Winter until Spring the following year, year 567 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Once Kharg had eased into his routine, he began to explore the Academy’s extracurricular activities. At the far end of the Academy grounds was a circular courtyard lit by floating orbs of light where some students met to hone their skills with practical applications. There were target dummies as well as a dueling ground, making Kharg feel like he had returned to Sitch Nar’s Academy.

  The evening gatherings were informal and appealed only to a small portion of the students. Here, Kharg soon earned a reputation for his mastery of hardened air spikes. Few of the other students could match his accuracy, not even when they used their own preferred elemental attack. But he was far behind those who used lightning when it came to pure destructive power.

  The duels were strongly regulated and only those who had mastered spells for protective shrouds were allowed to participate, after having proven that they could consistently minimize the power of their elemental blasts. With his solid training from Sitch Nar, Kharg soon made a name for himself as a skilled duelist, able to deflect incoming attacks while simultaneously launching retaliatory spikes. Night after night, these duels honed his skills and earned him both respect and a growing reputation as a formidable mage.

  * * *

  A few weeks after advancing to the rank of apprentice, Kharg happened upon a lecture that would change his daily life more than any other spell he had ever mastered. The class title was vague and unassuming. “Applications of Compound Weaves: Fire, Earth, and Water” gave no real hint of what the course actually involved. But with an open slot in his schedule, he had slipped into the back of the lecture hall out of mild curiosity.

  The room was smaller than the grand amphitheaters used for elemental theory, more intimate, designed for focused study. Most of the students present were older apprentices, some of whom he recognized from advanced spellcraft lectures. At the front of the room, atop a polished oak desk, lay an assortment of ordinary objects, a dusty book, a tarnished goblet, a soot-darkened plate, and a pair of rusted tongs.

  Kharg frowned, puzzled. This hardly looked like a class in refined spellwork.

  Then the instructor, a middle-aged mage with ink-stained fingers and the practical air of a scholar who spent more time in archives than in grand laboratories, stepped forward and lifted the book.

  “This,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber, “is filth.”

  A few students chuckled, but the instructor remained serious.

  “We spend our lives surrounded by books, scrolls, tools, instruments—objects that are meant to last. And yet, they decay. Ink fades, paper molds, weapons rust, clothing stains. These problems are not new, and so, centuries ago, mages developed practical solutions. Today, I will introduce you to one of the most useful, yet most overlooked disciplines of magic.”

  With a flick of his wrist, he wove a spell into the air. Kharg straightened abruptly.

  The magic was unlike anything he had seen before, with Earth, Water, and Fire intertwined rather than stood as separate forces. Instead, they blended into a lattice of shifting weaves, each supporting the other in ways his mind struggled to follow. The moment the spell took hold of the book, it transformed before his eyes.

  Kharg stared, hardly able to believe his own eyes. The book, which had only moments ago been covered in dust and wear, now looked as though it had just been lifted from the scribe’s hands, with its ink fresh and its leather binding unblemished. Around him, a ripple of murmurs spread through the room, a wave of disbelief and fascination.

  “This,” the instructor said, closing the book with a satisfying thud, “is the most basic form of Cleansing Magic. Do not mistake simplicity for ease. If you cannot master this first spell, you will never advance further.”

  Kharg leaned forward, his fascination growing.

  * * *

  Mastering the spell was far more difficult than Kharg had anticipated. At first, he assumed it would be like any other elemental weave, gather, shape, and release. But Cleansing Magic was a matter of balance, not force. The elements had to be woven delicately, their energies coaxed rather than commanded.

  His first attempt ignited the book’s cover.

  The instructor barely blinked as he waved the flames away. “Too much Fire.”

  His second attempt soaked the book through, the ink bleeding into a mess of ruined pages.

  “Too much Water.”

  By the third day, Kharg was gritting his teeth in frustration. He had learned airblades, shields, and compound defensive wards, yet he couldn’t clean a simple book?

  Yet, he was not alone.

  Across the room, apprentices struggled with overloaded weaves, causing minor explosions of soot or spells that fizzled into nothing. Cleansing was deceptively intricate. Too weak and the spell had no effect, too strong and it damaged the very thing it sought to restore.

  But Kharg persisted.

  Every evening, after finishing his other studies, he returned to practice, refining his approach, adjusting the subtle interplay of elements. Instead of forcing the spell, he let it flow, trusting in the weave to find its own path.

  After seven days, the magic finally clicked.

  The moment he released the weave, he felt it, a smooth ripple as if the book itself had accepted the spell rather than resisting it. The dust vanished, the leather cover gleamed, and the title stood out sharply, as if freshly stamped in ink.

  He grinned, a small but meaningful victory won.

  * * *

  That single success was only the beginning. Over the following months, he progressed slowly but steadily, moving from books and parchment to more challenging materials.

  Metal objects came next, goblets, rusted tools, and blades darkened by time. These required a stronger Fire weave, but too much would weaken the metal instead of cleansing it. Ceramic and wood proved trickier, as they absorbed Water and needed a balance of Earth’s stabilizing force to restore them without warping or cracking. Then followed cloth and organic material. These were the most difficult of all.

  The first time he cast the cleansing spell on his academy tunic, he could scarcely believe the difference. The fabric, once dulled by wear and somewhat stiff from repeated washing, now felt impossibly smooth, light as air, yet crisp and perfectly fitted against his skin. It carried no lingering scent of dampness or soap, only the purifying essence of the magic itself. He began cleansing his tunic daily, refining the spell’s flow, testing how much fabric he could cleanse at once before it became inefficient. The area of effect was limited, requiring five castings to fully clean his robes, but the effort was well worth it. It was a small but satisfying luxury, knowing he would never again have to endure grimy clothes while waiting for laundry day. And while traveling… why, that would make journeys far more pleasant.

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  * * *

  One evening, alone in his small dormitory room, he sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the flickering candlelight as the idea turned over in his mind. The thought of using cleansing magic on himself had first taken root that afternoon during practice with the other apprentices. Now, it refused to leave him. He had to try it. With cautious curiosity, he wove a smaller, gentler variation of the spell and directed it at his hair, watching intently in the small hand-mirror propped up on his desk. Fafne perched beside the mirror, his iridescent wings fluttering slightly as he tilted his head. A soft pulse of amusement brushed against Kharg’s mind. Not words, but an inquisitive nudge, as if the little dragon found his master’s vanity particularly entertaining.

  Kharg shot him a wry glance. “Laugh all you want,” he murmured, “but if this works, you might get a turn next.”

  The effect was instantaneous. The strands lightened, shedding all traces of oil and sweat, taking on a renewed luster as if they had never been unwashed. He ran his fingers through it, feeling how smooth and weightless it had become.

  Encouraged, he turned his attention to his ink-stained hands, layering the weave carefully. The dark stains faded effortlessly, leaving his skin soft and refreshed, as though he had just soaked in a hot spring and scrubbed with soap.

  He had one final step to take, but he hesitated. Hygiene had always mattered to him—he brushed with willow bark, scraped his tongue each morning, and chewed spearmint leaves for fresh breath. But despite his efforts, there was always a trace of dryness in his mouth, the slight roughness that never quite vanished. He swallowed, staring at the palm of his hand. The spell had worked beyond all expectations, but could it really work on something as sensitive as his mouth?

  Fafne let out a quiet chitter, his tail curling around the base of the mirror. Another small mental pulse, this time, curiosity laced with encouragement.

  Kharg released a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. “You think it’s safe?” he muttered, half to himself.

  The little dragon’s wings flicked, his thoughts brushing Kharg’s own, a sensation not quite speech, but something close. Confidence. Assurance.

  Kharg sighed. “Well, if I lose my ability to taste, you’ll be the one testing my food from now on.”

  What if it was too harsh? What if the weave burned him from the inside? What if he lost his ability to taste? He ran his tongue across his teeth. He had mastered the spell on fabric, on metal, even on his skin, but the inside of his mouth was something else entirely. Would it feel unnatural, unpleasant? He hesitated, telling himself to leave it be. Yet the idea gnawed at him, persistent as an itch he couldn’t ignore.

  His other experiments had all yielded nothing but improvements. And the thought of never needing spearmint leaves again, never dealing with the coarse dryness of his tongue after long hours of study, that temptation gnawed at him. Still, he hesitated. He took a deep breath.

  His fingers twitched, reluctant yet determined. He wove the spell in its gentlest form yet, delicate, barely tangible, a whisper of power meant to cleanse without erasing. The balance had to be perfect. Fire, but not enough to scorch. Water, but not enough to drown. Earth, but only to stabilize, not to smother. He took a deep breath. Then, with hesitant resolve, he directed the weave into himself.

  The sensation hit instantly. Cool purity flooded his mouth, a tingling, refreshing wave washing over his teeth, gums, and tongue. It was not a burn, not an invasive force, but rather a soft, flowing energy that took all lingering roughness and dryness and wiped them clean away.

  He gasped. His tongue felt smooth, impossibly clean, not scraped, not scrubbed, but pristine. Even his teeth felt different, polished, untouched by the rough abrasiveness of bark and herbs. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, stunned. Even his breath carried a sensation of freshness beyond anything he had ever known. Kharg drew in a sharp breath before releasing it, his pulse quickening.

  He swallowed. No bitterness, no aftertaste. Just clean, weightless freshness. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the cup of water on his desk, bringing it to his lips for a tentative sip. The coolness spread instantly, its clarity sharper than he had ever known. He set the cup down, fingers pressing against the wood of the desk as realization settled deep in his bones. No spearmint leaf had ever done this. This wasn’t just an improvement. This was a revelation.

  From that moment forward, everything changed. No more grime under his nails. No more greasy hair weighed down by sweat. And, from then on, a fresh mouth and face as well.

  * * *

  The difference in his daily comfort was astounding. Weeks had passed between his first attempt at cleansing fabric and the day he dared turn the spell on himself, yet from that moment onward it became part of his routine. At first, he had needed to feed the weave from his own mana reserves, but as his proficiency grew, the cost diminished until, after a few months, he could draw all the power he needed from the ambient mana around him. That was fortunate, given how often he used it. Five castings for his tunic, one for his boots, one for his hair, and one for his mouth, several times a day. The sense of freshness and cleanliness was intoxicating, his tunic remaining pristine while other apprentices bore stains and wear and stank of sweat. One evening, after cleansing his boots with a simple flick of his hand, he beamed a smile at Fafne. “I’ll never go back to scrubbing anything by hand.” The little dragon only gave him a look and snorted.

  After their first visit, they became regular visitors to the Church of Thoth. They found that the Blessing of Thoth lasted for several days, sharpening their focus and enhancing their spellcasting abilities. For Kharg, whose funds were limited compared to his friends, the lack of obligation to donate made the visits far easier. The experience became a cornerstone of his routine, ensuring that his mind remained honed for both his duels and his studies.

  To his surprise, Kharg’s world grew to something beyond the lecture halls. He learned to combine magic with camaraderie and the city’s vibrant pulse. He felt completely at ease with his newfound friends, and the bonds grew stronger between them as they debated magic until late in the night or celebrated their successes in the revelry district.

  As Kharg delved deeper into the art of aerial magic, his lessons took on a new dimension. He moved beyond simple manipulation of air currents, he enhanced his ability to compress and shape the element into larger and more durable objects compared to the somewhat fragile plates and glasses from before. He experimented with chairs of air that he turned somewhat opaque, a testament to his growing affinity with aerial magic. Shields of hardened air, invisible yet unyielding, became his go-to for deflecting attacks and he inwardly began to call them force-blocks. These blocks only lasted a few moments but were far more durable than any other forms he shaped, long enough to turn a blade or missile aside. Over time, he perfected a way of layering air into an invisible armor far stronger than the one he had learned in Sitch Nar. That earlier version had done little more than blunt the force of a blow and keep off the rain. This new weave, with interlocked layers that reinforced one another, could turn aside a thrown dagger and even most strikes from mid-sized weapons like shortswords, a practical application that earned the praise of his instructors.

  It was during this period that Kharg began to notice something peculiar about his peers, including his closest friends. While they were proficient in elemental theories, their ability to adapt and apply their magic creatively in real situations was sadly lacking. While they all had the same basic foundation, Caspian had specialized further in elemental air. But he knew very few practical applications while he knew far more than Kharg about the various methods and types of weaves to summon a basic wind. Likewise, Ivar and Dagny showed similar limitations with their preferred elements, Water and Fire.

  Recognizing this gap in their training, Kharg took it upon himself to help them. He introduced his friends to the dueling grounds where he felt more and more comfortable. They were hesitant at first, unused to this type of spellcasting. But Kharg’s encouragement, combined with his practical demonstrations, gradually eroded their apprehension. The dueling grounds came alive each evening with their shouts and laughter as they stumbled through initial attempts at offensive magic.

  They began meeting every evening to put their classroom theory into practice. This was where Kharg’s mentorship stood out. He taught Caspian to form the aerial spikes he had refined during his time in Sitch Nar, and guided him in casting more forceful spells like sudden bursts of wind. Though still behind Kharg in practical casting, Caspian had learned several advanced aerial weaves and was experimenting with their applications. Ivar focused on shaping water into controlled whips, discovering that precision often outweighed raw strength. At Kharg’s suggestion, he also began exploring basic fire-based techniques to broaden his versatility. Under Kharg’s direction, Dagny worked on sustaining her flames, learning to channel their heat without exhausting her mana reserves.

  Their progress was not without its missteps. Caspian once conjured a gale so forceful it knocked over an entire line of practice dummies, prompting laughter from onlookers and a lecture from the groundskeeper. Ivar accidentally drenched himself and his teammates more times than anyone cared to count, while Dagny occasionally produced arrows of flame that fizzled embarrassingly. But through these mistakes, they grew closer, their shared frustrations and triumphs solidifying their bond.

  The days settled into a steady routine for Kharg. He devoted most of the daylight hours to refining his abilities in the lecture halls, while late afternoons found him tirelessly practicing his aerial spells and other magical applications. In the evenings, he balanced dueling practice with visits to the revelry district alongside his friends, and twice a week they went to the temple to make the most of its blessings.