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  Saturday, October 8th, 2253 – 1:45 pm

  Gj?ll Bakery.

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  Jeremiah sat hunched forward at the wobbling little table, elbows braced on the wood, fingers drumming without rhythm. The napkin under one leg barely steadied the thing. Every time his knee bounced, the plate of pastries rattled. He plucked the remaining half of a doughnut off the tray and chased it with lukewarm tea. The pot was nearly empty now — he’d drained it cup by cup while waiting — but his nerves kept his hands busy.

  Part of him still couldn’t believe Ulrick had said yes. Well… not yes exactly. Not the yes he’d rehearsed in his head, where the burly mage leaned over with a solemn nod and declared him his teacher. No, this was something different. Rougher around the edges, less defined. But it was still something.

  And it would have to be enough.

  He swallowed, throat dry, and leaned back into the chair. The wood creaked. Excitement fizzed under his ribs. He was going to learn magic. Real magic. Not the little hacks and half-charms anyone could find passed around on the net. Most of those were nothing more than superstition, or the ‘alchemical’ tricks that were more chemistry than sorcery. No, he was going to learn real spellcraft.

  His fingers curled tight around the cup. A breath shivered out of him, almost a laugh.

  He remembered being eight, maybe nine, sneaking books from his sister’s shelf when she wasn’t looking. Sarah always noticed, of course. She’d scold him with a smile, never truly angry, even when he left crumbs caught in the spine or bent a corner in his hurry. But she never locked the books away. And so he devoured them, one after another.

  Most were the popular kind — glossy paperbacks stuffed with heroes who bent storms to their will or lit the sky with a single word. Overblown adventures, magic simplified into flashy tricks to keep readers turning pages. Pulp tales where mana-cloaked champions saved the world with a flick of the wrist.

  But among those were the treasures he loved best. Travelogues penned by weary spellwrights, their notes scrawled between accounts of ruined cities and mana storms. Retellings of ancient mages who had done the impossible. Public reports of expeditions that had gone further than anyone thought sane, or news articles when someone, somewhere, managed something too strange to ignore. Those books had always smelled of dust and ink and possibility.

  And then came the exams. Every state-funded school on Nexus put its students through them sooner or later. The same neat lines of desks, the same bland walls — all in the name of finding Gifted children before their talents slipped through unnoticed. They pricked his finger. They charted his dreams. They tested his resonance across every frequency the machines could measure.

  At the end of it all, his results had been stamped on a sheet of paper with indifference. Negative. No spark.

  He had smiled for the teachers, nodded like it meant nothing. But the walk home had dragged, every step heavier than the last.

  Not that his results were unusual. Most people weren’t special. No gifts, no quirks, no hidden fire waiting to catch. Just people. Even on worlds steeped in mana, only one in fifty managed more than a parlor trick. The only people who could regularly produce reliable Gifted were the Dreamers and the Fae, and that was more to do with their nature than anything.

  He told himself it was expected. He hadn’t really hoped. That it didn’t matter.

  But it had.

  He rubbed his thumb across the edge of the teacup, gaze slipping to the barked pillar where Ulrick had disappeared. The smell of sap still clung faintly in the air, like the ghost of a rain-soaked forest. His heart kicked harder in his chest.

  A grin tugged at his mouth before he could stop it, quick and unguarded, only for him to rein it back with a breath. What would that boy, trudging home under the weight of crushed dreams, shoulders heavy with disappointment, have thought? If someone had told him that one day he would sit at a table, tea cooling in his hands, waiting for a mage to step out of a living tree to give him lessons?

  Jeremiah leaned back and chuckled.

  The crack of splintering wood snapped Jeremiah upright. His cup rattled against its saucer as his eyes shot to the pillar. The bark bulged, then peeled back in a rippling spiral, like a flower blooming. A shiver ran down his arms.

  Ulrick stepped through, brushing wood dust from his sleeve as if he’d only ducked behind a curtain. Jeremiah’s chest hollowed, a brief spike of panic as he realized the baker had returned empty-handed. Had he reconsidered?

  Then Ulrick grinned — a quick flash of teeth under the beard, warm as a hearth. “Still here, eh?”

  Jeremiah exhaled, tension draining all at once. He slumped back in his chair, scolding himself for the leap of doubt.

  Ulrick dropped into his seat with the weight of a boulder settling. He reached for the teapot and poured himself a cup, only for a few stray drops to dribble out the spout. Ulrick looked up at Jeremiah, a brow raised.

  Jeremiah looked away, ears burning.

  The baker’s chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. He set the pot aside, folding his arms across the table. “Before we start, I need to know what those folks in Central have already filled your head with. Nexus being Nexus, I’ve found things can get… lost in translation at times. So tell me, Jeremiah — what do you know of magic?”

  Jeremiah’s fingers fidgeted against the cup’s rim. “Not much,” he admitted. “Not more than anyone else who paid half-attention in school. Mana can… shape things. Twist reality. Those who can steer it are mages. That’s about as far as it goes. I know the Mana Constellation isn’t as… alien as the Wyrd or the Dream, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. Not for someone born under Law.”

  A laugh barked from Ulrick, deep and genuine. “That’s understandable, lad. But don’t doubt the other Constellations say the same about Law. To them, there’s no power stranger than rules that refuse to bend.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  His eyes drifted, the mirth softening into distance. His voice dropped to a murmur. “And no wonder so terrifying as that first glimpse into the Absolute…”

  Jeremiah shifted in his chair. The weight of that word prickled against his skin. Before he could ask, Ulrick shook himself, dragging back to the present.

  “Right. Enough of my mutterin’. Let’s start where every decent lesson does. Tell me what you know of the Great Constellations. And the Turning.”

  Jeremiah frowned. “Isn’t that… basic? Everyone learns it.”

  “Then humor me,” Ulrick said. “The basics matter most.”

  Jeremiah exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, fingers drumming a restless beat against the wobbling table. The uneven leg rattled with every tap, making the sugar-specked plate tremble between them. “Alright,” he said at last. “The Cosmic Turning. It’s what we call the theory that reality cycles through stages, looping without end. As for the ‘Constellations,’ we call them that because whole clusters of star systems seem to shift together, syncing like neighbors sharing the same season. There are five ‘stages’ in all.”

  Ulrick’s beard dipped once in a quiet nod.

  Jeremiah lifted his hand and began ticking them off on his fingers. “First is Law. The bedrock. The world held fast by rules you can measure — physics, chemistry, numbers that add up the same every time. Solid. Stubborn. It holds firm against manipulation the way stone shrugs off wind. But even bedrock cracks. Eventually, something slips.”

  “Go on…” Ulrick rumbled.

  Jeremiah wet his lips. “When Law weakens, Deviance takes root. The rules twist, and suddenly the dice roll wild. Genes unravel. Evolution lurches forward. That’s when you start seeing people with… gifts. Or curses, depending on how you look at it. Mutants. Triggered beasts. A farmer wakes up with fire in his blood. A child can hear storms whisper. But Deviants and mana—” Jeremiah shook his head. “They don’t mix. Something in them rebels against it, like oil and water”

  He flexed his other hand as he continued. “Given time, all that raw mutation steadies. It converges into Psionics. That’s the realm of the mind and the soul. Espers who twist themselves inward, remaking their bodies into their own ideals. Dreamers who turn their visions outward, pulling matter and meaning straight from the Dream. They don’t just bend reality — they overwrite it.”

  His voice slowed, dropping low. “But if you dream too deeply, you fall into the Wyrd. That’s where everything frays. Pure potential without a hand to guide it. Chaos given breath. Fae realms. Things that call themselves gods, though no one can say if they are or just wearing the shape. The Wyrd births the strange and the alien, good and bad in equal measure.”

  Ulrick’s expression stayed steady, but his silence urged him on.

  Jeremiah drew in a breath. “From that chaos, Mana forms. Magic. The Wyrd settles into rules again — loose ones, but still rules. Shapeable, structured. Organized where the Wyrd ran wild. That’s where mages thrive. ”

  He pressed both palms flat against the table, the wood creaking under the strain. “When mana begins to settle, it starts to crystallize into more structured rules. Rules that will eventually become absolute Laws. Every spark of possibility locks into place, every loose thread drawn tight until nothing moves outside the pattern. And the wheel starts to turn all over again.”

  Ulrick leaned back, chair groaning. His hand rubbed slowly across his beard, eyes sharp with thought. Then a grin tugged at his mouth. “Not bad. You’ve the bones of it, at least. Rough round the edges, aye, but bones all the same.”

  Jeremiah huffed, relief softening his shoulders. “So I passed, then?”

  Ulrick’s laugh boomed out, shaking crumbs from the plate. “You passed the history lesson, lad. But history and practice are worlds apart. Now comes the harder part.”

  Ulrick’s beard twitched as he leaned forward, elbows braced on the wobbling table. His voice dropped low, steady as a drumbeat.

  “Tell me, lad. Based on what they fed you in Central — what is mana?”

  Jeremiah straightened in his chair, startled at the question’s sudden weight. He fumbled for words, defaulting to the familiar schoolroom cadence. “Mana is… It’s the energy that forms after the Wyrd settles. A kind of… structured essence. Usable by mages, unlike the raw chaos of the Wyrd itself.” He stopped, caught in the rhythm, the words flowing as though written on a blackboard in his mind.

  But halfway through, his tongue hesitated. The pattern faltered. His brow furrowed.

  Because when he thought about it — really thought about it — the neat explanation came out sounding… strange. His schooling explained the when and where. It described the shift from chaos to order, the cycle of stages. But not the thing itself.

  Jeremiah’s mouth closed on the last word. His fingers drummed the table again, restless. “I… don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I thought I did. But that doesn’t actually say what mana is, does it?”

  The baker’s grin widened. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Good, good. You’d be surprised how many insist they know what they know nothing about. That’s a dangerous thing when it comes to the craft.”

  Jeremiah frowned, but Ulrick pressed on, his tone carrying the weight of a craftsman explaining his tools.

  “The Wyrd is raw potential. Infinite. Shapeless. A sea without tides. But when it lingers — when it soaks into the bones of a place long enough — it picks up the memory of it. The identity. That imprint, that concept, is what we call mana.” He tapped two thick fingers against the tabletop as if to emphasize the point. “Mana isn’t just an energy, lad. It’s… information.”

  Jeremiah tilted his head, brows drawn. “Information?”

  “Aye.” Ulrick’s eyes gleamed. “Mana is identity etched into reality. It is potential given purpose. It is the very concept of an idea.”

  Jeremiah’s frown deepened. “But… how can something be both energy and a concept? That doesn’t make sense.”

  The corner of Ulrick’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Doesn’t it? Tell me — how can light be both a particle and a wave?”

  Jeremiah froze, then barked a short laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “…Fair point.”

  Ulrick chuckled, the sound rumbling like stones shifting in a riverbed. “Think of it as your first lesson, lad.” He leaned forward again, voice smoothing into a lecture. “Mana is what happens when the Wyrd lingers. A forest soaked in it long enough will hold the memory of life. Growth. Roots and green things. A volcano drenched in it will birth volcanic or fire mana, all heat and eruption. The Wyrd paints itself onto the world, and mana is the ink.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes lit despite himself. “So… magic is just what? Painting?” He laughed slightly at his own joke.

  “Not just.” Ulrick wagged a finger. “Spellwork is refinement. Taking that vague notion — life, fire, stone, storm — and grinding it into a new shape.”

  He stared out past the window of his shop. “One thing you’ll quickly learn about magecraft is that there is no one singular ‘right’ way. There are safer ways. Simpler. Or even mundane. But at the end of the day, magic is an art, and like all art, it can take many forms. Music, painting, sculpting. Mages of all walks of life work mana through their own methods and understanding.”

  He turned back to Jeremiah. “A ‘mage’ is simply what we call those who impose shape on the half-formed ideas already seeded into mana, making the ‘what could be’ into the ‘what is.’”

  Jeremiah sat forward, elbows digging into the table. “And that’s where affinities come in?”

  Ulrick’s grin widened. “You’re listening, good. Aye, affinities. Everyone carries notions that run deeper than others — ideas that resonate with the marrow of who they are. That resonance makes certain kinds of mana… answer more easily. A man with water in his bones will find rivers and rain bow to him, while fire sputters and fights.” He rolled one broad shoulder. “On the other hand, someone without affinity will find every scrap of mana stiff as old dough. Stubborn. Unyielding.”

  He leaned closer, voice dropping into a tone that hummed with conviction. “That’s why affinities matter. They tell you what song you’re most likely to coax from the strings.”

  Jeremiah’s lips parted, half-formed questions tumbling in his head. “Does that mean someone without an affinity can’t use magic at all?”

  “It means they’ll sweat more to make the dough rise.” Ulrick cut him off with a shrug. “Not impossible. Just harder. Much harder.”

  He lifted one massive hand and swept it across the air above the table. His palm left a faint shimmer in its wake, as though dragging threads from an unseen loom. The shimmer condensed, edges crisping until a crystal cube appeared on the table. It was so clear it nearly vanished into the grain, save for the golden caps gleaming at each corner, etched with runes that pulsed faintly.

  Jeremiah’s breath caught.

  Ulrick rested two fingers atop the cube. “Which is why the first step in any mage’s training is to know their own resonance.” His eyes narrowed, pinning Jeremiah like a nail.