“A stillness flows—constant, yet ever-changing. A glass forged by truth, reflecting what was and what will be.”

  The room held its breath.

  Oil-lamps burned low in iron sconces, their flames narrow and steady. The stones beneath my boots kept the day's chill, and somewhere inside the walls I heard a slow, regular drip—water, counting time.

  “It’s good to finally meet you, Vincent,” the man said, his voice smooth, unhurried.

  I blinked. Something in his tone felt strangely familiar, though I was certain I’d never seen him before. Light caught the thin rims of his spectacles, turning his eyes into dim, unreadable shade.

  “Have we met?”

  “Not until now,” he replied, adjusting his spectacles. “But I was the first to examine you… after you were brought in from the woods.”

  Ivy stood beside me, silent. Watching, curious or perhaps cautious to say a word.

  “You were there?” I asked.

  “I was summoned,” he said, stepping closer. “You’d been found unconscious near the river’s edge. Beltrom was ready to write you off—another body claimed by the forest. But I knew then you were different.”

  A knot tightened in my chest. I remembered King Beltrom’s words echoing from a distante memory.

  He said you carry mana… and warned us—there might be something sinister buried inside you.

  I looked at the man again.

  “That was you..." You told him. About this... mana. About whatever else is inside me.”

  “Yes,” Grave said simply. No apology. No hesitation.

  His gaze didn’t waver.

  “I don’t deal in superstition. I saw what I saw. You were saturated with mana—far too much for someone untrained. And yet… you lived. That alone defies explanation.”

  He glanced toward Ivy, then addressed her with polite firmness.

  “Miss Ivy, your uncle has called for you. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Ivy stepped forward, her eyes locking with mine—quiet, steady, full of worry she never said aloud. A silent warning placed in my hands like the hilt of a blade.

  Grave noticed.

  “You need not worry, Ivy. I will take good care of him.”

  Her lips pressed thin. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

  Her footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving the air heavier than before.

  Grave turned back to me with a faint, knowing smile.

  “Now… where were we? Ah, yes. Mana—the lifeblood of magic in this world.”

  He gestured to a chair across from him. I sat cautiously. He remained standing for a moment, listening to the quiet, before finally settling into his seat.

  “Mana is the invisible thread woven through all living things,” he said.

  “It is the fuel that allows us to affect Incarnum.”

  “In-carn-um?” I repeated fumbling over the foreign word

  Grave nodded, "Incarnum is the very language of reality. Everything in existence—from the air you breathe to the ground beneath your feet, even your soul. Everything has a ‘word’ in Incarnum.”

  “Modifying these ‘words,’ affecting how they behave… anything done to modify Incarnum—that is magic.”

  I swallowed. The world felt heavier.

  “Then how does mana fit into it?”

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  “As Incarnum are the words that define reality,” Grave said, “mana is the ink that allows us to write into or even rewrite certain aspects of those words.”

  He lifted one hand, palm up.

  Air gathered.

  “Invisible but ever-present, mana is everywhere,” he whispered.

  A hush—like a breath drawn through a hollow reed.

  Dust motes drifted toward his palm, suspended in a slow spiral.

  The hairs on my arms rose.

  “This is mana made visible only by its effect,” Grave said softly.

  “A pressure… a drawing-together. A suggestion to the world to hold still.”

  The motes scattered when he closed his hand.

  “And I have this... Mana?” The words slipped out smaller than I intended.

  “You were born with the gift to harness it,” Grave replied. “What you can do with it depends on your Circle.”

  “My Circle?”

  Grave nodded. “I made some… tests the night you arrived,” Grave said calmly. “Not only do you possess a tremendous amount of mana, but I also confirmed that your Circle has already awakened. Which makes you—by definition—a magi.”

  “Then... I can do magic?” A pulse of excitement slipped through my voice.

  “You can,” Grave said, “but first you must understand the fundamentals of a magi’s power—especially Circles.”

  “Circles are an example of what we call an Instrument—anything that can affect the natural state of Incarnum,” he continued, “furthermore, a Magi's Circle is the expression of the soul's desire to alter a certain Incarnum—be it the elements, the body, or perception. This in turn makes every Circle unique.”

  “Unique?” I echoed. “Does that mean no two magi can have the same affinity to the same Incarnum?” my gaze flicked to the flicker of a torch.“Say… fire?”

  “An astute observation,” Grave said “Yes—two magi can indeed share an affinity. But no two souls can write into an Incarnum—in this case, fire—the same way.”

  “One might seek to control it. Another might seek to give life through it. Every soul seeks a different way to give meaning to its reality. Simply putting it, two people may have the same desire to alter the same Incarnum but no two souls have the same Instrument—in this case, Circles, to do so.”

  “What defines that meaning then?” I asked quietly.

  “Life,” Grave replied “A Circle is an expression born from the collective experiences and choices that shaped one’s perception of life—compressed into a single moment of awakening.”

  “What about my Circle then?” I asked “Shouldn’t I feel it somehow?”

  “It may have been a side effect of your loss of memory,” Grave said. “Your Circle buried somewhere in your subconscious.”

  A shade fell over my confidence.

  The one thread that could make sense of my past was out of reach.

  “You worry too much, Vincent,” Grave murmured, breaking through my thoughts. “Stop skulking. We’ll get you back on your feet—trust me.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “Worrying is like walking in the dark with your hands pressed over your eyes. It doesn’t help. If you truly want to rediscover your power—and perhaps recover what you’ve lost—you must find the will to seek the truth, even if it means walking back into the darkness alone.”

  He paused.

  “The question is... are you?”

  Doubt tugged at me—quiet, familiar.

  But beneath it, I saw truth in his words.

  “I am,” I said, summoning every bit of confidence I could.

  “That’s the spirit!” Grave exclaimed, a sudden warmth breaking through his composed demeanor.

  “Well then, let’s move on to your first lesson; Projection.”

  “Projection is the foundation of magic—at least for a magi,” Grave explained. “It is the physical manifestation of your Circle, the form through which one channels mana and affects Incarnum.”

  “I don’t get it,” I admitted.

  Grave smiled faintly, as if he expected that.

  “View it this way…” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  “Mana, like water,” Grave said, and the air grew heavy. A faint pressure brushed my arms—subtle, like the breath before lightning strikes, “Life-giving and ever-flowing.”

  Dust lifted from the stone floor, spiraling toward his hand as though the room itself were drawing breath.

  “Then you have your soul; your identity—” his words slowed, and the motes froze midair.

  “— it is the vessel that holds Mana.”

  “And finally, your Circle... the shape of that vessel” Grave continued "The key is to visualise it, seek it from within... the power that flows inside, forming outward, setting in and then... project" his voice echoing through the halls as he opened his eyes.

  The suspended dust shivered—then broke apart in a ripple. In its place hung a perfect, pale ring of light, hovering faintly between us.

  “This is my Circle projected into reality. And these..." he paused "are Runes.”

  Four smaller symbols ignited around the Circle’s edge—precise lines, sharp angles, orbiting like slow moons. Their glow was disciplined, restrained.

  “Runes are fragments of Incarnum manifested by the Circle. They shape how an Incarnum is altered.”

  He looked at me and continued calmly:

  “Putting it simply, Circles answer, ‘What can be altered?’ while Runes answer, ‘How it can be altered?’”

  “Do these runes come as you awaken your Circle then?” I asked.

  “The first rune—maybe,” Grave said. “But as for the rest, that takes… time.”

  “Time? You mean age?”

  He chuckled, “I was being vague. What I meant to say is, runes are unlocked the deeper a magi grows in his own self-understanding—his desires, his will… his dreams.”

  “It’s kind of poetic, really. In a sense, a magi unlocks the secrets of his Circle the more he grows in understanding of his life.”

  “And you have four?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed I have,” Grave smiled. “Uniquely enough, the runes of my Circle speak not of how I can alter an object.”

  “Mine binds the entity whose name is tied to my Circle.”

  “This, for instance—"

  He touched the uppermost rune. Its glow pulsed once—like a trapped breath then air gathered itself.

  A low hum seeped into the room, lamps narrowed to slivers of flame. Shadows stretched across the stone walls.

  “What are you—” my breath held short.

  Cold bands coiled around my chest, my legs, my arms—lifting me from the floor.

  A unknown force pressed before me, trapped—unable to move. Whispers braided in the air—distant voices layered like a forgotten chant.

  The grip tightened.

  The world narrowed.

  Grave watched me calmly, his lenses catching the dim, wavering light.

  “Spiritwalker Circle,” he said.

  “First Enchantment… Vildantes.”