The need of magic

From five to nine, Valen studied.

He studied harder than anyone Elyse had ever taught — though, to be fair, she had only ever taught him. Still, there was a kind of hunger in him that even she hadn't expected. Not a hunger for power or showy spells, but for understanding. For why magic worked the way it did. For how the world fit together.

And yet, for all his longing, he couldn’t cast. Not yet. Not for a long time.

Since he wouldn’t be able to get a class or even the system till the age of ten

But Valen didn’t complain.

Much.

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He woke early every day, usually before sunrise, creeping out from his straw mattress to find a quiet place to read or copy symbols from one of Elyse’s old books. She had shelves of them tucked in every corner of the cabin — some faded, some cracked with age — each one filled with hand-drawn runes, diagrams, and theory.

He didn’t understand all of it. Sometimes, barely any of it.

But he studied it anyway.

He traced the circles until they were memorized. He wrote down definitions, sketched creatures from old bestiaries, and even tried to invent his own magical alphabets — most of which ended up looking like squiggly fishbones.

By age seven, he’d filled two full notebooks and started on a third.

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“Why do spell diagrams always use threes?” he asked once, mid-supper.

Clyde raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Everything’s in threes. Three circles. Three runes. Three lines of incantation. Is that just tradition or part of the actual structure of—”

“Let the boy eat,” Clyde grunted, gesturing at Valen’s untouched bowl of stew. “You can dissect reality after dessert.”

Elyse smiled into her tea. “It’s a rhythm thing,” she said. “Three-point symmetry is the easiest to control. But no more questions tonight. Finish your vegetables, mageling.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He rolled his eyes and took another bite.

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He spent most mornings with Elyse, sitting cross-legged in the clearing as she taught him theory — focus, mana flow, elemental balance. All abstract. All invisible.

Sometimes she would draw a rune in the dirt and make him stare at it until he could explain its structure without looking.

Sometimes she would ask him to describe the difference between the feel of fire essence and storm essence — not from experience, but from study.

“It’s like describing flavors you’ve never tasted,” she said. “But even a good cook reads recipes before they light the stove.”

Valen didn’t always understand the metaphors.

But he kept listening.

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In the afternoons, he worked with Clyde.

It was a different kind of education — one built on sweat, heat, and weight.

The forge roared like a sleeping dragon in the summer months, and Valen quickly learned not to touch anything unless told. He helped with the bellows, cleaned the tools, stacked kindling, and polished metal. When he was old enough, Clyde started letting him pour water to cool the blades, though only under strict supervision.

“There’s magic in steel too,” Clyde told him one day, sharpening a chipped axe. “Not the glowing kind. But it listens. Reacts. Changes.”

Valen tilted his head. “Like a spell?”

“No. Like a lesson. You mess it up, and it remembers.”

That stuck with him.

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By age eight, Valen had stopped trying to cast real magic — not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew he couldnt. Instead, he focused on learning everything else.

He studied mana theory by candlelight. He read about old arcanists and how they ruined kingdoms by moving too fast. He copied hundreds of runes into fresh notebooks, trying to find the patterns between them. When Clyde let him, he inscribed pretend enchantments into scrap metal with a carving pick, whispering nonsense words under his breath as he worked.

He even carved a small wooden rod, smoothed and stained, and called it was a wand. It didn’t do anything — just a toy, really — but he liked how it felt in his hand while he practiced breathing and intent.

He didn’t need it to work.

Yet.

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When he turned nine, Elyse gave him a gift: a book she had written herself when she was younger — part journal, part spell theory, part wandering thoughts.

It was handwritten, marked with ink blots and crossed-out lines, the kind of thing most mages would’ve burned out of embarrassment.

But to Valen, it was priceless.

“You kept this?” he whispered, running his fingers along the fraying leather spine.

“I did,” she said. “Because once, I was you. A little too serious, a little too curious.”

“I’m not too serious.”

“You tried to meditate through your own birthday last week.”

“I was close to sensing ambient mana.”

Elyse laughed, ruffled his hair, and handed him the book. “It’s yours now. Just don’t correct my diagrams. I was your age when I wrote them.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

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Every day after that, he read a little more, studied a little longer, asked one more question before bed.

He still hadn’t cast anything.

Not even a spark.

But he didn’t feel discouraged.

Not anymore.

He could feel it coming — like a long breath before a song, or the silence before rain.

And when the day finally came, whenever it came…

He would be ready.