Cyrus had been thrown under the coach, so to speak. His gaze lingered on Lord Dílis until the man finally disappeared among the sea of trees. Now what? Nervous, Cyrus turned his sights onto the longhouse before him.

Latriaen, what kind of person are you? Shaking his head, he then paced in a circle, contemplating his options, only to realize there were none. It was becoming tiresome to be put into situations beyond his control.

Fine. Fine. Cyrus strode toward the building's entrance with slow, regretful steps. I'll just deflect Latriaen's anger on Lord Dílis. And who knows? Maybe it won't be so bad?

So Cyrus knocked and waited, hoping to be positive about the situation. He waited and waited until five minutes had passed without a single response.

Frustrated, Cyrus was to knock again, only to still himself as the door swung open. And there he was. The towering Ork was to be his pyromancer instructor, Latriaen. His silent yet blazing gaze remained fixed on Cyrus, who had to look away several times because of the searing imprints on his corneas.

Off to a good start. Cyrus wanted to sigh, but instead placed a fist on his chest. "Clear skies, Latriaen. I'm Wade Cyrus, and I hope I'm not disturbing you."

The Ork's gaze flared even brighter as he spoke in his thick accent. "I thought you would simply enter without permission."

Cyrus choked. All right, new tactic.

"I'm sorry for putting you into this situation," Cyrus began, intentionally appearing both apologetic and regretful. "When His Stewardship mentioned finding a mentor, I had no clue of the details and assumed it would be another Wayfarer to train me." —He glanced toward the path leading out of the forest— "I know that this isn't what you were expecting. So, I don't mind taking my leave and speaking to Lord Dílis about finding another path."

Lord Dílis needed to take the hit on this one. And maybe Cyrus' deflection worked for a thick plume of steam vented from Latriaen's nostrils once he heard The Dúndraíocht's name.

"Ciâmấ òndit," he muttered indignantly before heading deeper into the longhouse. "Come inside. I need to see for myself the power of your mỹ thuật."

What did he say? Silently, Cyrus blinked in confusion but followed regardless. Past the countertop and through the curtains were... more stone furniture. Yet Cyrus took notice of the small metal carvings of various lifelike creatures strewn about the place.

Wait. Cyrus suddenly paused. His attention locked onto what appeared to be artifacts and Orkish paintings behind a glass countertop display. Oh, how he wished he could take a closer look.

"Wait here," Latriaen said gruffly, then went through another exit without waiting for a response. How convenient.

Cyrus glanced at where his new master had exited before slowly striding toward the display. Before him stood two paintings. One was of a falling meteorite onto a mountaintop, painted in pastels of deep red hues against dark blue skies, overwhelmed by hazy grays. The other depicted a ghostly white elk in a forest backdrop with glowing antlers etched with purple sigils. It stared directly toward the viewer with its bright, white eyes, knowing it was being watched.

"The painting is fantastic. Whoever made this was a professional," Cyrus remarked as he slowly moved closer to take a better look. "If only I had brought my camera."

"Don't touch anything."

Cyrus shuddered in surprise before turning around, almost channeling mana through his fire runes in some bid to defend himself.

Before him stood Latriaen. Slowly, he moved before the stone table centered in the room and dropped a steel dish and a blueish-metal bar on top of it.

"Heat up this lead bar until it's nothing but liquid."

Cyrus was taken aback. How was he supposed to do that? At this point, he only had thirty-eight fire runes, despite the so-called 'high affinity' Lady Dílis and her father said he had. Would he even be able to heat it up?

Nonetheless, Cyrus moved and stood opposite Latriaen.

Taking a deep breath, he willed all his fiery runes toward his left arm. While flexing his fingers, mana slowly channeled through his arm and toward his palm. Yet Cyrus kept channeling, allowing it to slowly build up more and more so that he could cast with a large, single attack. Maybe then something would happen. Meanwhile, the master pyromancer silently crossed his arms and remained patient.

Here goes nothing.

With that thought, Cyrus angled his hand just above the bar and activated his fire runes. The next moment, a large burst of flames shot from his palm and onto the dish. But it was with too little control and too much strength. The flame reflected out from the dish and in the opposite direction. Specifically... directly at Latriaen. Flames engulfed the Ork, to which Cyrus cursed out, "Shit!" while canceling his channeling.

"Oh, gods. I'm so sorry," Cyrus quickly said, real guilt building in his chest.

Had he hurt another person? Was Cyrus too dangerous to be near another? But how wrong he was. Not a moment later, a surprised Cyrus witnessed Latriaen appear entirely unharmed once the flames died out.

"A-are you ok?" Cyrus asked, restraining his hand from reaching the Ork.

However, Latriaen did not reply, gaze transfixed on the lead bar, which was left untouched. Another bound of silence fell over the two as the Ork moved his blazing gaze on Cyrus' form, who, in return, lowered his head. How embarrassing.

"S-sorry again. I didn't me—"

"How long have you been training?" Latriaen calmly cut him off. "How many years of study?"

Cyrus rubbed the back of his head and sheepishly smiled. "Nearly a month."

Another round of silence.

"How many runes do you have?"

"Thirty-eight. But I can make seven runes per day."

That brought some life to Latriaen's expression. But he remained silent as he stared at the stone ceiling, seemingly lost in thought.

"Did the Dúndraíocht tell you what was going to happen in thirty days?" He finally said, returning his attention to Cyrus.

"Uh, yeah. He said you were going to train me."

"Did he tell you how I was going to train you?"

Cyrus did not like the sound of that. "No... he didn't."

A third round of silence fell between the two as a shared realization dawned on them. Lord Dílis had forced an obvious introvert to patiently teach a complete and utter newbie without any background education. Moreover, the newbie had not even reached the stage of foundation, let alone exploration. And so the two were as such.

"Follow me." Sighing heavily, Latriaen picked up both the plate and the bar. He moved toward the storefront with Cyrus in tow, the ladder silently cursing Lord Dílis in his head. Once outside, Latriaen led along the wall to the other end of the large building. "There," Latriaen pointed toward a large, stone-brick forge. "That is your practice station."

Surprisingly, it was well-kept for what it was made for, with even the ashes meticulously cleaned out. Beside it was a small, stone-made box. Once the two stood before it, Latriaen placed both plate and bar just before the fire pot, where the air from the bellows flows.

"Show me your hands," Latriaen commanded. Once obediently presented, the Ork quickly assesses them, only to sigh and close his eyes in frustration. "...As smooth as a baby's bottom." Obvious disdain dripped from his tongue.

Is he insulting me? Cyrus was taken aback but questioned whether he should care. In the end, he chose the safest route. "Please, show me the way, Teacher," Cyrus asked again, but this time he spoke with genuine respect.

Latriaen simply nodded and raised his calloused and scarred hand before him. "Well enough. For your first lesson: You are undisciplined and untrained. A mage should be able to shape their intent into their mana when channeling it."

A spark ignited on Latriaen's palm, quickly growing and growing until a perfect, blazing cube came into being, nearly as bright as the sun in Cyrus' memories. And to his shock, it was levitating—actually levitating! So far, every flame he had conjured had always remained in contact. It remained steady, slowly rotating as if it were the very earth on which they stood.

The sight mesmerized Cyrus.

"Do you see the difference?" Latriaen willed his cube to float above the two as it began to circle them. "Your attempts were merely directionless intent of mana. What you need now is mana manipulation training."

"Please, show me the way, Teacher," Cyrus asked again, but he spoke with actual respect this time.

Latriaen snorted, smoke bellowing from his nostrils. The next moment, the molten cube dissipated into nothingness. "To manipulate your mana, you must visualize it with an image or idea in mind." He then crossed his arms as the cube rounded itself into a sphere. "Try it when channeling your mana."

Alright. Imagine a sphere. What could go wrong?

So then he began. Following Latriaen's instructions, Cyrus raised his hand, obviously away from the Ork this time. He imagined his channeling mana slowly shaping into a sphere at the end of his palm. And what happened once his mana reached its destination? Another flame burst.

More and more, Cyrus tried. Yet it held no improvement. And after the tenth flame plumed out of his hand, a helpless and frustrated Cyrus lowered his arm. He remained silent, but anyone could read his thoughts from his face. Useless!

Arms crossed, stoically, Latriaen remained at his side. "Tell me. How many fire runes have you allocated to each limb?"

Cyrus furrowed his brows, perplexed. "I've lined ten in my torso towards my shoulder, ten in my bicep, ten in my forearm, and five on my palm."

Dismissing his response with a head shake, Latriaen instructed, "Leave only one fire rune on every section of your arm and one on your torso. Then, transfer the remaining runes to your forearm and hand and evenly distribute them. Don't forget your fingers."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Cyrus hesitated slightly. "Wouldn't this slow down my casting time?"

"Speed is irrelevant for now," Latriaen said without room for argument. "Practice is what's important." He then extended his large, calloused green hand, adorned with long, sharpened fingernails, before the young man. "A single hand has twenty-seven bones, twenty-seven joints, thirty-four muscles, and over one hundred ligaments; all are required to hold and use a sword."

Cyrus frowned. Did Latriaen mean that the more runes he had, the better his control would be? What better way to prove it than by testing it out?

So he did. Concentrating, Cyrus willed thirty-four runes on his forearm and hand. And to be honest? It felt good. Brows arching, Cyrus sensed the concentration of runes as something more tangible, as if his body's cells were slowly shaping into a proper muscle.

Noticing Cyrus' expression, Latriaen nodded. "What was once illusory is now a bit more real. Now, try your flame on the bar."

Nodding, Cyrus clenched his fist and began channeling his mana. Slow as molasses, it crawled through his arm, lighting each rune as it passed. One second. Two. Once it reached his hand, his mana spread outwards, slowly lighting each rune.

And Cyrus was then shocked by the sight. All runes simultaneously ignited, enveloping his entire hand in flames! The next moment, a short but blazing inferno shot toward the bar with such heat that the air began to warp.

It's working! Cyrus sucked in a breath as the bar turned incandescent. But to his disappointment, the bar remained pristine. He tried and tried, pouring more mana into his runes. Nothing. Cyrus felt a pang of disappointment at the results. Would it take weeks of creating more runes before he made any real progress?

And yet, Latriaen raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"It takes a high amount of heat to melt a lead bar," he commented, leaning to examine the red bar. "And you being able to cause such a reaction means that your foundations are solid."

Hold on. Cyrus frowned. Are you saying you didn't think I could do it?

Latriaen remained unaware of Cyrus' musings, nor would he care to have listened. Slowly, he reached downwards and held onto the red-hot bar with his bare green hand. Cyrus cringed at the sight, expecting sizzling and searing flesh, but nothing happened. His teacher held it akin to any ordinary cold piece of metal.

But how?! That was what Cyrus wanted to ask. But to avoid appearing even more inexperienced, he made a conscious effort to maintain a neutral expression. Yet Latriaen brought more surprises. His fiery gaze burned brighter, and as if the heat met its master, it obediently left the bar in red wisps and flowed into Latriaen's eyes.

"Catch," he said, tossing the bar onto Cyrus.

Cyrus reacted by subconsciously shielding himself against it. Yet nothing but cool metal smacked against his chest. He caught it before it fell on the ground, feeling the bar on his fingertips.

"Despite your lack of training and discipline, your affinity remains high," Latriaen began, moving toward the stone storage box. "And because of this, you'll melt the bar at the apprentice rank." He opened the lid, revealing a pile of coal inside.

"That's good, right?"

Latriaen snorted. "Hardly." He then picked up a nearby shovel and began shoveling coal into the forge. "Power without controlling your nãghàp is akin to giving a child a blunderbuss—stupid. Now, try again: concentrate your mana and condense it at the top of your palm."

Cyrus nodded as he watched the Ork light the forge, no longer paying attention to him. He channeled his mana, focusing on shaping it into a sphere. Yet again, it resulted in the ignition of his hand. More and more, he tried. And even when the sound of the roaring forge filled his ears, Cyrus kept practicing despite the lack of results.

Low on mana and frustrated, he turned to watch his new teacher placing steel bars into the flames without so much as a flinch. And after a moment's hesitation, Cyrus reluctantly spoke up.

"Is there a way to better shape my mana?"

Latriaen graced him with a glance before pulling a steel bar from the bellowing forge. Silently, he held it between both palms and slowly cupped his hands close, the metal heating up within. Minutes passed as the flames flickered and escaped between his fingers until he finally parted his hands. Nestled with his palm was a smooth, gleaming metal ball.

"Use this." He tossed it to Cyrus. "Cover it with your flames and mana and practice the feeling of shaping."

"Thank you... Teacher."

After taking a break to absorb mana, Cyrus refocused his efforts on shaping. And so it began. He channeled his flames on the sphere over and over again, memorizing how it shaped itself around it. And, well, it was a major drain! His mana pool quickly bottomed out after tens of seconds, and Cyrus compelled the thought to cease as he began to feel nauseous. But he did not stop. Hours passed as Cyrus memorized the feeling of shaping. And with it came a small inkling—some idea of where to begin it. And what better way to reveal his gains than by casting flame?

Under the sounds of Latriaen's hammering, Cyrus then channeled his mana while shaping it. He started small, as it was easier to control, and willed an idea, a candlelit flame on his palm.

And so it was. A small flame, no larger than a fingernail, flickered into being, ever still and stable. Success!

It wasn't a sphere or any solid shape. But unlike every other flame Cyrus had conjured before, it remained still on his palm, never pluming or bursting.

There, in his hand, was proof of his efforts.

And it caught his teacher's attention. Latriaen suddenly stopped his hammering and turned his head to Cyrus. But upon the sight of Cyrus' lingering flame, Cyrus didn't get the empty expression he had expected. Instead, Latriaen's face darkened.

"What's the matter?" Cyrus asked, confused.

Wasn't this good? Sure, he was slow, as it took hours, but this was real progress. It meant Cyrus was capable of something.Real proof of his worth.

His teacher snorted. "It took me a month of constant, rigorous practice to conjure a spark after years of learning." Latriaen's fiery gaze glowed like two bright suns. "Yet, you, who had only been training for a month, could do it in a matter of hours?" Latriaen's intense gaze bore into Cyrus, and he could feel the heat emanating from the Ork. "Are you mocking me, Boy?"

Quickly dispelling the flames around his hand, Cyrus raised his hands defensively. "No, no, I'm completely new to this. Believe me when I say it's only been a month, less even. And Lord Dílis had been focusing on conditioning my body first."

A moment of hostile silence simmered between the two until Latriaen recovered his emotions. And when he was reminded of The Dúndraíocht again, it caused steam to billow from Latriaen's nostrils again.

"I see. Keep at it, then, and I'll be back," Latriaen instructed before leaving Cyrus to his own devices and returning to the longhouse.

Relieved, Cyrus sighed as he watched the Ork depart. I'm way out of my depth here.

Cyrus could see the writing on the wall. There were too many inconsistencies with his abilities. He was missing years of studying and practice, but could cast flames the very second he gained a fire rune. Moreover, his mana sense had sprung to life without so much as a trifle of effort. And then there was the orange rune in his body...

Just what was wrong with him? Shouldn't this take years? In truth, Cyrus felt both happy and afraid. Happy because it was only a matter of time before he could step outside these walls and explore to his heart's content. Afraid since he felt like he was being led into something.

'A plan thousands of years in the making.' Cyrus sighed, lightly pulling on his messy beard. I should leave as soon as possible.

That or to confide with Lord Dílis. But was that really a good idea? Any pragmatic individual would opt to eliminate Cyrus from the equation to avoid trouble altogether. And he could still remember that look on the lord's face after his imprisonment.

But now was not the time to dwell on this. Shaking off these gloomy thoughts, Cyrus resumed his training, adding more mana to the equation. He channeled his mana again and again, absorbing the ambient mana whenever bottoming out, only to return with minimal results. Despite his efforts, the flame remained shapeless. It clung to his palm and fingers but refused to solidify while slipping between his fingers completely.

Well, it's not exactly what I was hoping for, but it's progress.

Cyrus continued to practice. He repeated the exercise until Latriaen returned, carrying two fist-sized mana crystals and a steel case. But upon witnessing the large flame lingering on Cyrus' hand, the Ork arched his brows.

"Impressive," Latriaen remarked, placing the case and crystals near the forge before stoking the flames. "To be able to do so much in a single day. Your affinity to the elements must be high."

Cyrus remained calm in his thanks. Instead, he wished for more help instead of praise and voiced his thoughts.

Latriaen shook his head. "Fire is among the more challenging elements to shape in the beginning. Earth has soil and metals, while water is self-explanatory. And even wind relies on matter." He opened his palm and conjured a sphere of flames. "But fire lacks form and spreads wherever it wishes so long there is fuel."

Cyrus mulled over it. He had also wished to ask about darkness as he recalled... her abilities, but refrained from doing so.

"Then, is there more you can show me about shaping?" Cyrus instead asked.

Latriaen snorted as the bright, bellowing flames of the forge cast light and shadows over his features. "I could. But you've only just begun. Go practice with the sphere for the month."

But Cyrus persisted, "What about the memory tablets? Could they help me learn?"

Latriaen's expression darkened. And with it, the fires of the forge dimmed. "Go ahead."

That didn't sound right. Cyrus had felt he had been answered with 'Sure. Go see what will happen.'

"Should I not?"

"A real mage walks on his own steps," Latriaen answered, disdain oozing from his gaze. "One who follows others' footsteps, never learning on their own, will soon find a wall they can never climb. And in the end, you will only ever amount to a cheap imitation, a ghost of a real mage."

Latriaen dissipated the flaming sphere as he spoke, and out came a fiery and solid rune in the shape of a lopped-off uppercase L. Quickly, it grew and grew to the size of a fist. He then tossed it to Cyrus, feeling the warm, glassy texture in his hands.

"When you leave," Latriaen began, sitting on his stone chair. " Seek out images of another fire master's rune and compare it to that."

Cyrus widened his eyes in awe. "You're a master pyromancer?"

He was right to be shocked; that status was just one below the lord of the city himself. Lord Dílis had been generous in finding him such a teacher.

"Yes." However, there was no pride in Latriaen's countenance or tone. The man began to hammer away again at a molten bar as he continued. "You're a Wayfarer initiate, correct? Remind His Lordship to provide you with your gear before returning to me. Pack all the essentials needed for a Wayfarer and stock up on food and water, enough for at least two months."

Meanwhile, the forge's flames grew hotter and brighter. Forced to step back, Cyrus squinted his eyes and raised his voice above the bellowing flames.

"But why?"

"Because we're leaving Avalorn."

Cyrus froze, dumbfounded. Outside? He had to go outside? Now? But he wasn't ready! He continued to stare at Latriaen, hoping for an answer. But there was none. Instead, the silent Ork kept hammering the incandescent bar, slowly shaping it into a blade. Sometimes, he would shake his head and use his bare hands to return it to its original shape, while at other times, he would throw it back into the forge to sustain the bar's heat.

Eventually, Cyrus broke first. "We're venturing outside. Why?"

"For training," Latriaen replied, continuing his hammering. "Only experience will help you grow into a proper warrior."

Cyrus closed his mouth. He wanted to argue against the man because he wasn't a warrior, but he gave up in the end. With a resigned sigh, Cyrus slightly bowed to the arcanesmith.

"Thank you for today's lesson, Mentor Latriaen. I'll now take my leave and return in thirty days."

Latriaen did not respond in kind. His meticulous striking was akin to a melodious tune, drowning out further attempts at conversation.

And Cyrus was done here. But he still lingered for the moment to watch the rhythmic motions of the arcanesmith's craft. It was oddly soothing, but it was time to go. So, with a nod, he turned and left the longhouse and followed the dirt road, heading back to Avalorn.

Yet once Latriaen was left alone, he glanced toward the direction of the dirt road. His blazing gaze momentarily flickered, bright and sharp.

The boy he had just met was a strange one. Both he and The Dúndraíocht specifically told him that Cyrus had little to no experience. And yet, he managed to accomplish so much in a single day.

Latriaen was forthright about how long it took to construct a lingering spark, and he took pride in this in his younger years. With this in mind, it was safe to assume that the two were playing a trick. For what, he wouldn't know, nor would he care as long as it didn't impact him negatively. But if they were telling the truth, then just how strong was Cyrus' affinity to flame?

With a snort, Latriaen returned his attention to the forge. For it doesn't matter so long as The Dúndraíocht held his half of the bargain.

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