Chapter 13 - Magic Unbound

The next morning, the woods were quiet and golden with early light. The scorched patch from yesterday had been cleaned as best they could—but the blackened earth still whispered of what had happened.

Nadea stood straighter today. She breathed slowly, like Arlen had shown her.

No fists, no panic.

Just patience.

"Alright," Arlen said beside her, arms crossed loosely. "Same as yesterday. Slow. Steady. You’re not fighting it—you’re guiding it."

“Yes, Master Arlen,” Nadea nodded, face solemn.

This time, when she raised her hands, the magic shimmered into existence without a jolt.

A gentle, steady glow—not the wild burst of the day before.

Elena and Pip watched from a safer distance. Mira joined this time—leaning against a tree, arms folded, chewing on a piece of straw.

She wouldn’t want to miss another spectacle, or a ‘bloody disaster’ as Dorrim put it.

"That’s it," Arlen murmured. "Keep it even. Like a lantern flame. Not a bonfire."

Nadea exhaled, sweat beading on her brow—but the light between her hands stayed steady, flickering softly like a captured star.

Minutes passed.

Long, trembling minutes.

And she didn’t lose control.

When Arlen finally gave a low whistle and dropped his stance, Nadea gasped, letting the light fade. She collapsed to her knees in relief, grinning wildly.

"I did it!" she laughed, pure and fierce.

"You did," Arlen said warmly, kneeling beside her. "I knew you could."

Mira gave a loud whoop of approval. Elena even clapped.

Pip, still nervous, crept forward—staring at Nadea with a mixture of fear and awe.

"You made it look easy..." he said softly.

Nadea beamed, tired but proud.

"For the first time... it was."

They spent the rest of the day in careful practice.

Small sparks. Simple shapes.

Letting the magic flow without bursting free.

Each time, Nadea grew a little steadier. A little stronger.

By sunset, she was exhausted but glowing with pride. Arlen patted her shoulder.

"Rest tonight," he said. "Tomorrow... we’ll try a little more."

Nadea nodded, almost too tired to speak. As she walked back toward Breezevale with Mira, chattering excitedly, Arlen stayed behind for a long moment, watching the clearing grow dark.

He allowed himself to hope.

Maybe—just maybe—she would be alright.

====

"A little more," she begged the following day, feeling ready for something bigger. "Please, Master Arlen. I can handle it."

Arlen hesitated. He saw the pride burning in her—but he also remembered his own early mistakes.

Pride could be as dangerous as fear.

Still... yesterday had gone well.

And she did need to be challenged, or she'd never learn.

"Alright," he said finally, relenting with a small smile. "But we keep it simple. Focused. Like water through a narrow stream."

Nadea beamed and quickly set her stance, her hands already gathering light.

Arlen mulled over whether he should lend her his staff for practice.

A trained Caster used a staff or wand as a conduit to help channel increasing amounts of mana—but without a firm grasp of basic control, it was like adding fuel to an unsteady flame.

No, he decided.

That would come later, once her proficiency had caught up.

This time, Arlen introduced a sigil—a simple rune of binding, drawn carefully into the dirt at her feet.

He wasn’t a trained Runemaster, but even basic inscriptions could help channel magic.

Control it. Shape it.

He knelt beside her, tracing the shape carefully.

"Stand in the circle. Focus. Let it move through you, gradually—not just out."

She nodded, brow tightened with determination.

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At first, it worked.

The golden energy flared from her hands, flowing outward into the sigil like a river into carved channels.

Beautiful.

Steady.

Arlen exhaled a soft breath of relief.

"Good. You’re doing it, Nadea."

But... a shimmer began at the edges of the circle. A tiny vibration in the runes.

Arlen noticed it first—a flicker of imbalance.

"No—steady!" Arlen called sharply.

Nadea’s excitement was growing. She pushed harder, trying to impress him, to prove she could be more.

The magic swelled—too fast.

Too much.

Panic started to set in her eyes.

“Nadea, stop!”

“I-I can’t!”

“NADEA!!”

She was on the verge of tears—pleading.

“Master Arlen, help me—PLEASE!”

It was too late. The magic buckled.

The sigil cracked, losing shape—and the built-up energy snapped free like a whip.

A deafening BOOM shattered the clearing.

Arlen barely threw himself in front of her, throwing up a protective ward as the explosion of light and force ripped through the woods. Trees snapped and leaves rained down like storm debris.

Mira, Elena, and Pip, who had come to watch again, were thrown backward, shielded only by distance. The ground where Nadea had stood was now a blackened crater, smoking and raw.

When the world stopped spinning, Arlen scrambled to his feet—coughing, ears ringing.

"Nadea!"

She lay a few feet away, stunned but breathing. Her tunic was scorched at the edges, her arms covered in dirt and scratches.

But she was alive.

He rushed to her, lifting her up carefully.

The girl clung to him, sobbing.

"I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry—"

"I know," Arlen said, his heart beating thunderously.

"I know, Nadea. You’re alright. You’re alright."

They were alive. That mattered.

But even as Arlen soothed her, he could hear it—

Rustling.

Footsteps.

Voices.

First a handful of villagers pushing through the trees—drawn by the sound and the smoke.

Then a group.

And then a mob.

Arlen tightened his hold around Nadea protectively.

The real storm was only just beginning.

====

The townsfolk of Breezevale closed in—gasps and whispers flaring like wildfire as their eyes swept over the scorched soil and splintered trees. The elderly Mayor Edwin Bramble among them.

Few had ever seen Arlen’s magic firsthand, though its tales were usually wrapped in awe and respect.

But this… this is truth.

This was the danger no one spoke of aloud.

“She’s dangerous…”

"Magic like that? Near the farms?"

"She’ll burn the village down next."

“She could’ve killed someone…”

Mira moved first—stepping forward with arms wide, voice booming to keep the mob at bay.

“Enough! Nobody died. Get a hold of yourselves!”

Elena positioned herself near Pip, her body tense, a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder as he stared wide-eyed at the smoke still releasing from the crater.

Arlen knelt beside Nadea, holding her close.

He could feel her shaking—not just from fear now, but from something deeper.

Despair. Shame.

But once again—guilt.

She heard every word the villagers spoke. She felt it—the way they were beginning to look at her.

Not with curiosity. Not with admiration.

With fear.

Arlen’s jaw tightened. This wasn't just about today’s accident anymore.

It was about whether Breezevale—the town he loved, the people he grew up alongside—would still have room for a girl like Nadea.

Mayor Bramble stood between Arlen’s group and the distressed villagers, slowly gesturing for their calm.

“She’s not a threat to you,” his husky voice said assuring and he turned to Arlen.

“Not if the Guildmaster can help it.”

The villagers quieted, some glaring, others merely uncertain.

Arlen nodded in gratitude.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his feet, keeping one steadying hand on her shoulder.

“She’s a child,” his voice was calm, but it carried through the murmuring crowd like a sword drawn across stone.

“A child who’s only just discovered what she is. She made a mistake. Just like any one of us would when learning something new. Something powerful.”

One of the farmers—an older man with a scowl cut deep into his face—barked back, “Magic ain’t the same as learning to ride a horse, Bright! We’ve got homes here.”

This brought jeers of protest from a few villagers.

And then it only got louder.

“Fields! Families! If she can’t control it—”

“She will control it!” Arlen exploded louder than he had expected, his tone brooking no argument.

“Because I will teach her. Like someone once taught me.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.

"You trusted me with your safety. Now trust me to guide her. Or let fear make your choice for you—and tell me what kind of future that builds for any of us."

The villagers wavered.

More whispers passed between them—uncertainty clouding the air.

Mira stood firm at his side. Elena too. Pip, though trembling, lifted his chin just slightly, like he didn’t want to hide anymore.

But the villagers didn’t move forward either.

A few turned away, muttering.

A few more stayed, watching warily.

The storm had been slowed—not ended.

Arlen turned back to Nadea, who clung to his coat, her tear-streaked face buried against him.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, clutching her tightly once more.

“Not now. Not ever.”

====

That evening, Arlen and Mayor Bramble sat in Trail’s End—emptier than usual.

Perhaps the villagers didn’t want to associate with the guild anymore. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to be near Nadea, fearful of another explosion.

The mayor took a slow sip of village wine before speaking.

“I don’t mean to be a doomsayer, Arlen,” he said, gesturing broadly to the near-empty tavern and guild.

“But I think the silence here speaks louder than any words. The people are afraid... that she might lose control again. Anytime. Anywhere.”

Arlen didn’t lift his head.

Around the bar, only a few familiar faces lingered: Elena, Pip, the Aldleaf siblings, Mira and her crew—the guild’s steadfast few.

Above them, from the first floor, faint sobs drifted down from Nadea’s room.

“I thought I could teach her, Mayor,” Arlen said quietly.

“I see now why Grandmasters are so revered. Not many are meant to guide fledgling magic users.”

“Then why not send her to one?” Trent Aldleaf spoke up, blunt as ever. “Being a good Guildmaster doesn’t necessarily make you a good teacher.”

Triss jabbed him sharply in the ribs for his tactless words, earning a yelp of pain. But even Elena gave a rare nod of agreement.

“Trent’s right, Arlen,” she said, surprising even herself. “You got good because someone trained you proper.”

Trent shot her a grateful, watery-eyed look, still half-wincing from Triss’s assault.

But Arlen stayed silent. His hands braced over his forehead.

He had built Beacon Hall to lift others, not endanger them. He had wanted to be a beacon, not a warning.

And yet… one mistake, one lesson too harsh or too soon, had nearly cost them all.

He thought of Nadea's bright eyes the day he offered to teach her. Of the cautious hope she carried.

Of the burden he had placed on her—and the one he had placed on himself.

Perhaps like Mira, strength wasn’t just about power. It was knowing when you were not enough.

At last, he exhaled a long, shuddering breath.

His fingers dragged down his face before he lowered his hands to the table, curling them into slow, steady fists.

“You’re right. All of you,” he said to the others—and maybe to himself. “I overestimated myself.”

For a few heartbeats more, he simply sat there, staring at the woodgrain beneath his hands. Then, gathering himself, Arlen pushed his chair upright and squared his shoulders.

“I’ll write to Grandmaster Selwyn in Solvenhold,” he said, voice steadier now. “Ask him to take her in.”

A faint, almost broken smile crossed his lips.

“I can think of no one else I would trust more.”

But just as the words left his mouth, they heard the hurried pounding of footsteps on the stairs.

Nadea stood there at the base of the steps, small and stricken, her face pale as moonlight.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, and her hands were balled tightly at her sides.

“Nadea—” Arlen started, rising halfway from his chair.

It was too late.

“Y-You’re sending me away?”