Zanaria was casually walking down the inn's narrow hallway, arms crossed, her boots clicking softly on the wooden floor. She passed by Zai's room when suddenly—
A muffled voice seeped through the door.
"A-Ah… go easy on me… it's my first time…"
She froze mid-step, one foot hanging awkwardly in the air.
Her eyes widened.Her thoughts screeched to a halt.Her jaw slowly dropped open.
(What… what did he just say?)
Then came another voice—deeper, calm, suspiciously gentle.
"Relax. Maybe it'll hurt less if I do it like this…"
Zanaria's mind imploded.
(HURT LESS? LIKE WHAT? WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY DOING IN THERE?!)
She staggered back from the door, gripping her head like she was trying to physically stop the mental images from forming.But they came anyway.Like a stampede of scandal.
Her mind's theater:
Zai, face flushed red, half-covered in a blanket, gripping the sheets.Donavan—shirtless, glistening with sweat for some reason, looming over him with a serious expression.A soft glow of magic swirling in the air.The bed creaking ominously.Pillows on the floor.A candle flickering dramatically.
(NOOOOOO—MY BABY! I RAISED YOU TO STUDY RUNIC THEORY, NOT DO… WHATEVER THIS IS!!!)
Zanaria's face turned every shade of crimson known to humankind. Her fingers twitched with magical energy as her brain short-circuited from a lethal dose of imagination.
Then—a louder voice from inside the room:
"Hold still! If you squirm, I might mess it up!"
Her vision tunneled.
Without hesitation, without mercy, she kicked the door open with a magical boom that rattled the windows.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?!"
The room crackled faintly with magical tension.
Zai and Donavan stood several feet apart, fully clothed, both in low, ready stances—like duelists waiting for the other to make the first move. The floor beneath them was faintly scorched from previous spell attempts, and the air shimmered with residual mana. A few old pillows had been propped up as improvised barriers, and a glowing sigil pulsed faintly on the wall behind Zai.
The moment Zanaria stormed in, eyes wild and nostrils flared, she was greeted not with scandal, but with sparring.
Zai turned to her, sweating but excited.
"Ah! Teacher! You're just in time—come take a look!"
He jogged over to her, the hem of his tunic still lightly smoking from a misfire.
"Donavan was gonna teach me that enhancement spell—you know, the one that's based on my mana foundation? I still suck at it, and it hurts like hell every time I push too much power through."
He rubbed his forearm where faint traces of a burn remained.
"I thought maybe with his technique and your genius, you could help me not explode a lung next time."
Zanaria blinked.
The raging fire in her heart fizzled out into confused static.
"...You're training? That's what the moaning and weird grunting was?"
Donavan coughed and looked away. "He got knocked into a chair and said, 'Go easy on me, it's my first time.' I told him to hold still so I could set his stance properly."
Zanaria stared between the two.
The magic in the room. The awkward phrasing. The lack of common sense.She pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh that belonged to a woman twice her age.
"You two… are giving me gray hairs."
Zai grinned. "So… can you help?"
Zanaria walked in with the air of a woman who had resigned herself to fate. She inspected the runes etched into the floor, the arcs of mana circling Donavan's limbs, and Zai's still-twitching fingers.
"Your output is uneven, you're clenching your jaw too hard, and your stance is dogshit. You're basically brute-forcing refined magic with a caveman's technique."
She raised her hand, and glowing diagrams of mana pathways appeared around Zai's arms.
"You want to enhance your body without blowing out your spine? Fine. I'll show you how to do it like a real mage. But if I hear one more vaguely suggestive grunt, I will kill both of you."
Zai and Donavan both nodded in unison.
"Yes ma'am."
And with that, training resumed
Zai's hair stood slightly on end, arcs of crackling blue mana twitching at his fingertips as he tried again—and failed—to hold the enhancement spell in place. His limbs spasmed slightly, and he nearly bit his tongue.
"Ow—okay! Okay that's enough—why does this spell feel like getting stabbed in reverse?!"
Zanaria smacked his hand down before he could overcharge again.
"Because you're casting it like a bloody flat pancake! You're treating a fourth-dimensional thread like a dinner plate!"
She gestured sharply toward Donavan, who was standing off to the side, mana humming around him in shimmering concentric rings—each ring glowing with distinct sigils, layered like an onion of doom.
"Look! See how the bastard's doing it? That's not just one spell—it's three, maybe four, all interlocked, feeding off the same stream of mana. They don't fight each other—they share."
She circled around Zai like a frustrated hawk teaching a pigeon to fly.
"You're trying to brute-force a multi-layered spell using a two-dimensional method, like it's a chalkboard equation. But mana exists in more dimensions than you have fingers!"
Zai blinked.
"Wait—so it's like... instead of drawing lines on paper, I'm weaving threads in space?"
Zanaria's eyes gleamed.
"Yes! Finally, the child speaks logic! Now, if you had a properly stabilized core, you could use separate streams and amplify the power tenfold. But since you're still running on raw, unstable mana, you need to use woven layering, like he's doing."
She pointed back at Donavan—who was now quietly backing away, wary of being turned into a live demonstration again.
Zanaria whipped around to face Zai again, grabbing his face with both hands like she was holding the last egg in the world.
"And if this is your spell—your own foundation—then for the love of all eldritch gods, cast it like you, not like me or that meat-stick over there. Magic is personal, not prescriptive."
She stepped back and clapped her hands together, sparks flying from her fingertips.
"Now try again—like you mean it!"
Zai took a deep breath and began again, this time letting the flow bend, wrap, spiral...
Suddenly, Zanaria looked wistful.
"...Also. Just a side note. Never get married. It's never worth it."
Zai, mid-casting:
"What does that have to do with anything—!?"
Zanaria cut him off.
"I'm just saying! Stay with me forever! Live in the forest! I'll build you a library! You'll never have to pay taxes!"
Zai sighed deeply as he struggled to stabilize a third ring of mana.
"You're seriously saying this in the middle of a life-threatening spell lesson?"
Zanaria blinked at him.
"Oh please. If the spell explodes, I'll just grow you a new hand. I figured out flesh weaving last winter."
Then she added, almost casually:
"Actually... just don't die. I'll figure out immortality and trap your soul in a book or something. Problem solved."
Zai blinked, his spell flickering again.
"That... is genuinely horrifying."
Donavan, arms crossed in the corner:
"And somehow not the worst plan I've heard today."
_______________
Fir propped his bruised arm on the table and frowned at Zai."Zai… why is magic always blue?"
Zai gave a wry smile as he massaged his arm."It isn't always blue—only my magic is blue because I'm a wizard. Wizards channel pure arcane energy, which to our eyes appears azure. My teacher, Zanaria, is a witch—her magic is usually purple because hers blends elemental, ritual, and eldritch lines."
He leaned back, tracing patterns in the air."Different schools use different colors. Mages specializing in fire use red sparks. Water magic is light blue—almost silvery. Earth spells glow brown or ochre. Air currents flicker pale white. Shamans draw on spirit magic, so theirs tends toward yellow or green, depending on which hemisphere's traditions they follow."
Fir's eyes went wide."Wait—there are that many types?"
Zai nodded, smiling patiently."Yeah. I control raw arcane directly—that's why Teacher raised me as a wizard, rather than, say, a ritualist or an enchanter. Ritual magic is just a subset—specialized, precise, but still arcane at its core. Then there's shadow magic, celestial magic, blood magic… Eldritch magic is more complex, weaving multiple dimensions of mana, but it's still fundamentally arcane."
He shrugged."Honestly, there are dozens—maybe hundreds—of subcategories. I haven't mastered them all yet. If you want the full taxonomy, you should ask Teacher. She loves lecturing on magical theory."
"…So how come your name and your teacher's name match? I mean—she's not your parent or anything," Fir asked, kicking at a loose floorboard. "Why are you both 'Aultur'?"
Zai rolled his shoulders, loosening the crease of his sleeve. His lean frame was draped in faded indigo robes patched at the elbows—hand-me-downs from Zanaria herself. His jet-black hair fell in messy waves around a narrow, pale face framed by high cheekbones. Dark eyes, too-dark eyebrows, even his slender fingers seemed sculpted by the same hand that shaped Zanaria's.
He shrugged. "It's custom in most magical societies. When you apprentice under a master, you take on their 'house' name—like a badge of lineage. So I became Zai Aultur instead of my birth name… Paulé."
Fir stared at him, blinking rapidly. "Okay, fine… but then why do youlook like her? Same black hair, same pale skin, same—everything! I swear I'm losing my mind over this."
Zai reached up and ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head. "Really? I guess my parents also had black hair and fair skin… and dark eyes. I've always looked like that. Teacher's always looked like that."
Fir rubbed his temples. "Alright, then why do you dress the same? Same long sleeves, same high collar, same… mysterious flowing hood!"
Zai glanced down at his robes, tugging self-consciously at a dangling tie. "Um, hand-me-downs? Teacher made them for me. I never cared much for style."
Fir's panic deepened. "Okay—one more thing. Your body. You two have the exact same build!"
Zai blinked. "Body type is magic's fault. Casting draws on your own energy—and a lot of eat-and-sleep time—so most wizards, mages, witches end up tall and lean. We all look sort of… sculpted by spellcraft."
Fir threw his hands in the air. "Sure, whatever. But I'm not sleeping for a week after this realization."
"Oh, Zai, that's where you've been!" Zanaria's voice cut through the air, sharp and brisk. "Come on, we're going to deal with those bandits now, and then straight to the capital—no stops, no detours!"
Fir glanced between Zanaria and Zai, blinking. (They're basically the same person… except for a slightly different face shape. Gods above, this is confusing—I hope I don't accidentally call them the wrong name.)
"Oh, Teacher, we're going already? How come? Don't you have research to do?" Zai asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
Zanaria smiled, but it was more like a sly smirk. "Not important. This is way more important." She paused, then added with a dark chuckle, "Now come on, I have to show you that the world is dangerous and absolutely not worth exploring. Soon, we'll be back home and you'll never leave your room again!"
She immediately realized what she'd said out loud and waved her hand frantically. "Ignore what I just said. Completely ignore it. Nothing to see here!"
_________
"Teacher… Teacher! Stop! Stop—you'll kill him if you do that!" Zai's voice cracked as he lunged between Zanaria and the trembling bandit, grabbing her slender wrist in a desperate bid to hold her back.
The clearing was deathly silent now. Only a handful of scorched tents and overturned cooking pots bore witness to Zanaria's wrath—each bandit had fallen in seconds, their bodies splayed like broken dolls. A thin haze of smoke curled up from crushed campfires, and the stench of burnt leather and blood hung heavy in the air.
Zanaria's eyes, usually so fierce and unflinching, flickered with something close to disbelief as she stared down at the last man standing—his face ashen, tears streaming through the dirt smeared on his cheeks. He'd only thrown a handful of dust at Zai's boots by accident, and now he knelt there, utterly helpless.
For one heartbeat, time seemed to freeze. The breeze stilled. Even the crows in the nearby trees held their breath.
Zai's heart pounded against his ribs as he squeezed his teacher's wrist. "Please," he whispered, voice raw. "He didn't mean anything by it."
Zanaria's hand loosened—just a fraction. The icy tension in her shoulders began to drain away as she looked down at the bandit's terrified eyes. Then, almost imperceptibly, her grip released its lethal pressure. The man collapsed in a quivering heap, unconscious but alive.
Zai exhaled, relief flooding through him. He glanced up at Zanaria, whose cheeks had flushed the barest hint of color. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her expression unreadable for a moment.
Finally, she turned away, voice low and oddly gentle: "Next time, learn where to aim your dirt."
Zai just nodded, still breathing hard, as the camp—and their mercy—resumed its fragile quiet.
Zanaria's stern composure snapped away like a flicked switch, replaced by childlike exuberance. She clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"OK! Now—let's go to the capital!" she declared, practically vibrating with energy.
Zai watched her for a moment, then let out a long, resigned sigh.
Fir and Donavan exchanged a look—half amusement, half dread. Fir kicked at a loose stone on the path.
Fir quietly "Guys… I think we made a huge mistake letting her come along."Donavan nodding "Understatement of the century."