“What do you know about Blessings?” Albus finally asked as he circled around Lilieth, who was sitting down on a tree stump.

  “They’re powers given to you by the Twelve Greater Gods, letting you use their magic,” she answered.

  “Yes, yes, everyone knows that. But what are they, really?” Albus waved his hand around. “You see, Lilieth, I believe that there is an underlying principle behind how they work—something foundational; something we can define them by.”

  “Blessings are Blessings. They are as natural as the winds and the waters. The sun, the moons, and the stars.”

  Albus nodded. “A textbook answer coming from a priestess.”

  Lilieth grimaced at that. “I’m not a priestess. Not anymore.”

  “Denounced your faith, have you? Well, all the more reason to question the nature of Blessings! After all, you’ve denounced your own God, and yet, the Blessing remains. I, for one, have never worshipped any of the Gods, and yet, here I am, Blessed for all to see. Does it not strike you as odd that such a thing could occur?”

  “Gods are fickle,” Lilieth responded. “No one knows why they do the things they do.”

  “I’m not satisfied with such a flimsy excuse.” Albus stomped a foot down, stopped in front of her, then put on a loud and boisterous voice: “When something is unexplainable, is it fine to simply label it as a thing we are not meant to comprehend? Nay, to do so would be irresponsible. The Gods have left us a question, and we must expend ourselves to find the answer! Or so I heard someone preach a long time ago. Never did like that man, but that’s beside the point. Let me ask you this, then: What are levels?”

  Lilieth tilted her head. “Levels are what determine how strong you are as a Blessed.”

  Albus shook his head. “See, I don’t think that’s the case, really. There’s something more going on here.”

  “Um, I thought we were going to be sparring,” Lilieth said. “Not having a lecture—”

  “Don’t interrupt people. At any rate, leveling is strange, don’t you think? They say that you level up by using your spells. And in a way, that is true—but it is wildly inconsistent. Let me tell you the story of two people I knew. Let’s call them Person A and Person B. Person A spent her entire life using her spells and remained at level 1. Person B, on the other hand, used three spells in a row and jumped up four entire levels. Why do you think that is? What might have person A done differently from person B?”

  Lilieth almost felt called out. After all, this was a problem she’d been dealing with for years now. She was level 6, and she’d been level 6 for almost two years at that point. She spent time every day casting her spells, all in hopes that she’d level up. And yet, it never came.

  “Don’t say ‘whims of the Gods’.” Albus smirked at her. “Because it’s not.”

  “What is it, then?” Lilieth asked.

  “Person A was a Shieldmage. Her first spell was one that created a small shield over a part of her body. She cast that same shield spell over and over again. Every morning, she sat down, chanted the spell, then moved on with her chores—a daily routine.”

  Lilieth clenched her fist, seeing herself in her imagination.

  “Person B was also a Shieldmage,” Albus continued. “His first spell was the exact same one, too. The first time he cast it, the magical shield appeared over his palm. The second time, he noticed that the shield hovered just slightly above his skin. Come the third, he tried to put a spoon between his skin and the shield and pry it off, and he noticed that the shield could be moved. It was difficult, and if it was moved too far, it disappeared, but he found that he could lift the shield slightly upwards. Now tell me, what was the difference there?”

  Lilieth pondered for a bit. “... Person B tried to mess with his own spell?”

  “Person B tried to understand his own spell! Person A was content with just casting the spell as it was. Person B tried to unravel how the spell functioned. They both used the same spell, but Person A never knew that the shield could be nudged, whilst Person B did. That, I believe, is the key to levels—and the reason why so many people fail at leveling. They simply take their own Blessings for granted, never questioning what they are.”

  Albus pointed a finger at Lilieth, lightly touching the tip of her nose. “My first lesson is thus: Always assume that the Gods are lying to you. When you do that, you’ll end up asking the right questions.”

  Lilieth scoffed. “The Gods have already lied to me plenty.”

  Albus crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. “Man, kids these days get so angsty. First lesson! Wait, no ... second lesson? How many lessons have I given today?”

  “You—”

  “Wait, I don’t care. Lesson number whatever: Let’s start with practicing your Sky magic.”

  “That ... doesn’t sound like a lesson.”

  “You’re right. That’s because it’s not. Anyways, Sky magic. Come on, stand, stand. We’ll apply what we just learned.”

  Lilieth stood up from the stump. “Alright, then. How?”

  “Bedivere,” Albus said. “The spell of flight. Every Skymage learns it the instant they break into the Second tier. Simple in concept: use it, and you fly. But, if you want to grow as a mage, you can’t be satisfied with just using it. Ask the right questions, Lilieth.”

  Ask the right questions...

  “...How does it make me fly?” Lilieth said.

  “Precisely!” Albus said, sounding proud. “Bedivere, from the outside, looks like it gives you the ability to fly. But that’s not what’s happening, is it? And from the look on your face, it seems you already have an idea.”

  Bedivere, the flight spell. Yet, when Lilieth used it, she didn’t feel like she was flying through the air. In fact, it was the opposite. She felt like she was falling through the air.

  “It’s not a flight spell,” Lilieth said. “It’s a gravity spell.”

  “Bingo.” Albus snapped his fingers. “Or rather, I would say bingo if I knew you were correct, but I don’t. Not a Skymage myself, after all. Why not test your hypothesis?”

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “Test?” Lilieth tilted her head.

  “Yeah, test. Use Bedivere. See if you’re right.” Albus pointed upwards. “Try to fall to the sky.”

  Lilieth looked up, seeing the blue expanse above her. “... I’m pretty certain I’m right.”

  “Yeah? But why not test it out, just to be sure? Give your own hypothesis a sense of closure and all?”

  “I think I’m good.”

  Albus narrowed his eyes. “Scared of heights?”

  “No.”

  “... Scared of heights.”

  “I’m bad with heights,” Lilieth said.

  “Good to hear!” Albus grabbed Lilieth’s arm. “[Enhance Strength II]!”

  “What? Wait, no—!”

  Albus’ grip on her tightened, and he swung up, throwing Lilieth to the air. She soared until she was above the canopy of the forest. She screamed, her stomach lurching at the sight of the ground so far below her. She flailed her arms, hoping to grasp something other than air, to no avail.

  Then, she stopped rising up and began falling down—faster and faster to the ground. If she landed, she’d break all the bones in her body if not die outright. Even if she could come back to life, she didn’t want to feel that pain!

  “[B-Bedivere]!”

  Gravity shifted. She stopped, then fell upwards again. No, falling to the sky would only make things worse! She had to fall down! But that would mean death!

  Think. Think!

  Bedivere is the spell of flight. No, shifting gravity for oneself. Change the direction of “down”. But that’s not all it can do, right? After all, didn’t that person use it to hover sometimes?

  Lilieth focused, sensing the direction of the pull, the one that dictated where she was to fall. She could change where it pointed, but could she also split it into two? Make herself fall in two directions?

  She focused harder, imagining herself falling both up and down. Suddenly, Lilieth stopped in mid-air, hovering above the trees.

  “Well, would you look at that!” Albus shouted from below.

  Lilieth opened her eyes, and—after seeing the sheer distance to the ground below her—closed them again. As amusing as it would have been to throw up on Albus, she’d rather not.

  “Slowly... slowly...”

  Lilieth made the downwards pull stronger, bit by bit, until she was gently floating down to the ground. She didn’t dare open her eyes until she felt her body touch the soil. The young mage rolled over so her back rested on the earth beneath her.

  “Good job!” Albus said, clapping. “I’m really proud of you, girl.”

  “I am going to skin you alive,” Lilieth replied.

  “See? We’re getting along already!” Then, Albus quieted down and scratched the stubble on his chin in thought. “You said Bedivere was not your spell, yes? That would mean you got it from someone else.”

  Lilieth took a deep breath to calm herself down, though she remained lying on the soil. The sun was warm and pleasant. “That’s correct.”

  “Do you know how to do it? Copy other people’s spells, I mean.”

  She shook her head. There was too much she didn’t know. How the spell ended up in her arsenal, the mechanics behind it ...

  Albus nodded slowly. “Interesting—mimicking other mages’ spells ... So, that makes you neither a Sculptmage nor a Skymage. I think that calls for a new name! Let’s see ... Copymage?”

  “There’s no need for a new name,” Lilieth said. “That just sounds obnoxious.”

  The gray-haired man shrugged. “Fair enough. Here, let me help you up. It’s time for the next lesson.”

  Albus held out a hand. Lilieth took it, and a shock spread through her arm. She yelped, letting go. The man flashed a cheeky smile, waving his hand at her and revealing a shockleaf on his palm.

  Lilieth kicked him in the shin.

  Phaedon sat in a comfy chair in front of his father’s desk, wishing he was anywhere else. His father, Lysandros Bertrand, was pouring a glass of wine for himself. Of course, as he usually did, he wore expensive clothing lined with gold—always posturing, even when he was alone. The two sat in silence for a minute or so, but that silence had said enough words.

  “You run away from home again, and this is what we find you doing. I had hoped you would learn your lesson one of these days,” his father said, voice regal and controlled. “But it seems you are still very much a child.”

  “He was going to throw the first punch if I didn’t,” Phaedon said.

  Lysandros screwed the bottle cap back on, letting out a disappointed sigh. “You would have avoided this problem had you worn the cloak.”

  “This again?” Phaedon groaned.

  “If you wore our sigil and carried yourself with grace and nobility, then those hooligans would have groveled on their knees.”

  Phaedon scoffed. “As if. You think too highly of yourself.”

  “And you don’t think at all.” Lysandros took a sip and set the cup back down, ice clinking within the glass. “As the heir to the Bertrand estate, there are some things you are dutybound to. A Bertrand does not go around the street, roughing up with peasants.”

  “I wasn’t—” Phaedon sighed, slumping his head back into his chair. “Look, I’m exhausted. Can we continue this later?”

  “We have put this topic off for far too long already, and you’ve been given far too much freedom as of late. It’s time you start thinking about your duty properly.”

  “I am.”

  “Have you learned nothing, boy? You have one paramount duty, and all you’ve done so far is disgrace it. ‘A Bertrand protects his family’s name’.”

  There it was—that stupid phrase again. All that mattered to his father was the family’s name; everything else be damned. Hells, he only ever had time to talk to his son whenever he was lecturing him about “the family name”.

  “Just remarry and make a new kid, for all I care,” Phaedon spat out. “Make them the heir. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

  Lysandros breathed out. “I’ve heard enough of this drivel. You will cease this ridiculous ‘rebellion’ of yours and return to this estate. You will take your duties seriously from now on. Dismissed.”

  Phaedon gladly walked out, slamming the door shut as he left. Rene waited outside, giving a deep bow to the young master as he passed, then following him down the hall.

  “Your father means well, young master,” the elderly butler said gently.

  Phaedon scoffed. “Hard to believe. Don’t know what you see in him, honestly.”

  “He is simply awkward,” Rene replied. “I’m sure he cares for you. When the time comes, you are to inherit your father’s position as Lord Betrand.”

  “Never wanted it.”

  Rene nodded. “Mm. Many times, our wants do not align with our duties. Just as a caterpillar does not necessarily choose to become a butterfly, he must sprout wings nevertheless.”

  Phaedon shook his head. “It can’t be me.”

  The butler sighed. “I remember when you were young; you were so eager to be the heir. Ah, that one time you begged to have an instructor teach you to dance properly—”

  “That was a long time ago, alright? And can you stop bringing that up?”

  Rene didn’t say anything else, though a smile was on his face.

  As the young heir passed by the main foyer, he noticed guards outside hauling in wyvern carcasses into the estate.

  “More wyverns?” Phaedon said. “Seem to be more and more of them recently.”

  “Indeed. There was even an incident recently where a captive one escaped in the city. Not to worry—it has been slain.”

  “Good news for my father, I’d guess.”

  The Bertrand family started out as blacksmiths, long ago, and wyvern scales were the beating heart of the family business. The Bertrands were craftsmen and businessmen, selling armor and weapons made from scales. Usually, they had to outsource the procurement of wyvern scales, but with the recent increase in wyvern activity near Artemest, business was booming. His father must have paid a good sum of money to have these carcasses given to him.

  Not that it mattered to Phaedon. He ignored it, heading to the back of the estate where a hidden entrance stood: a small gate concealed amidst roses and vines covering the wall.

  “I’m going out,” Phaedon said. Obviously, he wasn’t going to heed his father’s word to stay at the estate, and Rene simply sighed having fully expected this to happen.

  In a desperate attempt to prove his independence from his family, Phaedon was staying at an inn, far from the Drakonyra district that his father governed. Not many people would recognize him that far out. Lysandros obviously didn’t like that, but if there was anything Phaedon inherited from his father, it was his stubbornness.

  Had he left through the front gate, there was no doubt the guards would have stopped him on his father’s orders. Rene, on the other hand, seemed to understand that even if he kept Phaedon from leaving, he’d still find a way to sneak out anyway. He always did.

  “You take care of yourself, Rene,” Phaedon said to him.

  “As should you, young master. Do try and find a better place to hide next time. That was far too easy.”

  The two exchanged smiles, and Phaedon slipped away, making a beeline to the other side of the city, far from where the Bertrand influence ended. There were plenty of minor nobilities living in Artemest, all serving under the archon and helping him run the city. His father, Lysandros Bertrand, served as the demarchos of this district, ruling it in the archon’s name. And as heir, Phaedon would one day be demarchos after him.

  He had no intention of ever taking up that title. Ever.