face felt heavenly. He had survived his first advanced session. It had been humbling—he had stumbled in front of everyone—but he also ended on a note of success.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the blond boy Cassian sauntering off with a couple of admirers in tow, boasting about some technique his personal tutor had taught him. Kelan chose not to linger on those words. Instead, he bent to pick up his satchel, shoulders aching dully. His fingers brushed the worn leather cover of the tome he had worked so hard to lift, now resting innocently in the crate. In a quiet moment of curiosity, Kelan wondered what knowledge the book contained—was it theory he already knew, or advanced principles he had yet to learn? The thought passed as he slung his satchel over his shoulder.
Stepping away from the courtyard, Kelan felt the sun's rays stronger now as midday approached. The fountain burbled behind him and the silhouettes of domes and spires of the Academy loomed ahead as he walked toward the cloistered arcade. In the shadows of the walkway, where intricate geometric patterns played across the floor from the lattice above, Kelan allowed himself a small, proud grin. Despite the exhaustion and despite the embarrassment of failure, he had held a tome aloft by session's end.
It was just one book, but it was a start. And in the journey of mastering telekinetic magic, he knew now more than ever that small victories were the foundation upon which great strength was built. With renewed resolve, Kelan headed off to a much-needed lunch, the taste of achievement sweetening every step.
Chapter 17
Sunlight filtered through the high, latticed windows of the domed practice hall, painting patterns of gold across the polished marble floor. Kelan stood near the back of the hall, shoulders squared as he tried to quell the nervous energy bouncing inside him. Today's advanced telekinesis session was already in full swing, and Master Dahan had wasted no time in raising the difficulty. Instead of the open courtyard, the class convened indoors beneath a vast dome frescoed with intertwining sigils and constellations. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint scent of lamp oil and old parchment from the alcoves of scrolls that lined the circular walls. The quiet that hung under the dome was intense – every shuffling footstep or heavy breath from a struggling student seemed amplified against the curved ceiling.
At the center of the hall, Master Dahan's stern voice cut through the stillness. "Focus! Precision over power," he reminded, arms folded behind his back as he paced. Arrayed in front of each student was a new challenge: three objects of varying weight and shape – a quill, a leather sand-filled pouch, and a metal rod about a foot long. The task sounded simple in theory: lift all three at once and hold them aloft in a stable configuration. In practice, it was proving to be a trial of coordination and mental endurance.
Kelan swallowed hard as he regarded the objects before him on his own small carpeted square. He felt a film of sweat on his palms despite the chill of the hall. Yesterday's success with a single tome felt distant now; three objects at once was an entirely different game. Calm down. You can do this, one step at a time, he told himself, inhaling deeply.
At Master Dahan's signal, the students began. Kelan closed his eyes for a heartbeat, shutting out the intimidating sight of others already levitating their items. He spread his stance slightly, feet firm on the marble for grounding, and raised his hands to chest level, palms outward. Though gestures weren't strictly necessary, the motion helped him channel his concentration.
First, the quill – light as a feather, literally. He found it with his mind's touch quickly; it almost leapt up at his beckoning, hovering with its tip quivering an inch above the floor. Next, the pouch of sand – far heavier for its small size, perhaps a pound or two. Kelan furrowed his brow and envisioned a second tendril of force coiling around the pouch and lifting. The pouch wobbled, then rose to join the quill, though keeping it steady was like trying to balance a stone atop a spring. Lastly, the metal rod – it was dense, iron probably, and ungainly in shape. Kelan grit his teeth and extended yet a third strand of will toward it. A faint tingling started behind his eyes as he exerted himself.
The rod trembled, skittered slightly on the floor, then slowly crept upward, dragging one end as if reluctant. Kelan's heart thumped. He now had all three objects in the air – just barely. He opened his eyes to gauge their positions. The quill floated a few feet up, the pouch at knee height, the rod somewhere in between, tilted. They were not aligned or controlled in any elegant way, but they were off the ground.
Across the hall, a sudden clang echoed as someone's rod dropped onto stone. The dome's acoustics made every failure public. Kelan winced in sympathy and nearly lost hold of his own items at the distraction. His quill dipped before he caught it mentally. He tightened his focus, blocking out the groans of frustration from his peers and the sharp comments from Master Dahan rebuking the student who dropped the rod.
"Keep them level, Cassian. Show them how it's done," Dahan's voice rang out a moment later, taking on a slightly sharper edge. Kelan glanced toward the front-row center where Cassian stood. Of course Cassian had claimed the prominent spot. The tall, blond noble-born barely even flinched at the instructor's call. In front of him, not three but five objects orbited in a slow display – he had apparently added two extra metal rods from a neighboring set for good measure. Cassian managed them all effortlessly, arraying them in a neat spinning pentagon formation. A few nearby students cast awed looks at the performance.
Kelan felt a stab of frustration and envy twist in his chest. His own trio of items jittered in the air as his concentration wavered with that emotion. He quickly refocused his gaze on his uneven array. Ignore Cassian. Focus. The reminder came with bitterness. It was hard to ignore someone making the challenge look like child's play.
Master Dahan strode past Kelan's position, his hands clasped behind him. "Steadier, Kelan," he admonished, voice low but firm as he observed Kelan's trembling objects. Kelan flushed and nodded quickly, pouring more of himself into stabilizing the items. His quill was bobbing like a caught fish on a line, and the sand pouch oscillated precariously. Only the iron rod remained mostly still, perhaps because he was focusing on it the most.
As Dahan moved on, Kelan grit his teeth. He adjusted his stance again and took a careful breath. If Cassian could handle five, he should at least manage three, he thought. Carefully, he tried to align the three objects, coaxing them toward each other in front of him. The quill drifted closer to the rod, and the pouch below them. For a moment, he almost had them in a tidy little cluster mid-air.
A voice broke the silence – smooth and just loud enough to carry. "Is that the best you can manage, three objects?" Cassian drawled, ostensibly to no one in particular but clearly intended for someone's ears. "If this is advanced class, I shudder to think of the remedial ones."
Kelan's jaw clenched. The quill wobbled wildly; he nearly dropped it before catching the motion. Across the hall, Cassian hadn't even turned around as he spoke, his attention still on his own floating ensemble. A couple of quiet chuckles arose from some of Cassian's friends.
Heat rose in Kelan's face. He felt a flicker of anger ignite – anger at Cassian's arrogance, at his own weakness, at the unfairness of it. For a heartbeat, that anger surged through his veins and his concentration sharpened unnaturally. The quill snapped upward to the exact level of the rod; the pouch ceased swaying and hung tautly under his mental grip. All three of Kelan's objects suddenly stood perfectly still in the air, aligned in a column.
Surprised by the sudden stability, Kelan almost lost it again. His heart pounded as he wrestled to maintain this new precarious balance born of frustration. Master Dahan noticed the improvement and gave a curt nod from across the room, mistaking Kelan's fierce focus for disciplined progress.
Yet Kelan's triumph was brittle, upheld by emotion rather than calm skill. As the wave of anger receded, fatigue crashed in. The tingling in his skull flared into a spike of pain behind his eyes. His control faltered. He felt the quill quiver and the rod sag downward.
"No..." he hissed under his breath, trying to hold on. But the brief spike of power was gone. The quill slipped from his mental grasp first, fluttering to the floor. A second later the iron rod lurched out of alignment and clattered down beside the quill with a dull thud. Kelan managed to ease the sand pouch down more gently, avoiding a loud drop, but the defeat was plain.
Three objects on the floor. He had failed the exercise outright.
Kelan's cheeks burned hotter now than they had when Cassian taunted him. He quickly crouched to collect the items, waves of disappointment and embarrassment rolling through him. As he snatched up the fallen quill and rod, he heard footsteps approaching – not Master Dahan's measured stride, but lighter, hesitant steps.
"Kelan, are you all right?" came a soft whisper.
He glanced up to see Sera kneeling down opposite him, helping gather the scattered objects. Sera's auburn hair was pulled back in a braid, a few wisps clinging to her temples from her own exertions. Her gray eyes met Kelan's with concern and a gentle warmth that cut through his haze of self-reproach.
"I'm fine," Kelan mumbled, though the tightness in his throat betrayed the lie. He clutched the iron rod in one hand and the quill in the other, not quite meeting her gaze. "Just lost focus."
Sera offered him the sand pouch she had picked up. "It's all right. This exercise is... well, it's much harder than Master Dahan makes it sound," she said quietly. Kelan took the pouch from her and managed a weak half-smile.
Around them, a few other students were likewise retrieving dropped items or rubbing temples after overexertion. Master Dahan was at the front again, giving general feedback with his arms crossed, highlighting the better performances and pointedly not dwelling on the failures by name. Kelan was grateful the instructor chose not to single him out.
He and Sera rose to their feet. "Thanks," Kelan whispered to her, meaning not just for helping pick up the objects but for the understanding in her tone. Sera had always been kind – they'd become friends during the first term at the Academy, bonding over long evenings in the library and shared amazement at the magic they were learning. He realized now that in yesterday's overwhelming first advanced class, he'd barely even noticed her presence among the crowd. She must have been practicing on the far side of the courtyard then, but here in the hall she had taken a spot only two places away from him.
She gave him a small encouraging nod. "We'll get it next time."
Before Kelan could reply, Master Dahan clapped for attention, signaling the end of that round. "Reset your objects. We will run the sequence again," the instructor announced. A collective groan was stifled by the more dutiful students. Dahan did not miss the dismay; his eyes narrowed. "Complaints won't strengthen your mind. Again!" he barked.
Quickly, Kelan set the quill, rod, and pouch back in their starting spots on the floor. His muscles were stiff; even though telekinesis was mental, the stress always seemed to snake into his physical body – neck tense, knees locked. As he prepared for the second attempt, he allowed himself a sidelong glance at Sera. She offered a subtle smile of solidarity, then turned to face her own set of objects.
He would try again. For himself, and maybe a little for her, too.
The second run went no easier. Kelan managed to lift all three objects again but keeping them level and steady was torment. His earlier burst of angry focus had left him with a lingering headache that muddled his concentration. Halfway through, his sand pouch started a dangerous oscillation. This time, anticipating a failure, Kelan chose to relinquish it deliberately before he caused another loud incident. He lowered the pouch down with a controlled drop to the floor, then followed with the quill and rod rather than juggle hopelessly. It felt a bit like capitulation, but at least it was orderly.
Others were still struggling too – he was far from the only one. To his surprise, even Sera let her quill slip; she caught it deftly before it hit the ground, cheeks puffing with a held breath. The exercise was taxing everyone. Well, almost everyone.
Cassian, of course, remained a picture of effortless prowess. Kelan could not help but steal a glance toward him again after finishing his attempt. Cassian had, if anything, increased the complexity further – he was now reclining his posture slightly, one hand behind his back in an affected pose of boredom, while five objects still orbited him and, unbelievably, he maintained a sixth object – a second sand pouch – stationary above his head like a halo. He appeared to be carrying on a light conversation with the student next to him even as he did this, as if multitasking on mundane chores rather than engaging in strenuous magic.
The sight made Kelan's stomach twist. It wasn't just Cassian's talent – clearly the product of years of expensive tutoring and maybe natural gift – it was the casual arrogance that dripped from every movement. Cassian finally let his array of objects down when Master Dahan called an end, and he did so with a little flourishing twirl of the metal rods, just to show off.
"As expected, some of you have much work to do," Master Dahan said in a hard tone, sweeping his gaze around the room as the last objects thumped or clicked back onto floors and tables. His eyes lingered briefly on the clusters of fallen items near several students – including the two at Kelan's feet. Kelan stared down at them, wishing he could sink into the floor.
"And some of you," Dahan continued, "seem to think you have nothing to learn." This time his eyes landed on Cassian, who was now leaning against a pillar, wiping an imaginary speck of dust off his embroidered sleeve. Cassian looked up with a bland expression at the instructor's words.
The stern mentor walked to the center of the hall. "Control without humility can be as dangerous as power without discipline," Master Dahan said, voice echoing. "Those who excel – don't grow complacent. Those who struggle – don't lose heart. We continue tomorrow at dawn sharp. Dismissed."
It was as much respite as they were going to get today. A few sighs of relief sounded as students relaxed, bending to gather their belongings. Kelan exhaled slowly, feeling drained and demoralized. While others shuffled out in twos and threes, murmuring about the difficulty of the lesson, he busied himself rolling the ache out of his shoulders and neatly stacking his practice objects back into their designated box on the side of the hall. The headache from earlier still throbbed at his temples.
Cassian's laughter rang out from near the exit – he was joking with a couple of his cronies. "...perhaps they ought to separate the wheat from the chaff a bit sooner," Kelan overheard as the group sauntered out through the grand double doors of the practice hall. His cheeks flared again, and he kept his back turned, pretending to concentrate on fastening his satchel. The words stung because they voiced Kelan's own fear: that maybe he truly wasn't cut out for this advanced training, that he was the chaff in Cassian's metaphor.
A gentle touch on his arm pulled him from those dark thoughts. "Hey," Sera said softly. She stood beside him, her satchel already slung over her shoulder. Most of the other students had left now, their chatter fading down the corridor. Under the dome, it was just the two of them and the distant footsteps of Master Dahan exiting another way.
Kelan forced a smile. "Hey," he replied, trying to muster some lightness.
Sera tilted her head, studying him with concern. "Don't let Cassian get under your skin. He baits everyone."
Kelan let out a bitter chuckle. "Seems I'm the easiest target today."
"He's a peacock," Sera said, her nose wrinkling in a mix of disdain and amusement. "All showy feathers, not as magnificent as he thinks."
That drew a more genuine smile from Kelan. He appreciated that she didn't simply scold him for faltering, but instead poked a little fun at Cassian to lift his spirits. They began walking out together under the dome's archway, their footsteps echoing. The afternoon light slanted through the doorway, and Kelan realized with some surprise that they had been practicing for hours; his stomach growled quietly, reminding him he had skipped the midday meal to squeeze in extra reading before class.
"I just... I really struggled today," Kelan admitted after a silence as they walked down the hall lined with columns. The corridor opened out into one side of a cloistered courtyard. In the shade of the arched walkway, vines of ivy climbed the pillars, and a mild breeze brought the smell of blooming chamomile from a nearby herb garden. The calm was a stark contrast to the turmoil in his head.
Sera slowed her pace with him. "It was a hard lesson," she acknowledged. "I fumbled a few times too." She lifted her chin slightly. "You saw I nearly dropped my quill, right?"
Kelan managed a half-smile. "You caught it, though."
"Barely. My point is, you're not alone." She stopped walking and turned to face him directly. "Do you remember our first month here, when I couldn't even levitate a spoon and you spent an entire evening coaching me through it?"
He did remember. The two of them in a quiet corner of the dormitory common room, Sera frustrated to tears over a stubborn wooden spoon that refused to budge, and he himself just a novice but trying to share what little trick of calm focus he had learned. Eventually, she had gotten that spoon to float. The joy on her face then was unforgotten.
"You've come so far since then," Kelan pointed out. "Now you're here in the advanced class too, holding multiple things at once."
"And so have you," Sera said gently. "Yesterday I watched you lift that tome in the courtyard. That was amazing, Kelan. Truly. I was proud of you."
He lowered his eyes, feeling a flush that wasn't entirely from shame this time. To hear that she had been quietly observing and taking pride in his success warmed him. "It took me far too many tries," he muttered.
"That doesn't matter. You persisted." Sera touched his arm again, lightly. "Master Dahan is right about one thing: don't lose heart. Steady growth, remember? Incremental progress. Every day a little better than the last."
Kelan drew in a breath, then nodded. "Incremental progress," he echoed. It sounded like something one of their old theory instructors, Mistress Arala, would say – in fact it might have been exactly what she often drilled into them: small steps lead to big leaps.
Sera smiled. "Exactly. You belong here as much as anyone. Don't let Cassian or your own doubts convince you otherwise."
In the quiet of the late afternoon, as students milled distantly in other parts of the Academy, Kelan allowed Sera's words to sink in. The tension in his shoulders eased a little. He gazed out across the sunlit courtyard beyond the arches. A few apprentices from another class were crossing the yard, their laughter echoing lightly, carefree after whatever lesson they'd completed. One of the distant roofs beyond the courtyard was a shallow dome, gleaming in the sun – the top of the very hall where they had trained. Seeing it from here, detached from the intensity inside, it seemed almost tranquil.
"Steady steps," Kelan said quietly. "Sometimes I wish I could just leap ahead instead."
Sera chuckled. "I know. But think of it this way – a leap is just a bunch of steps taken all at once. You still have to gather the strength for it. We're gathering that strength now, even if it doesn't feel like it." She shifted her satchel on her shoulder and gently nudged him with her elbow. "And one day, you'll leap so far Cassian won't know what happened."
Kelan actually laughed at that – a soft, genuine laugh that dispelled the last of the day's gloom from his mind. "I'll hold you to that prophecy," he said.
They resumed walking, leaving the shadows of the cloister and emerging into the golden sunlight. As they headed toward the student dining hall in search of a well-earned meal, Kelan reflected that the day's struggles, while humbling, were also shaping him. Each stumble taught him more about his own limits – and how to overcome them bit by bit.
Cassian's effortless control still grated on him, and likely would for some time, but with Sera's companionship the sting was less sharp. He had allies here, and mentors, and the drive to improve. The frustration he felt was real, but so was his determination.
"Tomorrow at dawn, then," he said aloud, remembering Dahan's instruction that they'd continue first thing in the morning.
Sera groaned playfully, rolling her eyes. "I'm not a morning person. But I'll be there," she said, grinning. "See? You're already one step ahead – you wake up early to practice, I've noticed."
Kelan shrugged, a bit sheepish. "Only because my nerves won't let me sleep in."
"Whatever the reason, it's an advantage," Sera remarked.
They walked on in companionable silence for a moment. The path took them by one of the Academy's decorative pools. The water reflected the orange hues of the late-day sky. Kelan paused to dip his fingertips, the cool water washing away the sweat and reminding him that even the most turbulent waters could become still with time.
As he straightened, he looked at Sera. "Thank you," he said sincerely.
She inclined her head, a few strands of her hair catching the sunlight. "For what?"
"For reminding me why I'm here. And that I'm not alone in this," he said.
Sera's smile in return was bright. "Always, Kelan."
Together they stepped through the archway toward the dining hall, the smell of spiced bread and stew already wafting out to greet them. Kelan's stomach rumbled again, this time without shame. He earned that hunger with hard work. As he followed Sera inside, he thought of Master Dahan's words, of Cassian's sneer, of Sera's encouragement. The day had tested him, but it had not broken him. In fact, he felt a renewed resolve forming, tempered by humility and bolstered by friendship.
He might not have mastered the exercise today, but tomorrow was another opportunity – another step on that steady climb upward. And Kelan intended to keep climbing, one measured, determined step at a time.
Chapter 18
A dry breeze whispered through the Academy's grand south courtyard, carrying with it a hint of spice and sand. Kelan squinted against the late-morning sun that bathed the open space in golden light. Today, the Imperial Academy hosted visitors from the desert provinces, and the atmosphere was charged with both excitement and nervous curiosity. Students from two different worlds milled about the courtyard, forming pairs at the instruction of the mentors. The courtyard itself was an impressive space: a broad expanse of sandy earth ringed by cloistered arches. Colorful awnings had been stretched between some columns to cast patches of shade for those unaccustomed to the sun's intensity. At the center burbled a narrow reflecting pool rather than a fountain – its surface shimmered with distorted reflections of the surrounding arcades and a lone date palm at one end.
Kelan wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It was warmer than usual this morning; whether by coincidence or design, the joint session took place under conditions more akin to the visitors' homeland. He stood at one edge of the courtyard, waiting to learn who his partner would be for the collaborative exercise. His heart fluttered with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. He had never met a practitioner from the desert lands before. From a distance, he watched the newcomers with open curiosity.
They were hard to miss – their attire set them apart from the imperial students' simple tunics and trousers. The desert students wore flowing robes of light cotton in earth-tone hues, embroidered with intricate patterns along the hems and sleeves. Many had headscarves or turbans to cover against the sun; a few wore jewelry that glinted in the light – amulets and bracelets etched with symbols. One tall young man in a sand-colored robe had his hands marked with henna in looping designs that Kelan suspected might be magical sigils. Another carried a curved wooden staff carved with runes, though he left it propped against a pillar while preparing for the exercises. The visitors ranged in age similar to Kelan and his classmates, and all bore the same mix of determination and apprehension in their expressions.
Master Dahan stood with another instructor near a raised dais to one side of the courtyard. That other mentor was a woman in flowing teal robes, clearly from the desert delegation – perhaps their lead instructor. Together, they called for attention. "Today we bridge techniques," announced Master Dahan, his deep voice projecting across the yard. "You will work with a partner from the other academy. Observe, learn, and adapt. There is no single correct way to touch the mind to magic."
The desert mentor, with a melodic accent, added, "Through cooperation, you may find strength beyond what you achieve alone. Trust one another and respect each other's ways." Her eyes swept over the assembled pairs. "Begin by introducing yourselves to your partner, please."
Kelan exhaled and scanned for whom he'd been paired with. A moment later, a slender figure approached him from the cluster of visitors. She was a young woman perhaps around his age. She wore a loose-fitting robe dyed in shades of deep blue and orange reminiscent of a desert sunset. A gauzy shawl covered her hair, with a few dark curls escaping around her cheeks. Kelan noticed delicate geometric motifs embroidered in golden thread along the edges of her shawl – possibly decorative, possibly sigils. She gave him a tentative smile.
"You are Kelan?" she asked softly. Her pronunciation of his name was careful, each syllable distinct.
"Yes," Kelan replied, offering a polite bow of his head. "Kelan Morian. And you're my partner for today?"
She mirrored his bow with a graceful incline. "I am Nima. From the Sahi Oasis Academy." Her voice held a rhythmic lilt. Even in a simple introduction, her words felt almost like part of a song.
"It's nice to meet you, Nima," Kelan said, managing a friendly smile despite his nerves. He realized he had been unconsciously wringing his hands and forced himself to stop. "I've never done a joint session like this. I'm… looking forward to learning how you work magic."
Nima's dark eyes lit up in agreement. "As am I. We have heard much about the Imperial Academy's techniques. It is an honor to train together."
Before they could converse further, Master Dahan clapped once. Around them, other pairs were beginning to focus on the tasks at hand. "All pairs, prepare for the exercise," he called.
At various points in the courtyard, objects had been laid out for the collaborative challenge. Kelan guided Nima's attention to their setup a few paces away. On the ground between them rested a large wooden crate, and atop it sat a single object: a bronze sphere, polished and about the size of a watermelon. In the sun, it gleamed like a giant golden pearl. Kelan's eyebrows rose slightly at the sight. It looked heavy – far heavier than anything he could easily lift alone with telekinesis. That must be the point, he realized. Two students, working in tandem, were likely needed to lift and manipulate this weighty sphere.
Nima stepped forward, examining the sphere with a mix of fascination and caution. "An astḗrolabe," she said slowly, the word rolling strangely in Kelan's ears.
"An astrolabe?" he echoed, recognizing the root of the word. Indeed, the sphere had faint engravings of star patterns and lines across its surface – a three-dimensional astronomical tool, perhaps. It reminded him of the smaller brass astrolabes he'd seen in the Academy's observatory, but this was a different design: spherical rather than flat. Possibly a cultural variation from Nima's land.
"Yes, a star-globe for navigation," Nima clarified. "Though I think this one has been modified for our lesson – likely solid metal inside." She ran her fingertips just above its surface, not quite touching. "It is very heavy," she surmised.
Kelan nodded, stepping to the opposite side of the crate so the sphere lay between them. "We're probably meant to lift it together, maybe move it to that pedestal over there," he said, pointing to a stone pedestal placed about ten yards away. Many other pairs had similar setups: heavy objects and a target location.
Nima followed his gesture and drew a slow breath. "Understood." She flashed him an eager smile. "Shall we try?"
Kelan felt a bit relieved by her enthusiasm. "Yes. On three?"
Nima nodded and took up a stance, feet apart. She lifted her hands in front of her, palms hovering towards the sphere. Kelan mirrored her on his side. He closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself as he had been trained: calm mind, clear intent, envision the goal. He would extend his telekinetic reach to the sphere and push it upward. Nima would likely do the same from her side. Together they'd carry the weight.
"One… two… three," Kelan counted softly.
On three, he thrust his will out toward the bronze sphere. Immediately, he felt its considerable mass resisting him – like trying to lift a sleeping ox. Simultaneously, a sound met his ears: Nima's voice, low and resonant, intoning words in a language he didn't understand. It wasn't a shout or a single word of power; it was a flowing chant, a string of syllables that formed a gentle melody. The surprise of hearing his partner start to sing – was it a prayer? an incantation? – nearly broke Kelan's focus. His eyes snapped open on reflex.
Nima continued chanting, eyes half-lidded in concentration. To his astonishment, the bronze sphere began to tremble, then slowly rise from the crate. Kelan hurried to bolster his own effort. He visualized getting his mental arms under the sphere, lifting firmly. The sphere responded haltingly – it wobbled and lifted another few inches. A grin flickered across Kelan's face; they were doing it.
But a moment later, he realized it wasn't as smooth as it could be. The sphere lurched erratically, tipping toward Kelan's side, then back toward Nima. His mental grip felt slippery. Meanwhile, Nima's chant flowed steadily. Kelan noted that at certain cadences of her song, the sphere seemed to surge a bit higher, as if buoyed by the sound. Yet when he tried to adjust or correct the motion, his instincts didn't align with the rhythm of her magic.
The discord became more pronounced as they attempted to move the sphere forward through the air. Kelan gingerly directed it away from the crate, but it veered as if pulled by an unseen current. The bronze mass swung a yard to the left. His heart skipped – if they lost hold entirely, that heavy globe would crash hard, possibly even crack the tiles or worse, injure someone.
He reacted by pushing harder with his mind to stabilize it. Unintentionally, his action directly opposed Nima's flow – her chant had been guiding the sphere in a gentle arc, and Kelan's sudden counter-force made it jerk. The sphere shuddered between them; Kelan heard Nima gasp mid-chant. She faltered, stumbling a half step, and the melody broke for an instant.
That instant was enough. The telekinetic support under the bronze sphere collapsed. "Careful!" Kelan shouted, throwing both hands up reflexively as if to catch the hundreds of pounds of metal physically. He managed to slow its fall just enough with a desperate mental shove. The sphere thumped onto the sand of the courtyard rather than the hard tile, sinking a few inches into the ground. A plume of dust kicked up around it.
All around, other pairs paused to look, some objects wobbling in their distraction. Heat rushed to Kelan's cheeks. He and Nima had been among the first to drop their task. Master Dahan and the desert mentor both fixed sharp gazes in their direction.
Nima's face was etched with frustration. "We pulled opposite," she said to Kelan, a hint of admonishment in her tone. She had stopped chanting, obviously, and now brushed dust from the front of her robe.
Kelan grimaced, stepping around the half-sunk sphere. "I'm sorry. I think I pushed when you were… um, singing it in another direction." He wasn't even sure how to describe what had happened in proper terms. He had never worked with someone using a continuous verbal incantation.
Nima frowned slightly. "Chanting. I was maintaining a harmonic chant to cradle the sphere's weight. It works like… like creating a current in the air that carries the object." She patted the air with her hands to illustrate a gentle wave motion.
Kelan realized that to her, her method was as clear and logical as his silent focus was to him. "I see. And I think I interrupted that current with my own force. It's like I was rowing a boat against the tide you were creating."
Her eyes sparked at the analogy. "Yes, exactly!" Then her expression softened. "We'll try again, but we must synchronize."
He nodded, determination returning. "Agreed. Let's communicate this time. Maybe you can teach me the rhythm you're using, or I can follow your lead."
Nima offered a grateful smile. "I will chant a simple measure. Perhaps you can attune to it?"
Behind them, Master Dahan walked by, observing others but also clearly keeping an eye on their progress. Kelan felt a flush of embarrassment again, but Dahan did not stop or scold – he simply expected them to sort it out and continue.
Kelan took a steady breath and met Nima's gaze. "Tell me what to listen for."
She nodded. "My chant has four beats. I lift on the first beat of each phrase." She demonstrated by humming a short sequence: "Ah-hum… Ah-hum…," counting quietly, "One (lift), two, three, four… One (lift), two, three, four…" Her voice was gentle but there was an undeniable energy in the notes.
Kelan listened intently. He began to nod in time with her count, trying to internalize that tempo. It felt like a slow, steady pulse – quite different from the quick surges he typically used when mustering strength to lift something heavy. This was more like a dance step, a repeated cycle rather than one big exertion.
"Okay," he said after a few moments. "I think I have it. I will try to apply my force in time with your first beat and then hold through the cycle."
"Good," Nima replied encouragingly.
They repositioned on either side of the sphere, which fortunately hadn't rolled far due to its weight and the shallow crater it made. Kelan wiped his dusty palms on his trousers and raised them again. He recalled how jarring it was to hear the chant unexpectedly; now he was prepared and would let it guide him instead of distract.
Nima's eyes drifted closed as she resumed her chant, this time loudly enough for Kelan to catch every syllable. It was a flowing verse in her native tongue – he didn't know the meaning, but the rhythm was what mattered. "Halan surem… halan surem…" The melody had a hypnotic quality, each line rising then gently falling in pitch.
Kelan synced his breathing to the cadence. As Nima's chant reached the crucial first beat of the measure, he acted. Together, they pushed upward on the sphere. The bronze globe responded, lifting smoothly this time, as if buoyed by the swell of Nima's voice and Kelan's synchronous will.
He felt the strain, yes – the sphere was still immensely heavy – but it was a steadier strain, like two people carrying a weight in unison rather than in opposition. Kelan allowed himself to be immersed in the sound of Nima's voice. Instead of focusing on the object alone, he extended his awareness to the rhythm. Each time her chant cycle began anew, he renewed his mental grip and hoisted a little more.
The sphere rose past knee height, then waist height. Nima opened her eyes and caught Kelan's gaze across the floating bulk. Still chanting, she gave a tiny nod toward the pedestal, indicating it was time to start moving it forward.
Kelan nodded back and adjusted his focus. On the next measure, instead of purely lifting, he leaned his will forward, nudging the sphere to drift horizontally. Nima must have anticipated this; her chant subtly changed pitch on the second beat of that measure, a cue perhaps, and the sphere glided ahead, buoyed by their combined power.
They began a slow walk in tandem, maintaining a consistent distance from the sphere and each other. Step by step, the pedestal drew closer. Kelan noticed that whenever his concentration flickered, the sound of Nima's voice seemed to fill the gap, re-centering him. There was a comforting quality to it, an almost tangible presence. He had read once about bardic magic, spellsinger traditions where music and magic intertwined – now he was experiencing it firsthand, and it was nothing like the silent, internal struggles he was used to. It was communal and expressive.
Midway to the pedestal, a gust of wind suddenly swept through the courtyard, tugging at robes and sending dust swirling. Kelan's hair whipped across his forehead. The disturbance threatened the delicate control they had established; the sphere quivered, slipping a few inches downward on one side. Immediately, Kelan pushed up harder to compensate, but he did so off-beat in his alarm. The weight shifted unevenly.
Nima didn't break her chant. Instead, Kelan heard her voice rise in volume, cutting through the breeze. She altered the melody spontaneously, adding an extra lilting note that wasn't in the previous pattern. It threw him for a half-second – was she changing it? But then he realized: she was adapting to the wind, her magic reinforcing the steadiness of the sphere by sheer force of will woven into song.
Kelan gritted his teeth and matched her renewed intensity. He thought of the threads visualization he'd used before: now those threads were vibrating in tune with Nima's music, not just emanating from him. The sphere stabilized, the crisis passed.
They continued and soon the bronze astrolabe sphere hovered directly above the stone pedestal. Nima held the final note of her chant in a sustained hum, looking to Kelan for the last step. He carefully guided the sphere down with both hands lowered slowly, and she softened her voice in tandem. With a solid thunk, the bronze sphere settled into the indented top of the pedestal and came to rest.
Nima's final note tapered off into silence. For a moment, neither of them moved. Their shared heavy breathing and the distant sounds of other pairs working were all that could be heard. Then Nima broke into a bright smile.
"We did it," she said, a little breathless.
Kelan realized he was grinning broadly. The sense of accomplishment felt doubly sweet because it was shared. "We did. That was… incredible."
His limbs felt shaky – telekinetic exertion always had a way of translating to physical exhaustion – but his mind buzzed with exhilaration. Working in concert like that was a wholly new experience.
Around the courtyard, some pairs were still struggling, while others had completed their tasks as well. Master Dahan's voice rang out with encouragements and occasional stern directives. The desert instructor moved among the students, offering advice in a calm, singsong tone that reminded Kelan of Nima's melodic cadence.
Kelan and Nima took a step back from the pedestal. He noticed sweat on Nima's brow and that a few strands of her hair had come loose entirely, but she seemed not to mind in the least at the moment. She caught him looking at the golden embroidery on her shawl. "These are glyphs of protection," she explained when she saw his curiosity. "They help focus our chants, in theory."
"They're beautiful," Kelan said earnestly. Up close now, he could see the patterns were not merely decorative swirls but stylized script and symbols – likely invoking desert winds or guiding stars.
Nima ducked her head, pleased at the compliment to her culture. She then glanced toward the others. "Your technique… it is very direct. I could feel how strongly you push with your will."
Kelan chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's one way to put it. I suppose our style is more brute-force compared to yours. We usually just concentrate internally until we make things move, no external sound or anything."
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Yet you adapted to the chant so well. Not all can do that. Some of my peers from home even struggle to adjust if the tone shifts." She was being gracious, giving him credit.
"I nearly didn't," Kelan confessed. "When we started I was completely thrown off. I've never heard someone chant during telekinesis. I was taught to find quiet inside." He paused, considering. "But maybe quiet isn't the only way. Your song... it was like another form of focus. It gave structure to the effort."
"Yes," Nima agreed. "For me, the melody is the focus. It fills my mind and there is no room for doubt or stray thoughts; every note is tied to the intent of lifting, moving, shaping." She then added shyly, "I worried it might distract you. I'm sorry for our rough start."
Kelan shook his head vigorously. "Don't be. It was my fault for not adjusting sooner. I've learned something valuable today." He looked at the pedestal where the sphere now sat firmly. A few hours ago, he wouldn't have imagined himself capable of moving such a mass, especially not in harmony with a style so foreign to him. "I learned that magic can be like... like music, or teamwork. I felt how your chanting gave the effort a kind of structure. It's hard to explain, but I actually think it made it easier once I tuned in."
Nima's smile was warm. "That makes me happy to hear. Maybe I also learned from you – your resolve when the wind came, that was impressive. I felt your strength holding the sphere when I had nearly lost control of it."
He realized then that if not for his stubborn brace and her quick change in chant, the second attempt could have ended as badly as the first. They had saved each other from failure in that moment. The thought forged a sense of camaraderie between them.
Elsewhere in the courtyard, pairs were finishing up. One duo from the imperial side and desert side were celebrating flamboyantly – the desert youth with the henna-marked hands had levitated not only their heavy object but also caused a swirl of sand to spiral around it in decorative patterns. His imperial partner clapped at the display. Another pair was re-attempting their lift after a drop, under guidance from a mentor; they looked tired but determined.
Master Dahan eventually called an end to the session. "Enough for today. Well done, all of you," he announced. The desert mentor echoed his sentiment in her own language first, then in Imperial common: "Well done! Shukran – thank you all for your efforts and openness."
As the class dissolved into informal clusters and conversations, Kelan found himself standing by Nima, not quite ready to part ways. Sera caught his eye from across the yard – she had been paired with a visiting student as well, and by her cheerful wave and the beaming smile of the young man beside her, it seemed they too had had a positive experience. Kelan waved back at her, giving a thumbs-up to signal his own success.
Cassian, he noticed belatedly, was loitering near the instructors with an insufferably bored look, his partner standing quietly at his side. If Kelan had to guess, Cassian probably dominated his exercise and learned little from the visitor. But Kelan couldn't be bothered with Cassian right now; he was far more interested in speaking with Nima while he had the chance.
"So, the chanting," he began, walking slowly with her toward the shade of the archway. "Do you always use it for every kind of magic? Or only for big things?"
Nima nodded thoughtfully. "We often use it, yes. Even for delicate things, though then it might be a very soft hum rather than full words. Our belief is that the voice carries the will. Some spells are even encoded in verses passed down generations. Like the one I used – it's an old verse for calling a camel to stand," she added with a laugh. "Adapted for lifting our 'stubborn camel' of a sphere."
Kelan laughed with her. The cultural flavor in her explanation delighted him. "That's amazing. Meanwhile, I'm here imagining invisible hands or threads to do the lifting. It's all happening in my head."
"Both ways worked," Nima said kindly. "Once we stopped fighting each other, that is."
He scratched his cheek, remembering the initial clash. "I admit, I didn't handle that well. I… I think I might have held some prejudice without realizing – that my way was the only proper way. I'm sorry if I came off as uncooperative at first."
She regarded him sincerely. "It's forgotten. And I won't pretend I wasn't frustrated too, in that moment. Back home I usually train with people who naturally follow the chant. This was new for me as well, to adjust my tempo to a silent worker." She offered her hand, palm open in a friendly gesture between them. "We both learned. That is the point, yes?"
Kelan placed his hand against hers for a brief moment in a gesture of camaraderie. Her palm was warm from the exertion and perhaps the sun. "Yes, it is."
Around them, students were beginning to disperse or gather in mixed groups chatting. The visitors would likely depart later in the day, but some were exchanging keepsakes or writing contacts on scraps of parchment to keep in touch. The initial formality had melted into genuine youthful camaraderie.
Under the cloister's shade, Kelan and Nima lingered a bit longer, exchanging a few more bits about their lives. He learned that Nima's academy was built around an oasis, and their central courtyard had date palms and a small orchard – drastically different from Imperial architecture, but with similar cloisters and lecture domes. She mentioned studying ancient songs etched in manuscripts so old the pages would crumble at a touch. Kelan shared that he loved reading too, and found himself describing the Imperial library's vast collection, inviting a spark of envy in Nima's eyes.
"I wish we had more time here to explore that library," she sighed. "But we leave tomorrow."
"This might not be the last time we meet," Kelan said, surprising himself at how earnest he sounded. "Perhaps in the future, more exchanges, or I could travel south someday... I'd love to see the Oasis Academy." He had not thought of traveling so far before, but now the idea thrilled him.
"You would be welcome," Nima replied brightly. "And I hope to return here to study longer. The Empire has much knowledge too."
Before they parted, Nima unfastened a small woven bracelet from her wrist. It was made of desert grasses dyed in turquoise and white, braided into a pattern of intertwining waves. She held it out to Kelan. "Take this, to remember our collaboration."
Kelan accepted the bracelet reverently and tied it around his own wrist. "Thank you," he said. "I have not much to give in return…" He fumbled, then thought of something. He reached into his satchel, retrieving a simple ribbon bookmark he used in his books. On it was embroidered the crest of the Imperial Academy – a rising sun over an open book. It wasn't of great value, but it was a personal token. "Here. It's modest, but…"
Nima accepted it with appreciation. "I will keep it, to remember new friends under the sun." The way she said it sounded almost poetic.
With one last exchange of smiles, they joined their respective groups as the session fully concluded. Sera walked up to Kelan, eyes dancing. "Look at you," she teased gently, noting his unusual jewelry – the woven bracelet – and dust-covered state. "Raising heavy spheres and making friends."
Kelan chuckled. "It was something else, Sera. I can't wait to tell you about it." They began strolling back into the cooler corridors of the Academy. He glanced over his shoulder to see Nima rejoining her compatriots, already animatedly recounting something and gesturing in song-like fashion. A part of him felt a tug of sadness that the interaction was brief, but a greater part felt enriched by it.
As they left the courtyard, Kelan looked up at the ornate inscriptions on the archway – verses in Old Imperial about knowledge and unity that he had passed by countless times without a second thought. Today, those words resonated in a new way. There truly was no single correct way to touch the magic of the world. In chanting and silence, in sigil and will, different cultures found their path to the same truth.
He flexed his fingers, still feeling the subtle vibration of Nima's chant as if it had imprinted on his memory. The afternoon light filtering through the arches cast patterns on the ground that looked a bit like the shapes of sound waves. Kelan felt a profound respect for the diversity of practice he had witnessed. What other techniques might be out there, waiting to broaden his understanding? The thought excited him.
"Earth to Kelan?" Sera waved a hand in front of his face, grinning. "You're woolgathering with that dreamy smile. Good session, I take it?"
Kelan laughed and matched her pace. "You have no idea. It was challenging, but... I think I just learned one of the most important lessons since coming here."
"Oh?" Sera arched an eyebrow playfully. "Do tell, Master Scholar."
He nudged her lightly as they walked. "That there's a whole world of magic beyond what I know, and working together might be the key to unlocking it."
Sera nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. "I felt that too. My partner showed me this trick with embroidered runes on her gloves – it let her shape her telekinesis in very fine detail. It was humbling."
The two friends stepped into the cool shadows of a hallway, leaving the bright courtyard behind. Kelan took one last glance back at the figures of the desert students departing in a caravan of lively chatter and colorful attire. He then looked down at the bracelet on his wrist.
Humbling, yes. But also inspiring.
As he and Sera made their way to the midday meal, Kelan's mind hummed with new possibilities. Today he had touched magic in a new way – through harmony rather than solitary effort. It felt like a door opening, revealing how vast and varied the art could be. And he felt grateful: for Nima, for the chance to learn from differences, and for the reminder that strength could be found not just in one's own mind, but in the connection between minds striving together.