One week passed.
Theron settled into a routine. Wake up before dawn. Walk to the estate. Catalog scrolls. Watch the training yard. Eat lunch with Kallias. Catalog more scrolls. Watch the training yard again. Go home. Write notes. Sleep. Repeat.
On the surface, he was just another servant doing boring library work. Nobody paid him any attention.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
Every day, he watched.
And every day, he wrote down what he saw.
Monday, Alexios practiced fire magic again. Same circle. Same ratio. Same hand position. Success rate: three out of five attempts. The two failures both happened when he seemed distracted — once when a bird flew overhead, once when another student walked past and Alexios glanced at him.
Tuesday was more interesting.
A different student showed up. Nikos, seventeen, stocky build, perpetually frustrated expression. He also practiced fire magic, but something was off.
Theron watched him draw his circle. The ratio looked right. But when Nikos positioned his hands, the angle was wrong. Too narrow. Maybe 120 degrees instead of 144.
He cast the incantation. Nothing happened.
He tried again. Nothing.
A third time, harder, louder. Still nothing.
Nikos kicked the sand and swore.
Theron wrote it down: Nikos — hand angle ~120°. Zero successes. Angle matters.
Wednesday, Theron noticed something new.
Alexios was practicing again. Before he even touched the sand, he did something Theron hadn't paid attention to before. He stood still for a moment, took a slow, deep breath — really deep, the kind that expanded his whole chest — and let it out slowly.
Then he drew his circle and cast.
Success. A clean flame, steady and bright.
Theron watched him do it again. Same thing. The breath first. Then the cast.
On the third attempt, Alexios skipped the breath. Just drew the circle and went straight into the incantation.
The flame appeared, but it was weak. Barely a flicker. It died in two seconds instead of five.
Alexios frowned, looked confused, then did the breathing again before his next attempt. The flame came back strong.
Breathing pattern matters, Theron wrote. Deep inhale before casting = stronger result. Skipping it = weaker result.
He underlined it.
Thursday brought Master Lycurgus.
Theron had seen the man before — the estate's battle-mage instructor, responsible for training all of Aristophon's sons in combat magic. He was tall, hard-faced, with close-cropped grey hair and hands that looked like they'd been in more than a few fights.
Lycurgus was teaching Alexios a private lesson.
Theron couldn't hear everything from the library window, but he caught enough.
"Stretch first," Lycurgus said, loud enough to carry. "Every time. No exceptions. Tension in your body means tension in your casting."
Alexios stretched — shoulders, arms, neck. A quick routine, maybe thirty seconds.
"Now breathe. In for four counts. Hold for two. Out slow."
Alexios did it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Good. Now center yourself. Close your eyes. Find the fire in your chest. Feel it."
Alexios closed his eyes. Stood still for about ten seconds.
Then he opened his eyes, drew the circle, positioned his hands, and cast.
The flame that shot up was twice the size Theron had seen from him before. It burned for ten full seconds before Lycurgus waved a hand and it vanished.
Theron's pen was moving fast.
Physical preparation is critical. Stretching + breathing + mental centering = significantly better results. Not optional. Fundamental.
Friday, Theron watched the afternoon session.
Three students practiced together. In the morning, their success rate had been decent — maybe six or seven out of ten attempts produced a flame. But by the afternoon, the numbers dropped. Four out of ten. Then three.
Was it the heat? Fatigue? The time of day?
He couldn't tell yet. He needed more data.
Afternoon success rate drops. Cause unknown. Possible factors: heat, fatigue, time of day, reduced focus. Need more observation.
That same afternoon, something almost went wrong.
Philippos left the library to deliver a report to Lord Aristophon. He'd be gone for at least an hour, he said. Theron was alone.
The locked cabinet sat in the corner, ten paces away.
Theron looked at it.
He hadn't planned to. His eyes just drifted there, the way they always did when no one was watching. The heavy wooden chest with its iron lock. Family magical texts, Philippos had said. Off limits.
Theron stood up and walked over to it.
He didn't try to open it. He told himself he wouldn't. But he stood in front of it and studied the lock. It was old. Well-made, but old. The kind of lock a skilled hand could pick in under a minute.
He knew how to pick locks. A skill he'd learned during a bad period two years ago, when money was even tighter than it was now and he'd done things he wasn't proud of.
His hand moved toward the lock.
Then he heard footsteps on the stairs.
He was back at his desk in three seconds, pen in hand, eyes on a scroll, looking like he'd been there the whole time.
Philippos walked in, set a cup of water on his desk, and sat down without a word.
Theron's heart was still hammering. He forced himself to breathe normally and kept copying.
That was stupid, he told himself. Don't do that again.
But he didn't stop thinking about what was inside.
At lunch, Kallias was in a good mood.
"I finished the rose garden," he said, tearing off a piece of bread. "Three weeks of work. Looks perfect. And what do I get? Lord Aristophon walked past it this morning without even looking."
"Did you expect him to?"
"No. But it would've been nice." Kallias grinned. "Anyway. How's the library? Found any ancient treasures yet?"
"Still mostly dust."
"Shame." Kallias chewed thoughtfully. "You know, my father used to say that the nobles don't actually know anything special. They just pretend they do. Keep everyone else in the dark so nobody questions them."
Theron looked at him. "Your father was a merchant?"
"Before everything fell apart, yeah. Successful one, too. Citizen. Had connections." Kallias' expression went flat for a second. "Then he made the wrong enemy. Lost everything. Status, money, all of it. We went from citizen to metic overnight."
He shrugged like it didn't matter. But Theron could see it did.
"Magic's the same way," Kallias continued. "They tell everyone it's a divine gift. Bloodline only. But my father always thought it was just... a skill. Something they learned and kept to themselves."
Theron said nothing. But he filed it away.
That evening, back in his room, Theron spread his notes across the table and looked at everything he'd collected over the week.
The pattern was becoming clear.
Every fire mage he'd watched used the same ratio. The same hand position. The same breathing technique. The same words. They all stretched before casting. They all centered themselves mentally first.
It wasn't random. It wasn't unique to each family. It was a system. A repeatable, teachable system.
And if it was teachable, then "bloodline" had nothing to do with it.
He wrote one line at the bottom of his notes, underlined it twice, and stared at it until the lamp burned low.
The nobles aren't born with magic. They're trained. And if they can be trained, so can anyone else.
End of Chapter Six