Freya rested her hand on her hip, watching the caramel-colored crystal swirl gently at the top of the staff.

"Well, now that that worked," she said, "I guess we'll need to get you a staff of your own eventually."

She paused, then added with a pointed look, "But until then, you can use this one. Just—don't use it without me around."

Arbor tilted their head. "Why not?"

Freya shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Because I still don't understand why your mana control's so strange. And if something goes wrong again, I'd rather be there to stop it."

She stepped back, motioning to the center of the arena. "For now, let's just stick to basics."

Arbor nodded. "Got it."

Truthfully, they couldn't deny it—the feeling of control was… exciting.

For the majority of their time with Freya, Arbor's days had been filled with general training—combat basics, reading, basic math, and a few entry-level sciences tied to alchemy and rune theory.

They sucked at alchemy. No getting around it. Explosions, wrong ingredients, potions turning black when they should've turned green—classic disaster student.

Math? Even worse. Numbers slipped through their brain like water through a cracked jar.

Combat was… mixed. Hand-to-hand? Hopeless. Weapon training? Almost always ended in bruises. But dodging? Dodging was different.

Arbor had an uncanny knack for sensing danger. Their ears would twitch just before an attack, like a built-in magic detection spell. The rest came down to animal instinct—quick reactions, fast footwork, sharp reflexes.

Freya called it a natural sensitivity—said only a rare few had it.

So… that was cool.

Reading was another strong point. It had become one of Arbor's favorite pastimes early on—one of the only quiet ways to pass the time without setting something on fire. And rune work? That clicked almost immediately.

Of the two non-mage magic disciplines—alchemy and runecraft—runes were the less chaotic for Arbor. Alchemy relied on ratios, formulas, mixtures… math. But runes? Runes were more intuitive. Living somewhere magic flowed naturally helped, too.

Draw the rune, place it in a charged space, align it properly—and you could channel magic from the land itself. Using your own mana was possible, but the process was trickier and more dangerous. That's why precision mattered.

The only downside?

There were over four thousand runes.

Each with specific meanings. Specific functions. And if you mixed them up? Deadly consequences.

Still, as long as you knew how to read and follow instructions—runes were simple. Delicate, but simple.

Only in the past month had Arbor even started practicing with their own mana.

Freya paced a slow circle around the arena, arms folded behind her back, her voice turning into that familiar lecture tone.

"So, as you should know—if you actually read the notes I gave you—there are tiers to the magic we use."

Arbor blinked. "…There were notes?"

Freya shot them a glare. "There are nine tiers. Tier One is basic stuff—summoning a flame, light healing, moving small objects. Beginner-level magic. Easy on mana, light on control."

She continued, her hooves clicking against the stone.

"As you move up, things get harder. More rewarding, but more complex. Most people don't get past Tier Four."

Arbor raised a brow. "Why not?"

"Because that's the point where mana cost and control start to stack. The spells become real work. Like the lightning cloud I used on you? That's Tier Four."

"Oh," Arbor muttered, rubbing their arm subconsciously.

Freya nodded. "Tier Four's where you get your battlefield spells. Decent healing, beast summoning, wide-range elemental stuff. Anything past that… gets tricky."

She paused, glancing at Arbor.

"Tier seven is what most would call the limit. Unless you're blessed by a god—or something close to it—you don't go further."

Arbor blinked slowly. "What kind of spells are we talking?"

"Mass Teleportation. Weather-wide storms. Reality shaping. Stretching your lifespan." Freya shrugged. "Stuff that bends the rules. Even we Atherians don't bother much—most of us already live for hundreds of years, if you know the methods."

She gave a small wave. "Anything beyond that is divine-level nonsense. Not something I'm wasting breath on explaining unless you actually make it there."

Arbor sat quiet for a moment.

Hundreds of years.

They hadn't really thought about their age since waking up in the forest. Their body looked somewhere between sixteen and eighteen… but beyond that? Nothing. No clue.

They looked at Freya.

Wrinkles edged the corners of her eyes, and her hands looked worn, calloused from years of work. But her posture was sharp, her gaze sharper.

"How old are you?" Arbor asked.

Freya stopped mid-step and slowly turned her head.

She pointed a finger at them.

ZAP.

A small shock jolted through Arbor's shoulder.

"Wha—?! OW! What was that for?!"

"You never ask a woman her age, Arbor."

Arbor sat up straight, face twisted in pure shock. "How was I supposed to know that?!"

"Now you do." She smirked. "But if you must know… I've lived for over a century. Still decently young by our people's standards."

Arbor fell quiet again.

The idea of living even twenty more years felt like a lot—too much. The thought of living for centuries was borderline overwhelming.

They blinked, looked away, and quietly shoved that idea to the back of their mind.

Freya stretched her arms overhead and cracked her knuckles.

"Alright. Since you seem to have a stable mana stream—for now—let's lean into your affinity for earth magic."

She knelt and drew a quick diagram into the dust with her finger, outlining a spellform with a single rune in the center.

"Tier One earth manipulation," she said. "It's simple. You're not creating anything new, just reshaping what's already there."

Arbor tilted their head. "Like making a hole?"

"Exactly. Or a spike. Or a ripple." Freya pointed to the arena floor. "Normally, we'd start with the ground—but this platform's laced with old warding runes and support glyphs. The whole thing is saturated with magic, and I don't need you accidentally undoing gravity."

She glanced at Arbor's pouch.

"So—grab one of your weird little rocks. Use that instead."

Arbor scoffed. "Weird? These are highly curated specimens."

They rummaged through their pouch and picked out a stone—rough, reddish, and slightly speckled with white flecks. Arbor held it in their palm, frowning in concentration.

"Now," Freya said, stepping back, "don't force it. Just breathe, focus on the mana inside you, and guide it into the stone. Feel the stone. Let your magic talk to it. Then imagine a change—something small. A dent, a twist, a ridge. Shape it."

Arbor exhaled, holding the rock in both hands.

Their eyes narrowed.

They reached inward, letting their mana flow through the staff and into their arms. They pictured the stone bending, softening slightly like heated clay. A small ridge curving along the surface, nothing wild.

The crystal at the top of the staff shimmered—caramel light pooling toward Arbor's hands.

The rock began to shift.

It pulsed once, then slowly formed a small spiral groove, curling like a snail shell along one side.

Arbor blinked, holding it up. "Whoa."

Freya raised a brow. "Not bad. A bit wobbly, but it worked."

Arbor turned the rock in their hands, inspecting it with a satisfied grin. "Gonna be honest—I thought it was gonna explode."

"Still might. Don't get cocky."

Freya turned toward Arbor, an expectant hand held out.

"Give me one of your rocks," she said.

Arbor immediately clutched their pouch protectively. "Why?"

"I need an example," Freya said, smiling a little too innocently.

Arbor frowned. "You're gonna do something weird to it, aren't you?"

Freya raised a brow, unamused.

Arbor sighed dramatically, fishing out a speckled gray-and-green stone and placing it reluctantly into Freya's hand. "Be nice to it."

Freya gave a noncommittal grunt and, without hesitation, poured a quick surge of mana into the rock. A flicker of red lightning crackled along her fingers, engulfing the stone.

In a flash, the once-rough rock reshaped itself.

Where once was a bumpy, imperfect stone now stood a perfect, sharp cone. Spiraled ridges wrapped around it like a carved drill.

Arbor blinked, impressed, and clapped without thinking.

Then Freya casually tossed the newly-formed spike high into the air.

Arbor opened their mouth to protest—Wait, wait, wait—!

But it was too late.

As the rock fell, Freya lifted a finger, and a focused bolt of red lightning shot out, hitting the spike dead-on.

BOOM.

The sound echoed through the arena like a cannon blast, and the spike shot across the clearing, vanishing into the distant woods at a terrifying speed.

Arbor stared, mouth slightly open, ears flattened against their head.

Part shocked. Part terrified.

Mostly just… sad.

There's no way I'm finding that rock again, they thought miserably. But—with better judgment—they didn't bring it up.

Freya, meanwhile, grinned like she hadn't just committed rock-murder.

"That," she said, "is more or less what you should eventually be able to do."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head proudly. "Earth magic's a great affinity to have. Flexible. Durable. And—" she pointed toward the distant explosion, "you don't have to be a brute to make it powerful."

In the distance, a faint secondary boom echoed through the forest.

Arbor flinched slightly but couldn't help it—a spark of excitement lit in their chest.

The thought of moving and bending the earth to their will… it was honestly really cool.

Still, something didn't add up.

They frowned, looking at Freya. "Wait... but you're, like… lightning or something, right? How did you do that with earth magic?"

Freya's grin widened, pleased by the question.

"Good observation," she said. "While we all have affinities—natural talents—it doesn't mean we're stuck with just one type of magic."

She sat down on a low stone wall, twirling a loose vine between her fingers.

"You can learn other magics. It just doesn't come as easy. Some types, you might never really be compatible with. But others…" She tapped her temple. "It's just a matter of training and burning more mana."

Freya looked at the spot where the rock had disappeared and smirked.

"What I did? Pure lightning manipulation. I broke the rock down at an intense, microscopic scale. Made it brittle. Then used a controlled blast to launch it."

Arbor blinked. "That sounds complicated."

"It is," Freya said casually. "Takes a ton of precision—and even more mana. Most people stick to their core magic and branch out just a little."

She stood, brushing dirt off her wooly legs.

"There are ways to push past your limits," she added with a sly smile. "But that's a lesson for another day."

The moment they relied solely on their own mana, that thing—that pressure, that rejection—always returned. It wasn't constant, but it waited, deep in the flow, like a knot just out of reach.

Their control without the staff still sucked.

But it was improving.

Still, the question lingered, buried deep in their thoughts: What is this thing inside me?

The more they trained, the more certain Arbor became that something in their mana flow didn't belong to them. It wasn't just lack of experience. It was like something foreign had taken root—something that flinched whenever they reached too far.

They'd asked Freya about it once, thinking maybe she knew more than she let on.

Her answer was always the same:

"I found you. That's all."

No details. No memory. No origin.

So many questions piled up in Arbor's head, but they didn't even know where to start. All they knew was this—training was fine. Useful, even. But doing the same thing every day?

It wasn't going to get them closer to any answers.