The night before the Coming-of-Age Ceremony, Zaqor Manor was a beehive of nervous activity. From the high window of his spartan chamber, Nard could see the outer courtyard lit by hundreds of expensive, glowing mana lanterns. Servants rushed back and forth, laying down crimson carpets and polishing the silver crests on the carriage gates. Tomorrow, Marquis Vance would arrive, and the fate of the Zaqor family would hang on the performance of its scions. Or rather, on the performance of Ralph.
But Nard had no part in their spotlight. He had been relegated to the darkness, instructed to serve from the shadows.
Slipping through the quietest corridors, Nard made his way to the damp sanctuary of the servant's passage. The air inside was cool, isolated from the frantic energy of the manor by the powerful barrier Beru had woven.
The small bird with the jagged scar fluttered from a high stone crevice, landing on the floor. In a silent ripple of golden light, Beru assumed his human form. His amber eyes looked at Nard with a quiet intensity.
"Tonight is the final rehearsal, Nard," Beru said, his deep baritone echoing softly within the barrier. "Tomorrow, you enter a den of wolves. Marquis Vance is a Tier 7 battle mage. His passive mana perception can feel the heartbeat of a mouse a mile away. You must not only suppress your mana, but you must also be ready to use it in absolute sync if things go awry."
Nard sat cross-legged, closing his eyes. He reached into his chest, where the dual-nature Tier 2 core was spinning. The primary core pulsed with a dense, emerald-tinted white light, while the newly formed secondary ring spun in the opposite direction, balancing the destructive white sparks with the life-giving, restructuring emerald nature energy.
"Do not treat them as separate forces," Beru commanded, walking slowly around him. "The mistake of the modern mages is compartmentalization. They use light to blind, and nature to bind. But the ancients knew that light feeds the forest, and the forest shelters the light. They are two halves of the same breath. Show me."
Nard took a deep breath. He held out his right palm. From his pocket, he drew a small, dried seed of an Ironwood tree—a plant known for its near-indestructible bark but notoriously slow growth.
He channeled his emerald nature mana first. A cool, soothing green mist enveloped his hand, soaking into the seed. The wooden casing cracked, and a tiny, pale sprout emerged.
"Now," Beru whispered. "Do not let it grow slow. Feed it the light. But temper the light so it does not incinerate life."
Nard focused intensely. This was the hardest part. The white light was violent, an explosive force. He carefully drew a microscopic thread of white mana from his heart, wrapping it in the emerald mist before letting it touch the sprout.
The moment the light made contact, the pale green sprout didn't burn. Instead, it drank the energy. The wood rapidly darkened, turning a deep, metallic grey. In a matter of seconds, the sprout shot upward, twisting and weaving itself into a thick, thorn-covered vine that coiled around Nard's forearm.
But Nard didn't stop there. He pushed further. He channeled the destructive white light directly into the core of the wood. The ironwood vine began to crackle. Faint, white-hot sparks of electricity danced along the metallic thorns, but the wood itself did not turn to ash. It held the energy, acting as a natural conduit and shield.
"Incredible," Nard muttered, staring at his arm. The vine felt like an extension of his own body. With a single thought, he could make it whip forward with the speed of light, or retract back into a harmless wooden seed.
"You are becoming a Weaver, Nard," Beru said, a rare look of awe in his amber eyes. "A dual-nature mage who doesn't just cast spells, but constructs reality. This ironwood whip is infused with your light. It can pierce through Tier 3 physical defenses, and the light crackling within it can disrupt the mana flow of any caster it touches."
Beru stepped back, his expression turning solemn. "But remember: tomorrow, you must not show even a fraction of this. You must play the hollow shell. Let Ralph boast, let your father mock, and let Tere plot. Your patience is your ultimate weapon."
Nard closed his eyes, recalling the vine back into his palm. It dissolved into a shower of harmless grey dust, leaving only the tiny, dormant seed. He squeezed it tightly, his jaw clenching.
"Let them have their stage tomorrow," Nard whispered, his voice cold and resolved. "But when the curtain falls, they will realize they were performing in my storm."
Beru nodded, his form dissolving back into the small, scarred bird. It fluttered onto Nard's shoulder, its head resting against his neck. Together, they waited in the silent dark, listening to the distant, frantic echoes of the world that had cast them aside.