Chapter 110 The Mage Quarter Part 1
Brightwater’s Mage Quarter used to be a showpiece for the old regime, with every block laid out in perfect symmetry and tree-lined avenues shaped into neat curves. Now, it looked wild and half-controlled: training circles scorched into the paving stones, magic wards glowing blue and red on the walls of old manors, and broken fountains filled with buckets of mineral-rich sludge for alchemy. What was once a place of architectural pride had become a patchwork of urgent necessity. The spellwork required for the wards drew heavily on the local reservoirs of energy, notorious for leaving the area drained and unstable. This energy depletion poses significant risks, especially for the apprentices, who must learn to navigate a landscape fraught with magic’s volatile consequences. The dangers of instability are not mentioned aloud but linger in the air, a cost everyone feels. The gardens, once filled with peonies and statues, have been torn up and replanted with rows of strong-smelling herbs and bright flowers, most grown from Delia’s hand-labeled seed packets, an attempt to replenish what magic has taken.
Daisy walked down the main avenue with Samuel beside her, her heartbeat quickening in time with their steps. Behind them, a line of apprentice blood mages followed, each holding a kit with a vial, a knife, and a piece of linen for cleaning up. The faint sting of ozone lingered in the air, heightening her senses. Samuel talked as they went, partly for Daisy and partly for the apprentices. “If your signature goes sour, you’ll smell it. Like burning hair and old pennies. That’s when you stop, and you tell me.”
The first lesson never changed: cut shallow, focus, and keep the magic in check. Daisy showed them how, making a careful cut on her forearm and letting the blood form a bead before holding it over the training circle. She emphasized a series of steps to ensure the novices could perform the task safely and effectively. ‘Start by cleansing the area with a clean cloth,’ she directed, demonstrating the process as they observed closely. ‘Make a shallow cut, just enough to release a small bead of blood. Keep your focus on the circle, but also check for any strange sensations—tingling or tension means something’s wrong. If you feel that, stop immediately and call for help.’ As she demonstrated, she couldn’t help but recall her own first attempt: the sting of failure and the fear of letting everyone down had been as tangible as the blade. But from that day, she had learned the power of patience and intent. ‘It’s not about force,’ she said. ‘It’s about intent. If you push too hard, the spell snaps back. If you hesitate, it just fizzles.’ Her voice carried the weight of experience and the hope that these apprentices would find their own paths less fraught.
She drew the drop to her palm, letting it float, then divided it into three perfect orbs. They spun in the air like planets, then shot to the edges of the circle, lighting up the carved lines in bright gold. As the golden light illuminated the space, an unexpected chill crept along the ground, the warmth of the orbs starkly contrasting with the shadow that seemed to deepen at the far edge of the circle. It was a reminder of the thin line between wonder and danger.
The apprentices watched, their faces a mix of awe and fear. Most of them had never used magic that could turn on them. Among them, Clara was drawn in by a sense of ambition mixed with a trace of dread; she envisioned herself performing with Daisy’s composure but worried about the possibility of losing control, the fear that if she reached too far, the magic might claim her rather than the other way around. Her mind moved between flashes of pride in her rapid progress and a persistent anxiety that failure would be public and lasting. Next to her, Eli felt a pang of envy, watching Daisy with intense desire to become as skilled, but behind that longing was a frustration with his own limitations—a sense that no matter how hard he tried, his efforts never seemed to yield the same results. The prospect of surpassing these boundaries both motivated and unsettled him. These fleeting yet complex thoughts flickered across their minds, adding greater depth and individuality to their shared apprehension.
Daisy beckoned Delia forward, recalling the time when Delia managed to stabilize a faltering spell during her first session, surprising even the seasoned mages. “You’re up,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of pride and encouragement.
Delia’s fingers shook, but her voice stayed steady. She made the cut with a quick, practiced move and pressed a bead of blood into her palm. The air shimmered around her. At first, nothing happened. Then a thick white mist drifted from her hand, smelling clean and almost sweet. The scent carried with it a sense of healing, a hallmark of Delia’s innate gift. This olfactory signature would become as much a part of her identity as her steady voice and unwavering focus.
Samuel nodded, impressed. “Healing focus,” he said. “You’re a natural.” Yet, as he jotted down notes on his board, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. Delia’s rapid progress, though remarkable, also harbored the risk of overconfidence—a worry he knew had stifled many promising talents before. This lingering doubt cast a shadow on his praise, hinting at challenges that could unfold in unexpected ways.
Delia grinned, the tension easing out of her. “Doesn’t even hurt.”
Samuel made a note on his board. “Your turn, Greenfield.”
Oliver, who had been leaning against a pillar and pretending not to care, sauntered forward. “If I die, bury me in the river,” he said, though his eyes were on Daisy. His words hung in the air, a light-hearted jest masking a glimmer of truth.
She rolled hers. “Just focus.”
He took the knife and made a thin cut on his wrist. The blood came quickly, but Oliver kept it under control with a flick of his fingers. He let it gather in his palm, then threw it in a wide arc. Instead of splattering, the blood disappeared, leaving only a faint haze behind.