The second half of the day was spent with the mages. Lorienyan spellcraft had always been fluid, built around harmony with nature, light, water, growth, wind. What Lindarion taught them today bent that harmony into precision.
He drew runes in the air with his finger, each stroke leaving a glowing trail. "Mana without intent is just air that burns. Control your circle. Trim what's unnecessary."
Thalan's students watched as he demonstrated, conjuring a sphere of blue fire that condensed, then folded into itself, shrinking to the size of a marble but pulsing with impossible density.
"Containment," Lindarion said. "Power does not mean expansion. It means compression, turning chaos into order."
One of the younger elves, nervous, attempted the same. His sphere collapsed prematurely, bursting into a cloud of harmless sparks. Lindarion flicked his wrist, dispersing the mana before it could backfire.
"Do it again," he said gently. "But this time, stop trying to impress me."
