The air is colder this morning. Not the kind that bites your skin, but the kind that carries silence. Like the world's holding its breath, waiting for something to begin.
I walk toward the clearing, feeling the crisp grass damp under my boots. The birds haven't started singing yet. Even the wind feels slow. Varric is already there, as always.
But today, something's different. He doesn't toss a sword. Doesn't bark a drill. He just stands there with his back turned to me, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, eyes watching the horizon like he's searching for something just out of reach.
When I approach, he doesn't turn. "You saw it, didn't you?" he asks.
I don't have to ask what he means. "…Yes."
He nods once. "Then today, you learn to use it." We sit beneath the large oak at the north edge of the training grounds, the one with roots like reaching fingers. Varric draws shapes in the dirt again—this time circles within circles.
"This is where magic truly begins," he says, tapping the innermost ring. "Soul Vision." He underlines it.
"Don't expect miracles. I'll only teach you what I know, and I'm no mage. What you do from here will depend on how far you're willing to look." I nod, focused. Eager.
He continues. "Soul Vision is the ability to see souls—yours, and others. At the beginning, all you'll be able to notice is the color of a person's soul and the general size. The color usually indicates the element they're attuned to. Fire. Water. Earth. Wind."
He gestures to himself. "Mine is red-orange. Fire. You'll see that for yourself one day." I frown slightly. "And the size…?"
"Tells you how strong their soul is. Not always about magic—sometimes it's just the force of their will. Their experience. Their pain."
I look down at my hands. "So… how do I learn to see it?"
He taps my forehead gently. "Observation. Constant observation. Start with yourself. Look inward, every day, until the image becomes clear. Then shift your focus outward. Watch those around you. People who can't use Soul Vision won't be aware you're doing it, so they make perfect training targets."
I nod slowly. "And after that?"
"Then you try it on those who do use Soul Vision," he says. "Your eyes will adapt, strain, expand. The more you train them to see—really see—the more this world opens up to you."
The next few days are filled with nothing but silence. And light. Varric calls it "Aura Training"—the first physical application of soul energy. I call it impossible.
We sit for hours under the sun, both of us with eyes closed, trying to push the energy in our bodies outward instead of inward. Not to cast or project—but to protect. To wrap the skin in light. A natural armor formed not of steel, but spirit.
At first, nothing happens. Then, slowly, I start to feel it. Not light—pressure. A heat just beneath the skin, like I'm swelling with something. A barrier forming like breath fog on glass, only tighter. Brighter.
On the third week, I catch a glimpse of it on my hand—a flicker. A shimmer.
By the second month, I can hold it for a few seconds before it fades.
By the third, it stays long enough to block one of Varric's strikes. Only once. But it's enough.
Then one day, after another draining attempt at Aura training, something changes. I look at Varric, sweat running down my temple, my vision fuzzy from the strain—and I see it.
Not his face. Not his sword. But the fire around him. It pulses, dim but dense, deep orange-red like a sun just below the surface. His soul.
My heart skips. "I see it," I whisper. "I see your aura." Varric turns his head slightly, not smiling, but something softens in his jaw.
"Then we move forward." We don't jump into fireballs or incantations. There's no spellbook. No chant. No glowing symbols carved into the dirt. Instead, Varric tells me to sit by the river and watch it move. Every day. For a week straight.
"Magic isn't about control," he says. "Not at first. It's about observation. Learning how the world works without you. And then imagining what it looks like when it bends to you."
So I watch the water. I watch how the current flows faster over shallow rocks. How sunlight reflects along the ripples. How a single leaf floats for a while, then dips, spins, and is swallowed without a sound. I start to see it—not with my eyes, but with the quiet part of my soul. The same part that feels warmth instead of temperature. That hears rhythm in silence.
It's not easy. It's not supposed to be.
But day by day, the world starts whispering a little clearer.
After two more weeks of watching water, fire becomes our focus. Varric brings me to the stone circle we used in my early sword training. He kneels down, pulls his glove off, and extends a hand. Then—without effort, without even speaking—a flame curls into his palm.
It hovers, slow and sure. He holds it there, letting it breathe, before closing his hand around it gently. It fades. "That's all the teaching you'll get."
I blink. "What?" He stands. "Magic isn't a recipe. It's a reflection. You won't learn by copying me. How I use it will never be the same as how you do."
"But you've been teaching me this whole time."
"That's because strength, balance, discipline—those things can be taught. But soul? That's yours alone."
I stare at him, uneasy. "You're not going to help?"
"I am helping. I'm telling you the truth." He walks to the edge of the clearing. "I've taken you as far as I can, boy. You've earned the right to chase your own flame now."
"Wait—how long are you leaving?" He looks back over his shoulder. "Six months."
My breath catches. "Six…?"
He nods. "I'll return at the next half-turn of the moon. Until then, your task is simple: learn your element."
I feel something clench in my stomach. A weird mix of fear and something that almost feels like excitement. "But what if I get it wrong?"
"You will get it wrong. That's the point. Magic lives in failure. In the trying. In the reach." As he's about to leave, something else rises to my lips. "Wait," I say, stepping forward. "What about healing?"
Varric pauses. Then turns. His eyes narrow, thoughtful. "There aren't many who can do it. Fewer still who'll admit to it."
I nod slowly. "It's rare. I know."
"Rare enough that most who do have it keep it secret. Hidden. Guarded. You won't find scrolls on it. Not in any school or noble library."
My shoulders fall slightly. "So you don't know how?"
"I've seen it used. Never learned it myself." He hesitates. "But if you already have it… nurture it. Quietly."
I glance down. "Why quietly?"
"Because power draws attention. And healing's the rarest kind."
He gives one final nod. "You're strong, Albus. But your path's yours to walk now." Then, just like that, he's gone—vanishing between the trees like a shadow dissolving into morning fog.
And now I'm alone again. But this time, I'm not hiding.
I'm searching. Not just to survive—but to understand what burns inside me.
The first few days are full of nothing but frustration. I try to summon the flame like Varric did—calm, controlled, clean—but nothing happens. Not even a flicker. I stare at my palm until my eyes water. I breathe slow, fast, deep, shallow. I whisper to it. I yell at it. Nothing.
It's like the fire's mocking me. Or hiding. But I don't stop. Because I remember what he said: "Magic lives in the trying."
I start by going back to basics.
Mornings, I sit at the edge of the river and just… watch again. How the steam rises off the surface when the sunlight touches it. How the warmth of my body seems to push against the air like a gentle pulse.
Sometimes I press my hand to my chest and feel the flicker inside—my soul's ember. It's still there. Still waiting. But it feels coiled, unsure. Like it's not convinced I believe in it yet.
After breakfast, I move to the fields behind the house. I sit in the grass. Palm open. "Fire," I shout. "Come." Still nothing.
But one afternoon, something changes. I'm sitting behind the barn, hiding from the wind, hands cupped in my lap like I'm cradling something invisible.
I close my eyes and breathe deep—not to force it, but to find it. I focus on the warmth inside me. And this time, I don't try to grab it.
I try to listen. The flicker swells a little. I follow it down. I remember the goblin's horrid breath on my face. The way Elaria smiled when she healed me. The heat of my rage when those boys mocked me. The warmth of the soup Lina made on that first winter night.
Fire isn't one thing. It's many. It hurts. But it holds. And in that moment—I feel it.
My soul presses against my fingertips like a heartbeat. And then—
A spark. Not a flash. Not a flare. Just a tiny, glowing pinpoint of light. Right at the tip of my index finger.
I gasp. And it fades. But I saw it. It was real.
After that, it gets easier. Not easy. Just less impossible.
Every day I train—morning, noon, and night. Behind the house. In the woods. At the river. Even inside my room with a bowl of water ready, just in case.
Sometimes the spark comes quick. Sometimes it takes hours. Some days it fizzles out before it even appears. But I don't stop. Because now I know it's there. And if it's there, I can reach it.
Weeks pass. And slowly, the spark becomes a flicker. The flicker, a flame. By the end of the second month, I can summon a small candlelight fire at the tip of my finger for a few seconds. By the third, I can keep it going while I walk.
Lina catches me doing it once while setting the table. I almost drop the plate in panic. She smiles. Says nothing. Just tousles my hair and leaves extra stew in the pot that night. But progress brings other things too. Fatigue.
The fire eats at my energy like it's feeding on my soul. Some nights, I collapse before I can even crawl into bed. The next morning, my legs are stiff. My fingers ache.
But I don't complain. Because this pain is mine. I chose it. And it's leading me somewhere.
It's during one of those quiet sunset sessions—behind the house, sitting in the dirt with my sleeves rolled up—that it finally happens.
I reach out. Feel the ember. Draw it forward. And instead of a flicker—The flame erupts.
A full orb of fire. Glowing, stable, hovering gently in my palm. It burns without burning. Warm without searing. Real. Alive.
I stare at it, wide-eyed, breath caught in my throat. My hands are trembling. "…I did it!" I exclaimed. The fire shimmers at my voice. Then slowly, I close my fingers around it.
It vanishes. But the warmth remains. Not just on my skin. But inside. I don't move for a long time after the flame fades. My hand stays outstretched, palm open, as if hoping the fire might return on its own.
But it doesn't need to. I can still feel its warmth soaked into my skin, like sunlight after a long winter. My breathing steadies. My body's exhausted. But I'm smiling. A real one. Not the polite kind I wear when villagers wave at me. Not the quiet kind I give Lina when she sets a plate in front of me.
Later that night, I sit near the fireplace inside the cottage, a bowl of warm broth between my hands. The embers crackle in the hearth, orange light dancing across the stone. I can't help but stare into it—watching how the flames twist, shift, fold into themselves.
There's a rhythm to it. A voice, almost.
Do you see me now?
Lina walks in quietly, drying her hands on a cloth. She glances at the fire, then at me. "More training?" she asks gently.
I nod. She doesn't say anything else—just comes over and places a second bowl beside me. Then she rests a hand on my shoulder. Not a warning. Not a question. Just presence. Just… knowing.
Over the next few weeks, I refine it. No more sparks flickering out. No more sudden collapses from using too much energy too fast. I learn to feel the flame before I reach for it—to sense when it's too thin, when it needs rest.
So I rest when I need to. I practice quietly, but consistently.
Some days, I make a dozen small flames—no bigger than pebbles. Other days, I make one, then spend the rest of the time just watching it. Observing how it holds itself. Listening to how it hums in my hands. And when I can finally hold a flame for longer than a minute, something inside me clicks. It's no longer just fire. It's mine.
On one evening, I walk out to the hill behind the village. The stars are clear. The wind is low. I sit in the grass, staring up at the sky. There's no red moon tonight. Just a regular one—pale and round, nestled among the stars like a quiet watchman.
I raise a hand. And with a breath, conjure a small orb of fire in my palm. It glows softly, casting gold on my fingers.
I think of Elaria. My mother. Of her arms around me in the dark. Of the first time her magic touched my skin. She would be proud. Maybe that's why the fire feels warm instead of wild. Maybe that's why it doesn't scare me anymore. Because it knows. It remembers where it came from. And now, so do I.
I stay out there for a while, just watching the stars. Letting the warmth keep me company. Letting the flame hum against my pulse like a second heartbeat. And even though I know Varric will return in a few months…
And even though there's still more to learn… Tonight, for the first time since he left—I don't feel alone.