Non-Heir (The Black Mage 0.5)(19)

Their group was small. It consisted of the two brothers, Eve, and another three whose magic had yet to arrive. Darren couldn’t comprehend the idiocy of taking up this training without it. But they were all highborn children of privilege, and the ones in his group were the wealthiest in the land.

They had the best tutors gold could buy.

They also had the most riding on their shoulders if they failed.

Magic wasn’t so difficult for him to command.

It was for most. Darren saw the way the rest of his comrades struggled just to bring about a flicker of light, but Darren and Eve had years of discipline, and Sir Audric had always led them through a meditative exercise at the end of their drills.

Projecting all of his senses to cast a flame was child’s play, as simple as flint and steel. Darren’s will struck out at the details built up in his mind, and he had a fire in his hand.

The challenge was building up the harder projections in his head. Combat magic called up weapons from thin air. Darren knew what those weapons were—he had memorized the feel of them in his fist for months on end, but he didn’t always understand the way the casting created a sword.

Their tutor spent a great deal of time directing them to the armory, or visiting with the blacksmith, watching the way metal melded with flame. Training expanded beyond casting itself, and Darren soon realized why the other children had spent so much of their time pouring over scrolls.

There was so much more to casting than will.

Soon Darren was up late every night, studying those same books. He forgot what it meant to sleep. The second his head hit the bed, he was rising with the sun.

There were two other branches of study: Restoration and Alchemy. But they weren’t a part of the prince’s education. The cluster of students Darren was a part of believed in Combat and nothing else. The other two factions were prodigious in their own right, but the highest honor was Combat. They lived in a country infamous for the largest army in the realm. It made sense that the best of the best would go after the calling with the highest prize.

There was no alternative.



A year came and went, and in no time at all, Darren had reached his thirteenth year.

It was only fitting, he supposed, that the day began with a freestanding duel.

Mage Marius had arrived back from the south. Since the man wasn’t currently involved in the rebel investigation, Lucius had wasted no time securing the man’s expertise for the next month’s set of lessons until he went back out to check on another disturbance near the bordering villages up north. The Black Mage didn’t have time to waste on highborns preparing for the Academy… unless the order came from the king.

It was the first chance Darren would have to train with the realm’s most notorious mage. It was a first for all of them.

The students were gathered in the training arena usually reserved for the king’s personal regiment. Everyone was tense. Failing in front of a man with his stature was… not something that would easily be recovered from. The man had been the champion of Combat during Jerar’s last tourney for mages. It was the reason he bore the title and served as one of the three Colored Robes on the Council of Magic.

Marius was also a judge for the Academy’s trials. If they impressed him now, their shot at an apprenticeship was increased tenfold. More than ever, it was important to stand out.

Darren and Eve didn’t waste time going first.

The tutor mage and Marius observed as the boy and girl took their place across from one another in the arena’s center.

The boy shot his friend a cocky grin. Her response was a roll of her eyes.

“And begin.”

Darren’s magic shot out first. A great gust of air kicked up dirt as it sprung across the dais. The wind spun inside his mind; he could feel it whipping round and round, faster and faster as he ground down with his teeth.

Bam. The casting collided with a shield across Eve’s arm. She had thrown up her projection just in time.

Eve’s stance was perfect—two legs braced, one forward, one back, with a slight tilt to the angle of her shield, slightly up and to the right.

The prince’s magic went hurtling to the left, harmlessly colliding with the fence instead. It was an easy deflection instead of taking the brunt of his casting head on.

The boy had his second casting ready as a staff appeared in his fist. Wood was easy. Darren had yet to master the melding of metal in projection, and he wasn’t going to try now. He didn’t trust a sword or axe casting to hold.

The girl shared his same mind. Eve drew closer with a staff of her own.

And then they were a shoulder’s width apart.

Darren, again, was the first to strike. The boy didn’t believe in dragging out an attack.

The girl parried and swung left. Darren’s boots crunched the ground as he stepped to the side and blocked.

The two swung and took turns trading blows. The longer the exchange lasted, the more advantage he had. A lot of one’s fight came from the force of their footwork, and Darren had added strength in his arms from all those months practicing with the axe.

Sweat started to pool just under his bangs; he fought to keep from blinking in its sting under the hot summer heat. Eve was breathing hard, and he could feel her arms trembling each time their staffs collided.

It wouldn’t take much longer.

Her weapon vanished, and Darren swore, dropping his staff as flames licked out at his hands.