Aethon sat alone in his dimly-lit dormitory, legs folded beneath him on the wooden floor. The last embers of sunset bled through his narrow window, painting stripes of fading orange across the obsidian blade laid before him. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his obsidian practice sword laid across his knees like a sleeping serpent. The air smelled of old parchment, candle wax, and the faint metallic tang that always clung to his shadows after training.
"You're sitting wrong," the sword murmured, its voice like oil sliding across glass.
Aethon's jaw tightened. "Swords don't have opinions on posture."
"This one does," it purred, the runes along its blade flickering with lazy amusement. "Your spine's too rigid. You're holding your breath.And your shoulders are so tense I'm surprised they haven't snapped like bowstrings.Tell me, do you plan to bore the mana into submission?"
Aethon's left eye twitched, opened "I could lock you in the armory again."
"And miss my sparkling commentary? Cruel." The sword's runes pulsed with amusement. "Though watching you fail is almost as entertaining as watching Pyro set his own robes aflame. Almost."
Ignoring it, Aethon pressed his palms flat against his knees and exhaled. The dormitory air smelled of old parchment and the faint metallic tang that always clung to his shadows. He focused on that - the scent, the weight of his own breath, the distant murmur of students in the courtyard below.
"Wrong," the sword sing-songed.
Aethon's fingers dug into his thighs. "I didn't ask."
"You're trying to grasp mana like it's a dagger in the dark," the blade continued, undeterred. "Clutching. Desperate. No wonder it eludes you."
A shadow lashed out on instinct, slamming the sword's hilt against the wall with a metallic clang.
"Ah, there's that famous restraint."
Teeth gritted, Aethon forced his breathing to steady. The sword wasn't entirely wrong - he'd always approached magic as a weapon to be wielded, not a current to be joined. His father's words floated back: "The First Watcher didn't command the dark - he listened to it."
although his father, being mortal,knows about magic a bit due to the fact that he had worked as a worker for a librarian during his younger days, so he often hear stories about magic,heroes from the librarian, durig supper, when he tells his children bedtime stories,
Aethon exhaled through his nose, counting silently backwards. The sword had been particularly insufferable since his last failed attempt at mana gathering. It had taken to offering "helpful commentary" at every opportunity - during meals, in the baths, even in the middle of Professor Morgana's lectures until he'd been forced to leave it locked in his room.
He closed his eyes, pressing his palms flat against his knees. The dormitory settled around him - the distant laughter of students in the courtyard below, the creak of ancient floorboards, the whisper of parchment shifting on his desk.
"You're doing it again," the sword sighed.
"Doing what."
"That thing where you try to strangle the magic into submission." The blade tilted slightly, catching the dying light. "Mana isn't one of your sparring partners, boy. You can't choke it out in the third round."
Aethon's fingers twitched. "I don't—"
"You do. Every time." The sword's voice dropped, becoming something almost... patient. "Your father never taught you to hunt, did he?"
The non sequitur made Aethon blink. "What?"
"Hunting. Stalking prey." The sword pulsed gently, its dark metal drinking in the fading light. "Tell me, when tracking a deer through the woods, does a skilled hunter barrel through the undergrowth? Does he grip his bow so tight the wood cracks?"
Aethon stared at the blade.thinking to himself " it has never spoken so maturely before"
"No," it continued softly. "He becomes part of the forest. He breathes with it. Moves with it. Until the distinction between hunter and hunted blurs." The runes flared once. "That is how you touch mana."
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
Aethon exhaled, long and slow, feeling his shoulders drop for the first time in weeks. He reached out—not with grasping hands, but with open palms.
The shadows came willingly. channeling through his body before settling hin the center of his body
They unspooled from the corners of the room like living ink, swirling lazily through the air before settling around his fingers in gossamer threads. Cool. Weightless. Whispering secrets in a language older than the academy's stones.
"There you are," the sword murmured, so quietly he might have imagined it.
For a single, perfect moment, Aethon understood. The mana wasn't something to be taken—it was something to be welcomed. The realization settled over him like a second skin.
Then the sword cleared its throat. "Of course, now that you've finally managed basic mana attunement, we'll have to work on—"
Aethon yanked it from the floorboards and shoved it unceremoniously into the wardrobe, slamming the door on its indignant squawking.
But later, when the moon was high and the academy slept, he oiled its blade with meticulous care, running the cloth along edges that had saved his life more times than he'd admit.
And asif the sword noticed his hands were gentler than usual, it said nothing at all.
Aethon's breath caught.
"Don't get emotional now," the sword said, but the jab lacked its usual bite.
He almost thanked it. Almost.
Instead, he smirked. "Keep talking and I'll shove you into some loose earth tomorrow."
The sword's answering chuckle vibrated through the floorboards as the shadows settled around Aethon at last - not conquered, but momentarily appeased,the cool breez blowing his face as he bursted out of his room headed to the Crucible