The morning air in Aldaria was sharp, a promise of the chill that clung to the academy's ancient stones even under a clear blue sky. The sound of hurried footsteps and muffled conversations echoed through the polished stone corridors, a constant flow of students heading to their first classes.
Logan walked among them, flanked by Blake and Kassia, but his mind was miles away, lost in a labyrinth of shadows and newly discovered power.
"You won't believe the complexity of the Enhanced Vitality Elixir," Kassia was saying, her golden eyes shining with an intellectual energy Logan admired. "Professor Starbloom showed us how moon oak sap, when combined with pulverized phoenix petals, creates an unstable catalyst. One mistake in temperature and the whole thing turns into a paralyzing gas. It's fascinating and terrifying at the same time."
Blake let out a low whistle, adjusting the strap of his leather bag on his shoulder. "Sounds like you had more fun than I did in extra Defensive Tactics class. We spent two hours practicing blocking charges from training golems. My arms feel like lead," he complained, but a smirk betrayed his satisfaction. He looked at Logan, his expression shifting from weariness to concern. "You're quiet today, Logan. More than usual. Did something happen?"
Logan blinked, Blake's voice pulling him back from the fog of his thoughts. He forced a smile, which he felt looked weak and unconvincing. "No, nothing. Just… thinking," he replied, his voice a bit hoarse.
Kassia slowed her pace, her perceptive gaze examining him with a disarming gentleness. "Is it about yesterday's classes? The Forging and Alchemy?" she asked, her tone soft. "Don't be so hard on yourself. It was the first time for all of us. No one expects you to master everything at once. Master Hadrik is demanding, and Professor Starbloom seems like she was born in a cauldron."
"She's right," Blake agreed, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. "You push yourself too hard. Relax a little. You're not going to fail for not managing to inscribe two runes on your first dagger."
Logan felt a wave of gratitude for his friends. Their concern was genuine, a safe harbor in the storm brewing inside him. But they were wrong. The difficulties in the previous day's classes were already a distant memory, a trivial worry next to the true source of his exhaustion. His thoughts weren't on the forge or the cauldrons, but in the cold darkness of the previous night, in the wild power pulsing through his veins, and in the crushing weight of the Grimoire of Shadows. He remembered the training, the struggle to control something that felt alive, hungry.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," he lied, the word "training" echoing in his mind with a completely different meaning. "I'm just a little tired."
His thoughts, however, dragged him back, to the silence of his room the night before, to the moment when the real trial had begun.
The door to his dormitory room closed with a soft click, isolating Logan from the rest of the world. The room at Aldaria was functional, almost spartan compared to the luxury of his home in Sky Reaper, but it had become his sanctuary. Books and scrolls were stacked on his desk, notes on runes, alchemical ingredients, and combat stances scattered in an organized mess.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his body aching from classes, but his mind even more fatigued. The day had been a whirlwind of new information. The heat of the Magical Forge, the smell of metal and mana merging, the frustration of his wavering hand as he tried to inscribe the second rune. Then, the Alchemy laboratory, a world of colored vapors and infinite possibilities, where every ingredient held the power to heal or to kill.
A part of him, the part that longed to prove his worth, felt frustrated. Blake seemed to have a natural affinity for forging, his movements fluid and confident. Kassia, in turn, navigated the complex concepts of Alchemy with unnerving ease. And him? He felt average, a step behind, as if he were always trying to catch up to the others.
But then, the words of the Ancestral Qilin echoed in his mind, serene and powerful, like a bell ringing in a distant temple: "Haste is the enemy of mastery, young heir. The power you carry cannot be tamed, only understood. Be patient."
Logan took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He knew the Qilin was right. The path of magic was a marathon, not a sprint. His journey was unique, his burden, different. Comparing himself to others was a mistake, a trap that would only lead to bitterness. He was not just a Human. He was the heir of Fenrir. And that power, that heritage, demanded a different kind of training, a balance between learned discipline and the wild instinct that resided in his soul.
A new determination filled him. If he wanted to control the beast, he first needed to master the man.
Standing up, he cleared a space in the center of the room. He began with the fundamentals of Combat Magic that Professor Darius had taught them. The stances, the movements, the channeling of mana. At first, his gestures were rigid, the energy flowing irregularly. But he persisted. He remembered the master's advice: "Mana responds to intention. Don't force it, guide it."
He visualized the energy as an extension of his body, flowing from his core to his fists and feet. Slowly, his movements became more fluid. A punch released a small wave of concussive force that made the air vibrate. A kick drew an arc of pale blue light. It wasn't powerful, not yet, but it was controlled. It was his.
Next, he moved on to basic mana manipulation spells. Small spheres of light danced between his fingers, changing color and intensity as his concentration waxed or waned. He practiced levitation, lifting a heavy book inches off the floor, the effort causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead. With each success, however small, a spark of confidence ignited within him. He was progressing, slowly, but steadily.
Hours passed. When he finally stopped, exhaustion weighed on his limbs, but his mind was clear and focused. The moon was high in the sky, its silver glow now the only light in the room. His gaze fell upon the chest at the foot of his bed. Inside, wrapped in a black silk cloth, was the Grimoire of Shadows.
A sense of awe and fascination washed over him. That book was not like the others. It pulsed with an ancient energy, a promise of power that was as seductive as it was dangerous. He picked it up, the cool, smooth leather under his fingers. As he opened it, the runes seemed to writhe in the dim light, whispering secrets only he could hear.
His eyes landed on two spells the ancient bearer of Fenrir, Thorne Shadowheart, had shown him. The first,
Training here, in his room, seemed reckless. The energy emanating from the grimoire was volatile, wild. He needed space. He needed darkness.
Silently, he left the dormitory. The academy was cloaked in silence, the night shadows stretching long and inviting across the lawns. He found a secluded training courtyard, hidden by a row of oak trees. There, under the watchful eye of the moon, he would begin his real training.
He opened the grimoire to the page for
Logan closed his eyes, breathing deep the cold night air. He focused on the presence he had felt in Xian'Lin, the colossal, overwhelming force of Fenrir. He drew on that energy, feeling it rise through his body, a dark, tingling power. Extending his hand, he whispered the name of the spell. "
Before him, the air distorted. Shadows gathered, twisted, and solidified, forming the floating jaw of a colossal wolf. It was made of pure darkness, yet seemed tangible, with teeth that dripped a black mist and eyes that didn't exist but still seemed to watch him with insatiable hunger. A low growl, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoed across the courtyard.
He had done it. The jaw hovered in the air, unstable, but real. Logan felt a wave of euphoria, but the concentration required to maintain it was immense. After a few seconds, the form unraveled, dissipating into smoke.
He tried again, this time with a target. There were stones and pinecones scattered on the ground. He conjured the jaw again and, with an effort of will, guided it towards a pinecone. The shadow fangs closed over it with a soft snap. He lifted it into the air, the pinecone held securely within the spectral mouth. Success.
Buoyed by confidence, he decided to try something larger. A solid wooden bench was propped near a tree. It was heavy, a real test of control. "
But something went wrong. The moment the shadow fangs touched the wood, a pulse of raw, uncontrolled power surged through the spell. The intention to "grab" was overwhelmed by the predatory nature of the magic. The jaw didn't hold the bench; it devoured it.
With a deafening sound of splintering and cracking wood, the bench was crushed, reduced to a pile of splinters and dust in a fraction of a second. The shadow jaw pulsed violently before dissipating, leaving a shocked silence behind. Logan stared at the wreckage, his heart hammering in his chest. Icy fear replaced the euphoria. That power… it was too destructive. One mistake in concentration, one lapse of control, and he could seriously injure someone. Or worse.
Trembling, he decided it was better to change tactics. Destruction was not the way. He needed subtlety, control. He turned the page of the grimoire to
This was different. It required him to become one with the shadows, to use the darkness as a veil, a path. The process was complex: he needed to feel the connection between all shadows, to see them not as an absence of light, but as a parallel plane of existence.
He positioned himself in the shadow of a large oak tree. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the darkness around him. At first, he felt nothing but the cold of the night. But then, he remembered his heritage, the blood of Fenrir, the lord of the Shadow World. He didn't just need to "feel" the shadow; he was part of it.
With this realization, something changed. The shadow under the tree seemed to deepen, growing colder. He took a step into it, reciting the incantation in a whisper. "
For an instant, he felt a sense of displacement, as if sinking into ice-cold water. The world around him became a blur of gray and silence. But the connection was weak, unstable. Before he could do anything, he was violently spat out. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees on the grass, panting and disoriented. The sensation was like being expelled from his own body.
He didn't give up. He rested for a moment and tried again. And again. Each attempt left him more exhausted, his mana draining at an alarming rate. On the fifth try, he succeeded.
Upon entering the shadow, the drowning sensation was replaced by acceptance. The world vanished, and he found himself in a silent, cold void. He could "see" the courtyard, but not with his eyes. It was a three-dimensional, colorless perception, where only shadows had substance. He saw the shadow of the tree he was in and, a few meters away, the shadow cast by a stone pillar.
With a thought, he propelled himself through the void. It wasn't a physical movement, but an act of pure will. In less than the blink of an eye, he was there. He emerged from the pillar's shadow, the air filling his lungs again, the sound of the wind in the leaves returning.
He had traveled nearly ten meters. The euphoria he felt was overwhelming, but short-lived. The journey, though instantaneous, had consumed almost all his remaining energy. His legs gave out, and he leaned against the pillar, his head spinning.
It was done. He had succeeded. But the price was high. The weariness he felt now was profound, an exhaustion that came from the soul. With difficulty, he made his way back to his room, each step a monumental effort.
He put away the grimoire, collapsed onto the bed, and was swallowed by the darkness of sleep before he could even fully process the night of triumphs and terrors.
"Logan? Earth to Logan!" Blake's voice, louder this time, brought him back to the present with a jolt. They were standing in front of a large oak door reinforced with iron bands, the entrance to the Basic Magic classroom.
Logan blinked, shaking off the last webs of his memory. He looked at his friends, the concern still visible on their faces. "Sorry," he said, his voice firmer now. "I'm fine, really. It's like I said, I'm just tired. I was training late last night. The basics of combat and mana manipulation. I think I overdid it a bit."
The explanation, a half-truth, seemed to satisfy them. Kassia smiled, relieved. "Well, try not to faint in the middle of class, then," she joked, her tone light again.
Blake pushed the heavy door, which opened with a low creak, revealing a large, amphitheater-style room. "Let's go. I don't want to be the first one to annoy the professor."
Logan took one last deep breath, the weight of the previous night still on his shoulders, but the presence of his friends by his side was a reminder that he was not alone. He followed them into the room, ready to face whatever the day would bring, carrying with him the echoes and the shadows of the wolf awakening within.