Sealed Flame, Rowan intoned, filling his spell with the Intent needed for it to fully manifest.

  The [Fireball] erupted from his hand, a blazing sphere of raw, destructive might. It streaked across the cavern, its heat warping the air in its wake. The glow of the spell illuminated every jagged surface, the shadows of the three Ember Crawlers stretching and writhing like specters on the walls.

  The monsters snarled in unison, their claws digging into the rocky ground as they surged forward, undeterred by the searing heat racing towards them.

  They didn’t know fear—only instinct. And right now, their instincts told them that Rowan was prey.

  They were wrong.

  The spell hit the lead Crawler dead center, detonating in a brilliant eruption of fire and force. A thunderous boom shook the cavern, loose shards of rock falling from the ceiling. The impact didn’t just stop the first creature—it obliterated it.

  The burst of flames engulfed the other two Crawlers before they could react, the sheer force of the explosion flinging them back like ragdolls. One slammed against the cavern wall, its carapace cracking audibly before it crumpled to the ground, twitching. The other was hurled into a fissure, its shriek cut short as it vanished into the depths.

  The firestorm lingered for a moment, a swirling vortex of heat and light that consumed everything in its radius. When it finally subsided, a loud silence filled the cavern. What remained of his spell was soon swallowed up by the parched ground, draining away his mana and feeding it to something down below.

  Rowan stood motionless, his arm still outstretched, the faint heat of his spell’s aftermath radiating from his palm. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, the sheer power of the [Fireball] leaving him momentarily stunned.

  He lowered his hand, a slow grin spreading across his face as he surveyed the devastation. The lead Crawler had been reduced to little more than ash and scorched fragments. The one against the wall twitched once more before going still, its shattered shell leaking dark fluid onto the smoldering ground.

  Kai let out a sharp caw from his perch, his wings flaring as he surveyed the carnage. He dove from the ledge, landing on the charred remains of the nearest monster. With an eager trill, he tore into the remains.

  “Well,” Rowan muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, “That was… satisfying.”

  His Core hummed in response, the expenditure leaving a hollow, yet oddly fulfilling sensation in his chest. Rowan drew in a deep breath, refilling his reserves from the mana pouring out of the vent.

  The spell had been a resounding success—not just because of the destruction it caused, but because of how it felt.

  It was smoother than ever. The circuit had flowed with precision, and the shell had held perfectly until impact. The work he’d put in was paying off, and Rowan felt a surge of pride at how far he’d come.

  But if there was one truth in this world, it was that he could always do better. There were still improvements to be made.

  “One down,” Rowan muttered, his grin fading as determination replaced it.

  The vent continued to hiss, streams of mana rising into the air like ghostly flames. The Plateau didn’t care about his success. It didn’t care about his progress or his plans. It was a crucible, one that would only grow harder to endure.

  What he’d done had started a timer. And with what he planned on doing next, it would only grow shorter.

  He could only be so loud before the monsters that called this place their home came to investigate. Crawlers he could take care of with relative ease. Burrowers and Ashlings too. They were all monsters at Iron-rank or below, and with the vent keeping his reserves topped off, they were little more than nuisances.

  But Rowan wasn’t arrogant enough to think it’d stay that way for long.

  The longest he’d managed to hold a vent was half an hour. And while that didn’t seem like a lot, it translated to a few dozen casts of [Fireball]. Cutting down days of work into something much more palatable.

  Not wasting any time, Rowan got started.

  Mastering a spell was more art than science. The spell tomes certainly helped with learning the circuit, but it was the Intent that really made a difference. And Rowan’s needed some refining.

  The hissing of the vent mixed with the distant echoes of approaching monsters, but Rowan barely noticed, his focus fixed on the spell once more forming in his palm. Mana coursed through his channels, sharp and searing, spiraling into the shell.

  “Sealed Flame,” Rowan whispered, channeling his Intent. The phrase was more than just words—it was an order to the mana to fulfill its purpose.

  The [Fireball] started forming, brighter and denser than the one before. After thirty-seven seconds, it was done. Flicking his wrist, Rowan shot it forward, aiming at a wall.

  A loud boom echoed through the cavern, though quieter than the one before. The Plateau eagerly absorbed his mana, dulling the spell's effect.

  He could feel his Intent sharpening. His next one was faster, more efficient, just slightly closer to what he needed.

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  Rowan wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his breath steady despite the growing heat. The mana from the vent surged into him, refilling his reserves faster than he could empty them.

  The process repeated, the minutes blurring together in a cycle of casting, adjusting, and refilling.

  But all the noise he was making started drawing attention, and it wasn’t long before his spells found better targets.

  The Burrowers came first—skittering, snarling beasts that tested his precision. Then came the Crawlers, larger and bulkier, their hides tougher and their charges more relentless. Rowan adjusted, and kept at it.

  Twenty-one, he thought, going again.

  “Refined Heat,” he muttered, honing his Intent further.

  The [Fireball] exploded with a tighter radius but an intensity that melted rock and flesh alike.

  As the minutes passed, the monsters grew stronger. Ashlings slithered into the cavern, their shadowy forms blending into the dark corners before striking with blinking speed. Rowan’s response was equally as quick—his fire illuminating the cavern as he forced them back, the searing heat driving them into the open where they were obliterated.

  One of the Ashlings managed to close the distance, lunging at him with a venomous hiss. Rowan reacted without thinking, releasing a [Firebolt] at point-blank range. The smaller spell wasn’t as destructive, but it was precise, and quick. It struck the creature in its gaping maw and sent it flying backwards, lifeless.

  Kai swooped down from his perch, taking advantage of the carnage. He tore into one of the Burrowers, his sharp beak making quick work of the cracked shell. He trilled in delight, flapping his wings.

  Rowan’s Core pulsed with exertion, but the vent’s mana kept him going. The process was grueling—every cast pushing him closer to mastery, every wave of monsters sharpening his Intent.

  Time seemed to stretch, the rhythm of combat becoming a relentless metronome. Cast. Refine. Cast. Refine.

  Each [Fireball] came to him faster, the circuit more efficient, his Intent honed. Rowan felt the shift deep within him, the point where his will and the mana aligned perfectly. His spell wasn’t just functional—it was art.

  The cavern bore the marks of his work. Scorch marks lined the walls, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh and charred stone. The once-barren ground was littered with smoldering remains, a testament to his progress.

  Finally, as a [Fireball] formed in his hand for what felt like the hundredth time today, he felt a difference.

  Compressed Ember, he intoned, the Intent slipping into place like a puzzle piece.

  The spell burned brighter than any before it, the heat contained within its shell a testament to his mastery. He released it with a sense of finality, the explosion that followed more controlled yet devastating in its impact.

  He grinned. “And that’s ten.”

  Rowan let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. His Core hummed, the mana from the vent still flowing into him, though slower now—his reserves almost full once more.

  Kai landed in front of him, his feathers unsinged.

  Seems like I’m not the only one who gained something from this little trip.

  His familiar hopped around, eyes bright with excitement. He cawed once, his tone sounding almost congratulatory.

  Rowan chuckled, looking at the scene around him. The monsters were gone, their attempts to claim the vent thwarted by his flames.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of his progress.

  If I applied to the Academy right now, I’d get in. I’d even pass the exam for Apprentice, he smiled to himself.

  Rowan shook his head. That wasn’t bound to happen any time soon, he had no way of getting to the Academy in the first place, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Being considered dead had its advantages.

  Nevertheless, it was a satisfying thought. He’d spent his youth imagining himself there, walking those halls, proving his worth. That dream had never fully faded, even when he’d come to terms with his status. But he wasn’t dull anymore. And while walking its halls would have to wait, he could still prove his worth. If not to his family, then to himself.

  Not to advance in title. Being an Initiate or an Apprentice had sounded exciting when he’d been young, but Rowan already had a title. One he intended to live up to.

  He thought back, a bittersweet memory coming to mind.

  Out of all of his siblings, Kasius had managed it the fastest. And it had taken him just over two years. Advancing wasn’t the problem, all you needed to do it was time and effort, something every talented mage had in spades. But mastering a Chant was another thing entirely.

  Six months, Rowan thought. For both. Alone. With no one to guide me.

  His fists clenched at his side, feeling anger bubbling inside him. The vent only seemed to stoke it further, his channels brimming with energy just waiting to be unleashed.

  It was hard not to think about what could have been if his Awakening had happened sooner. If Rowan had someone to teach him, there was no telling how far he could have walked his Path by the time disaster struck.

  Maybe I’d have been strong enough to help, he sighed. If I Awakened at twelve like everyone else, that's seven years right there.

  His trait was a well of untapped potential, he knew that. But what he didn’t know was how to effectively utilize it.

  Having stronger channels and a more robust soul were massive boons, but that felt like praising a sword for its scabbard. Rowan wasn’t actually swinging it yet, and with no knowledge of how to unsheathe it, that was how it would stay.

  Well, unless something changed.

  Opening his eyes, Rowan took a deep, calming breath, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.

  Wishing for the past to change was a worthless endeavor. One that always seemed to leave him feeling hollow.

  But no, he wouldn’t do that. Not today.

  He’d accomplished something great, something worth celebrating. And Rowan wouldn’t let those familiar dark clouds overshadow that success.

  He was here, in the Plateau. A newly minted Orange-Core mage with a freshly mastered Chant under his belt. Courtesy of the vent, his Core was full, his channels filled to bursting.

  The cavern was littered with smoldering corpses, marks from his relentless spellcasting covering the walls. It had been a hectic half-hour, and with the amount of noise he’d been making, something was bound to come and look.

  Kai cawed loudly from his perch, drawing Rowan’s attention towards a crack in the wall to his left. From out of the darkness came a low, ominous growl. The only thing Rowan could see was a pair of slitted eyes, shining with a familiar red glow. But that was enough to scan it.

  Rowan’s heartbeat quickened, an eager grin appearing on his face.

  The smart thing to do would have been to make a run for it. He’d encountered this monster only once before, and that hadn't ended all that well for him.

  Ash Wyrmlings made their home on the second layer of the Plateau, and for one to come here meant Rowan had made a lot more noise than he’d thought.

  Knowing it had been seen, the monster moved out of the crevice, its body somewhere between a Crawler and Burrower in size. Dusty grey scales covered it, moving with the lithe grace of a predator that sent chills down Rowan’s spine.

  If he had to guess, it might even be stronger than the shaman he’d fought.

  The fact that it had a Core of its own immediately made it a threat worth taking seriously. But right now, Rowan couldn’t find it in himself to care.

  “I really hope you brought some friends,” he muttered, a determined look in his eyes.

  Their gazes never left each other, both of them sizing up the other. The Wyrmling slowly made its way around the cavern, circling him. In a burst of speed, it lunged towards him, snarling as its muscled legs tore across the rocky ground.

  Rowan grinned. And then, he started casting.