We need to return the jar.

But, take the djinn out first.

Longwark ruined everything.

Gray sat cross-legged in the middle of a patch of sunlight in the king's office in the palace, his eyes shut, and trying very hard to breathe deeply, relax, and make three orbs hum in harmony.

And failing.

If he cracked his eyes open just a slit, he could see the orbs sitting about a foot in front of him.

They cast rainbows of light in the sun.

One orb had already been replaced after Gray had accidentally shattered it. Another had hummed so loud that a palace guard had burst into the room in alarm before Gray could silence it.

'Gray,' said Mali. 'You're trying too hard.'

Gray resettled his shoulders and breathed in deeply.

Let it be.

But, there was no damn way Gray was letting it be. Uncontrollable fear lanced through him at the mere thought of letting his power loose.

And the tension of several people staring made Gray's chest refuse to cooperate in breathing deeply. He'd been here for nearly an hour, trying to improve his control.

To make these orbs hum together.

The other instructors were spread out across the office. They'd cleared a large space, setting aside furniture and anything breakable. There was an array of training equipment, weapons, and magical tools waiting. A model of Krydon, made from plaster, hastily and roughly.

Two of the instructors had left, promising to return in the afternoon.

Another had gone into an adjoining room to do a scheduled lesson with some of the king's kids.

The king was working, alternating between attending the alchemic test on his workbench, paperwork, and sweeping out of the room to talk with a constant string of people.

And Gray's mind was alight with thoughts. It was busier in there than the streets around the palace, and those were filled with people clearing the debris from the storm. The city had been wrecked. People had been killed. Injured. Homes lost.

Gray drew in a steadying breath.

The king hadn't told him what had happened with Longwark or the sorcerer creating the storm, and Gray had been too numb with the information of the djinn and griffins to ask. The king had continued to talk as they'd walked from the guild to the palace, but it was about the difficulties the mages would face when trying to get into those tombs. He was furiously worried about it.

Longwark was clearly some sort of spy. A covert operations soldier, Gray thought.

He'd betrayed his orders. Wasn't cooperating as the king wanted him to.

Two masters.

And, if Branbright was Wilde's agent, then why would he be hiding the jar from him?

Unless, Longwark had been telling the truth about it, and the intelligence the Augustes had about Branbright was wrong.

Though Gray couldn't exactly condemn Longwark's choice (or perhaps Branbright's) to keep the djinn out of the hands of Baldwin Auguste and Wilde in one fell swoop. The thought of Branbright hiding the jar beyond the reach of anyone, and then the king's policies against sorcerers had created the huge problem for the king of eliminating the one person with the skill to retrieve it tickled the darkest part of Gray's humour.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

'Open your eyes,' said Mali.

Gray blinked against the sunlight.

Mali's lip ring glinted. 'You have a block?'

Mali's appearance was intimidating, like a fierce fey warrior you wouldn't want to cross paths with in the forest, and ethereal as nearly every mage was, but contrasted with piercings and severe eyebrows. Despite this, so far, her nature had been patient.

'No,' Gray muttered. 'No, I'm just not focusing properly. Hang on.'

Gray closed his eyes, expanding his chest in a huge breath.

The sound of the alchemic test bubbling was drilling into Gray's ears. Someone was tapping their fingers against a table.

There was a long sigh.

'Centre yourself,' said Mali. 'Control your breath.'

Gray wrenched his eyes open.

'Look,' said Mali, casting a wary glance over at the king, 'Gray, I know it's a lot. Most get a year or more to practice control. You've had a ryece yet?'

'I don't think so,' said Gray.

'That's a no,' said Mali. 'Your control right now's not going to be great. So, in the meantime, you continue to wear your dragon scale vest. And you hold onto this if you feel yourself spiraling.'

She fished a stone out of her pocket and offered it to Gray.

'Earth will temper air,' said Mali. 'We'll come back to control after you've expended some nervous energy, yes?'

Gray curled his fingers around it. It was smooth. Plain brown. 'All right.'

She moved off to speak to the king, and after a rushed and quiet conversation, the king glanced up.

'Hunark,' said the king, 'you're up.'

A mage covered in old scars stepped forward, her grey braid swinging down her back. She tossed a small axe at Gray. Gray caught the handle.

The axe had a magic entwined through it. It ran across Gray like a light current.

'You'll not be fighting the vampiric sorcerer,' said Hunark, her voice smooth and at odds with her scarred appearance. 'Nor should, with everything going to plan, it be inclined to attack you. But, in the event that something goes, ah, awry, you need to be able to defend yourself for long enough for help to arrive.'

Gray nodded nervously.

'Thaumaturgic weaponry is the fusion of magic and combat.' Hunark walked over to her array of weapons with the grace of a trained warrior and picked up a wooden staff. 'You will learn how to use enchanted weapons, and you'll learn which weapons you'll need to survive against different creatures. A vampiric sorcerer is classified as an undead dark creature. For that, you need metal imbued with several enchantments, including the beornan enchantment. It has the power of fire, to burn those it cuts. Speed, for the wielder. Heightened senses. Agility.'

Gray turned the axe over in his hand, running his fingers over the blade. It was wicked sharp, and covered in runes.

'The northerners trained you in their axe fighting?' said Hunark.

'Yes,' said Gray, adjusting his grip on the axe handle, getting a feel for its weight.

For its magic.

'You any good?' said Hunark.

Gray faltered. They weren't going to practice with real weapons. No cover on the blade, no padding, nothing?

'One way to find out,' said Hunark.

She advanced with the wooden staff.

Hunark didn't slow her strikes and she didn't hold back. Her hands were a blur as she battered Gray's axe from his grasp.

'Work with the axe,' she said, as Gray grabbed his axe back up from the carpet. 'Feel the enchantment.'

Gray eyed her. 'I don't want to clip you.'

'You're not going to clip me, boy.'

Gray hesitated.

'It's the same as dancing with a partner,' said Hunark. 'Listen to the axe, and it'll guide your movements. Breathe in.'

She turned her staff lazily in her grip, but her bright eyes stayed sharp. 'Ready?'

Gray barely got the axe up in time before Hunark struck. The impact jarred his arms and sent a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He pivoted, redirected the force, and in a split second, as Gray inhaled a breath, he felt it.

The axe whispering.

A guiding hand on his back.

An echoing instinct.

Hunark's staff whistled as it whipped through the air. Gray blocked her attack.

Gray was forced back, back, back. One step at a time. All thoughts fell away from his mind, and all that mattered was his axe and his opponent.

They were moving in sync, they were -

Hunark's boot caught Gray's ankle, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

'Better,' Hunark said. She offered a hand to help Gray up. 'On your feet. Vampiric sorcerers don't wait for you to be ready.'

Gray sucked in a deep breath and stood, weight on his toes, ready to move, and adjusting his grip. Determination filled him.

'Ready?' said Hunark.

It took nearly an hour before Hunark was satisfied, with a gruff, 'well done.' That wasn't something Gray'd ever achieved in his weapons and defence lessons in Krydon, but working with the enchanted axe was different. Easier.

Gray wiped sweat from his brow, feeling a welt forming on his wrist from where Hunark had hit him hard with her staff.

'Whitlock,' the king called cooly from the other side of the office. 'You're up.'

Gray drew in a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the next instructor - Whitlock, close quarters combat - approaching.

He was a man with ginger hair, burly shoulders, and smatterings of freckles and pock marks on his skin. There was a curious scar across his neck. He adjusted his powerful shoulders underneath his fighting leathers. Not a mage.

'I've heard,' Whitlock said, 'you've shown more aggression than your typical mage.'

'Don't be too hard, Whitlock,' the king said, 'I need him to go down to the stables soon.'

This was going to be a big day.

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