Fundamentals
A Mage Hunter Short Story
Tychon released an exasperated sigh of relief when the lesson finally ended, a grueling hour of embarrassing effort for the young man. But for his fellow students, it was either trivial or a light warmup. The fundamentals of arcane study eluded this half-breed. The "gift" was a special ability granted only to a few. While his elven blood afforded him this potential, the orc half in him acted as a counterweight, providing a unique challenge. Despite the advantages of his elven heritage and the Grand Wizard herself, he still struggled. Beatrice had only substituted that one time for this beginner class, yet that single lesson humbled him. The sharp glint in her eyes as she observed him seemed to see straight through him—he had never felt more exposed. When she did not return to teach, he found himself even more adrift. It was an honor for her to teach an entry-level course in sorcery, and Tychon felt the icy sting of judgment from his classmates, the weight of their expectations crushed him.
For days, the young man isolated himself, replaying every moment of failure in his mind. Every flicker of magic that refused to manifest, every spark that fizzled out before taking shape; he couldn’t understand what he was missing. Was it the words? His tone? The gestures? The concentration? Or was he simply doomed to fail?
Weeks passed. His frustration reached a breaking point and coped the only way he knew how—mischief and mayhem. While infrequent at first, his pranks became more elaborate, notably the stolen spell scroll that summoned hail of frogs that vexed the entire campus. That stunt nearly got him suspended. And yet, despite it all, a stubborn nature prevented him from quitting. A tenacious ember burned inside him, refusing to be snuffed. That ember finally led to his first success: the day he conjured the spell. Sphere of Light, Telekinesis, and Barrier were all rudimentary spells, yet were ones Tychon struggled with. However, Sense Magic was the first successful spell he was taught. Thankfully, this would help guide him with his future study.
It felt like an accident, however, thanks to the spell, the world changed in an instant. It was as if he had been blind his whole life and had suddenly gained sight. He saw magic—not just as some distant, intangible force, but as a living, breathing presence in the air. It shimmered and pulsed, threading through reality like veins of light. He could see his own mana, see how it struggled to flow, how it sputtered and misfired like a flame in the wind. It was like observing someone’s muscle fibers beneath their skin as they flexed.
With this spell, he resorted to a full-length mirror to study the flow of mana as he practiced. Through it, he carefully noted how his mana moved, learning its patterns, its resistances. Trial and error became his new teacher, and with each failure, he inched closer to mastery. He was slow to realize, but a revelation poured into him like a waterfall. Magic came easier to him under stress—when his instincts overrode his doubts in a slurry of adrenaline. Memories of his childhood poured in to the harsh training his father had put him through. Forced to act, forced to move, forced to survive against the cruel predators of the wilds. Thanks to his experimentation, Tychon understood that perceived danger is a valuable asset to his growth as a sorcerer. How his instructors taught were antithetical to his success.
“To conjure a spell,” Grand Wizard Beatrice lectured on his first day, “you focus on an intention while channeling mana through the weave. This creates a field of arcana, which then manifests into a physical reaction. Typically, this is accomplished through chanting. While seasoned mages can cast spells without chanting words, a strong level of visualization is still required.”
His instructors preached patience, control, careful study. Tychon relied on his mind, his voice, and his “invisible eye” to see and visualize the results he wanted. But for him, magic wasn’t about careful study—it was about instinct. Instinct, like what his father tried to drill into him.
Upon this revelation, he sought out Beatrice. He met her in her office, studying at her desk with a candle light. She looked up as he entered, a sturdy frown with an eyebrow raised, a staunch expression of annoyance at his presence. “Tychon,” she said. “I assume you’re not here to cause any more trouble at my academy.”
Tychon held an upright stance, almost like a soldier trying to command authority. “I request private lessons, ma’am.”
Her eyes locked onto him in a moment of silent anticipation, then she set her book aside. “Private lessons?”
“I found out why I was having a hard time,” he continued, “I need to hone my instincts to properly utilize the gift. These books… these lessons… they aren’t working for me. I need a different kind of training.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Intriguing. Never in my life has someone so boldly blasphemed against our way of teaching.” Despite her stinging words, she let go of a brief chuckle. “I have many students who seek me as a tutor. Why should you be one of them?”
“You knew, didn’t you?” he pressed. “That first day you taught us. I applied every teaching you gave the others. I said the words and I waved my hands no different than them. You knew my mana wasn’t channeling right. I think you know how to actually teach me. And frankly, I don’t know who else I’d be able to trust.”
She exhaled slowly, then stood. “Ahh…. This really was all my idea huh?” she sighed. “Very well. But understand this, half-breed—if you are serious, you will not be coddled. You will be pushed. You will be tested. And you may suffer bruises, burns, and scars. You will either succeed, or you may perish.”
“That’s all I ask for,” a determination in his eyes brought out the best of both his genes, the fiery stubbornness of an orc, and the cold, stoic intent of an elf.
And so, his true lessons began.
As requested, her methods were brutal. The first test came without warning. One morning when he woke up, he found himself hanging upside down from a chain, his wrists bound in tight leathers.
“Ngh… Hey!” he immediately felt flustered at the situation.
“Finally awake? Good,” the voice of the Grand Wizard echoes in the chamber. “If you really rely on instinct to cast your magic, apply what you learned here. If you wish to free yourself, use telekinesis.” She remained with her arms folded.
Blood rushed to his head as he gritted his teeth. He saw the key dangling right before him, taunting him as it waved on its rope just out of reach. He focused, reaching out to the weave. The mana channeled, and the key twisted but did not move.
“Struggling?” She taunted, “Maybe you were just full of yourself. After a month you believed you figured it all out? What hubris.” While upside down, he saw her with that smug gaze of disapproval, fueling a primal urge to prove her wrong.
His breathing sharpened, and the air went deeper into his lungs. An intensity of will flooded his mind like a hunter fueled by adrenaline. Goosebumps tingled his skin as the arcana surged, and a static sensation was felt beyond his body. The key jerked, wobbled, and suddenly tugged itself from the string. Like a magnet, it shot straight into the lock hole. A twist of the key through his arcana, and the leather bindings fell. Taking the key, he freed his ankles and fell to the floor, left breathless, yet exhilarated.
“Good,” she said.
Her second test was far more precarious, and more direct. A fiery duel of life-threatening magic, unlike the practice duels with the training wands for students. Beatrice had her signature staff, a craft of legends, housing a brilliant, glowing turquoise gem with a series of spiraling energies. Tychon barely had time to dodge as she flung a firebolt at him, singing part of his robes. Instinct took over, and he threw up a barrier, even though the flame bolt has long flown passed him.
“Way too slow,” she said, “Where are your instincts? Again!”
There were no priests or alchemical potions around to heal wounds. Any mistake could cost Tychon his life. It was a close call as the bolt almost struck his leg, and it was an error he could not afford to make again.
He quickly learned, but the Grand Wizard was relentless. The duel lasted what felt like hours, with few breaks in between. He learned to deflect, to weave magic into his movements. The burning memories of his militia training came back, and a primal yearning to never be defeated by magic reemerged. In this battle, he rediscovered his new innovation, the reason why he was even enrolled into this academy—counter-magic, spells designed to neutralize an opponent’s spells. Beatrice certainly was caught off guard, even impressed by this new school of magic. By the end of it, he could barely stand. His body and mind were exhausted, pushed beyond what he thought he was capable of, even beyond that which his father pushed him. Yet he felt something new taking root in him as he naturalized his lessons in magic: confidence.
The final test was the most precarious. This time, there was no holding back. For Tychon, he either succeeded, or perished.
He awoke once more, this time in complete darkness. When he was stirred awake, he struggled to regain his senses. For a moment, he was unsure whether or not he was still asleep. Then he heard the walls scrape against stone – they were closing in! The rush of fear immediately filled him, yet in spite of Beatrice’s absent instruction, he instantly knew what he had to do first. “Light… damn it!” he huffed. “Come on, come on…” Nothing.
The rush of adrenaline was what he needed, but his panic had to be quelled. The thought of death was a nail to his soul, and he had no time to pry it. The only way for him to succeed was to focus. Focus on light.
The primal desire for both life and light fueled his mana into the weave. With it, light he demanded exploded from his palm, illuminating the chamber just in time to reveal the exit, a discolored tile on the floor. The walls were nearly squeezed on him when he slipped through the passage way. His feet caught him when he landed several feet from the chamber above, but collapsed from the mental exhaustion.
Beatrice’s footsteps echoed as she approached the young man. The scent of tobacco filled the air from an elongated pipe she smoked from. “You lived. Good,” she noted dryly. “Don’t have to clean up your corpse.”
Tychon was panting heavily, then he released a chuckle. “Cmon… too easy,” he jested.
The half-breed entered the academy as a struggling failure. But through his own acuity, and with the aid of a master wizard, he proved his value in Beatrice’s arcane college. He returned to his normal lessons, and shocked the professor and his pupils with his progress. Further on with his journey in the arcane arts, he managed to adapt the lessons taught to him. Eventually, Tychon learned how to manually trigger his instincts in these lessons and mastered the art of incantation, even in mundane settings.
He became a full-fledged sorcerer.
If you enjoyed the short story, and want to read more, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber to stay up to date!