I close my eyes, envisioning the power within me. A warm flicker starts in my chest, then sputters through my veins. I coax it out through my fingertips.
“Now, let it go,” she says.
I will the flame to extinguish. It winks out, leaving behind a trail of smoke.
“Again,” Rowena says.
I repeat the process—summoning and dismissing the flame over and over.
After countless repetitions, Rowena nods in approval. “You’re ready for the next step.”
Anticipation thrums through me as she explains what she wants me to do next.
“Focus your energy,” she says, “on conjuring a flame that pushes without burning.”
I concentrate hard, drawing upon the power inside me. This time when I open my eyes, I don’t just create fire—I shape it, mold it into an extension of my will. The flame pulses like a heartbeat, bright and strong but not wild.
Gently, I push it outward, directing it toward Rowena without intention to harm or burn. She stands firm as the flame halts just before her.
“Try again,” she says.
You can do this, Annora.
Think in steps.
First, conjure the flame, then use it to move something.
A deep breath centers me, and I reach for the flame inside me again. This time, I envision it as a force, an unseen hand that extends from my body and to the chair across the room.
I focus on it, willing the flame to move it. The chair trembles, then slides across the floor away from me.
“Good.” Rowena tracks the chair’s smooth glide across the floor. “You’re channeling your energy effectively, but I feel your aura, Annora, and it tells me you have far more power than that. I want you to manipulate the chair and move it wherever you want it to go.”
I nod and turn my attention to another chair, this one slightly further away.
“Now,” Rowena instructs, “lift it.”
I conjure my flames in my palm and extend my hand toward the chair, focusing on lifting it into the air, but it doesn’t budge. So, I imagine an energy wrapping around it like tendrils of smoke, but the chair remains stubbornly grounded.
“Keep trying,” Rowena says.
I close my eyes and concentrate harder. When I open them again and command the chair to rise, it stirs—legs dragging, before it lifts off the ground.
Mazaline’s words whisper in my ears.“You are the one who will save our people.”
Impossible!
The chair crashes down with a loud snap as one leg breaks under the force. Wood splinters scatter across the stone floor, skittering like frightened mice. I wince at the damage I’ve caused.
This simple spell was meant to be easy, effortless even, yet I struggle to lift a chair just a few inches off the ground without destroying it.
Rowena clicks her tongue and shakes her head as she steps over to inspect my mess. “Not to worry, My Lady. You’ll get it with more practice.”
I know she’s right. Magic takes time to master. The impatient part of me wishes progress came faster, though.
She clicks her tongue at me again. “There is no need to frown. Mistakes are part of learning and understanding where your focus lies and how easily it can be disrupted.”
“I would like to do it again.” The exhilaration of channeling the crimson magic still pulses through me, leaving me eager for more.
