Audree flipped through the final pages of "The Elemental Truth: A Mage's Divine Right"—a book written with all the arrogance one could expect from a Gildhaven-born noble with a pebble-sized god complex.
He rolled his eyes as he dipped his quill in ink, flipping to a fresh page in his leather-bound notebook. The script was neat, practiced—his mother Ina had made him rewrite recipes until his penmanship could be mistaken for a trained scribe's.
He began to write.
"On the Nature of Magic: Mages vs. the Rest of Us"
Mages, as most would know (and as they love to remind everyone), are born with mana. It flows through their bodies like blood through veins. But more than that, it's bound to them. Not just in body—but in soul.
According to the pompous earth mage who authored the book, each mage is born with a "keyword" etched into their soul. This word—whether elemental like fire, earth, water... or more abstract like capture, mirror, or bend—determines the type of magic they can perform with the most ease.
All their spells naturally bend toward this concept. Everything else becomes harder. Sometimes impossible.
Audree paused. He tapped the quill against the page, his other hand automatically reaching to fidget with the bracelet around his wrist.
He wrote on:
What the author didn't elaborate on—conveniently—was the mention of "other magical creatures" who don't follow the keyword system. He listed them with all the care of someone mentioning weeds in a garden. No explanation, no curiosity. Just dismissal.
Not helpful. Typical.
Audree looked up for a moment, eyes drifting to the library window. The smokestacks in the distance pushed another lazy plume into the gray sky.
Then he continued.
So what about people without mana?
What about people like me?
If you aren't born with magic, you borrow it. That's the core of it.
There are three main methods: Alchemy, Witchcraft, and Runework.
Alchemy is the closest thing to a science. You use ingredients charged with ambient mana—or preserved magical residue—and mix them in ways that mimic spells. Potions, powders, salves, bombs, even gas clouds. Ina always says it's a bit like cheating the rules. "Use the world's magic, not your own."
The process is crude. Messy. It's easier to get it wrong than right. But it works.
Witchcraft... that's the risky one. It's all about contracts. A witch makes deals with things that already have magic—spirits, demons, fae, even minor gods if they're stupid or desperate enough. Power comes at a price. But witches can do things that would put most mages to shame—if they survive long enough.
He underlined dangerous but rewarding.
Runework is brilliant in theory. You carve spells into weapons, tools, buildings—even skin. But the runes don't work unless they can draw mana from the environment. That's the problem. This town is dry, other than a far field of flowers. If Embershade was any less mana-rich, it'd be a paperweight. Runes need places like Gildhaven. Places or something soaked in old power.
And to make things worse, runework takes years. Thousands of runes, each with specific rules and meanings. One mistake? Your fire rune becomes a boil-your-eyeballs rune. He knew a few. But still.
Audree set his quill down and stared at the page.
The words made it all sound distant. Technical.
But the truth behind them stung.
He used to dream of being a great mage. Of controlling storms, moving earth, breathing fire. But it seemed he was limited.
It hadn't been cheap. They couldn't afford it. He knew that.
But she gave it to him anyway.
And for that, he was grateful in a way words couldn't carry.
He exhaled softly, eyes tracing the shelves again. Eventually, they drifted back to his notebook, half-filled with scribbles and theories that might never matter to anyone but him.
A familiar question tugged at the back of his mind—one that had surfaced more often as he got older.
Who were his real parents?
Not Nora and Ina. They were his in every way that mattered. But still...
He wasn't stupid. He'd noticed the sideways glances, the way people sometimes lowered their voices when he passed. How they avoided talking about the past. How no one ever mentioned where they'd come from before Embershade.
And yeah—he'd figured out two mothers wasn't exactly the standard.
But he never brought it up.
They had secrets. That was clear. And Audree had never had a reason strong enough to push past the quiet wall they'd built around whatever life they'd left behind.
So he let it be.
The soft creak of floorboards snapped him out of his thoughts.
"By the gods, boy," came the slow, gravelly voice of Haldo, the town librarian. "You always look like the world's just gone and kicked your dog."
Audree blinked, then looked up. The old man leaned on the edge of a nearby shelf, his thick gray beard bristling as he squinted down with that usual blend of amusement and blunt honesty.
It wasn't the first time someone had said something like that.
People were always mistaking his quiet for anger. His neutral face for a scowl.
He sighed, fingers reflexively going to his bracelet—twisting the loop of leather and silver beads, grounding himself.
Then he stood, brushing dust off his jacket.
"Hey there, old man," he said, pasting on the most half-hearted, forced grin he could manage.
It didn't fool Haldo in the slightest.
"Trying to smile like that," the librarian snorted, "You'll scare off the books. Sit up straighter, or they'll think you're planning to burn the place down."
Audree gave a tired chuckle. "Nah. Not until I've read them all."
Haldo raised a bushy brow. "At that rate, we've got a good hundred years of brooding ahead."
Audree rolled his eyes, but his smile—this time—lingered a little longer
Haldo was an old man by every definition—stooped shoulders, fingers ink-stained and trembling slightly, and a voice like gravel caught in wind. Most of Embershade barely noticed him. If you passed him on the street, you might not even know he was one of the only true mages left in town.
He never advertised it.
No robe, no staff, no flashy incantations.
But Audree had seen enough over the years to know better.
The library—his family's for generations—was full of subtle magic. Candles that floated from shelf to shelf, organizing themselves when Haldo sighed a certain way. A hearth that lit with a wave. Books that slid into place without a single hand touching them.
There was power there. Old power.
Audree had spent months pestering the man for guidance, asking questions, trailing him like a lost shadow. Always the same answer—grunts, shrugs, or cryptic mutterings about "too much work" and "you'll learn more on your own, anyway."
Eventually, Audree had stopped asking.
Still, he came. Still, he read.
And maybe that persistence softened the old man just a little.
"So," Audree asked, raising a brow, "what brings you over here, Haldo? Tired of pretending to dust the top shelves?"
Haldo snorted. "Ye about that—I've got to close up early today. Important meeting. Doesn't seem like much is happening anyway."
Audree's shoulders dropped. He glanced down at his notes, disappointment tightening his jaw.
"But," Haldo added, voice low and gruff, "I know how important your studying is, boy. Take the books with you. Just bring them back in one piece."
Audree blinked, startled. That was new.
Then his expression softened, the corner of his mouth lifting as real gratitude settled in his chest. "Thanks," he said, barely louder than a whisper.
He gathered his things quickly, sliding the thick tomes into his satchel, tucking away his notes with practiced care.
As he reached the door, Haldo called after him, voice cracking with amusement.
"There we go! I knew you could put on a real smile. Don't let the books melt your brain."
Audree couldn't help it—he laughed. A short, genuine sound.
"Enjoy the meeting, old man," he called back as the door shut behind him.