Chapter 31

  Francis stood before High Shaman Greythorn once more, the otherworldly light of the blue-green flames casting shadows across her painted face.

  "You have found it," Greythorn said, not making it a question. "Faster than expected. Much faster."

  Francis nodded. "I found my core. But it's different from what your people describe. It’s not veins, but like threads. Thin ones, like spider silk, spreading out from the center."

  Greythorn's pale eyes studied him for a long moment. "Threads instead of veins. This is... unusual. Our people, we have thick channels. Power flows easy, like rivers. Your threads..." She paused, considering. "Harder to push through. Less power at once, perhaps. But also, more control, yes?"

  "I don't know yet," Francis admitted. "I can sense them, but I can't use them."

  "Then learn you must." Greythorn stood and moved to the fire, gesturing for Francis to join her. "Our magic, it draws from core. Life force within. Not mana from world around like southern mages do. We pull from self, from strength inside. Core is well, threads are paths, and body is vessel."

  She held out her hand over the flames, and Francis watched as power visibly gathered around her fingers. Not like the mages at the Spires who pulled threads from the air, but something that seemed to come from within her, flowing up through her arm and gathering in her palm.

  "What we do, it makes body stronger, faster, tougher. Can enhance blows, increase speed, harden skin. Some shamans heal, some strengthen warriors in battle, some speak with spirits. All comes from core. All limited by how much life force we have."

  "And the core can grow?" Francis asked.

  Greythorn's expression turned grim. "Yes, but slowly. Very slowly. Core grows with body, with strength, with age. But mostly? It is what it is. Big warriors have big cores. Small ones have small cores. You..." She looked him over. "Your core, I cannot tell. But threads worry me. Thin channels may limit how much power you push through body at once."

  Francis had expected as much. His magic stat was only ten, far below what it should be if he wanted to be a true magic user. But he hadn't come here to become a shaman. He'd come to learn a skill that would allow him to heal. What he hadn’t expected was needing to learn how to use magic.

  "I still want to learn," Francis said.

  "Good. Then next step is not just touching core, but grabbing it. Holding it. Making it yours to command." Greythorn's eyes seemed to glow faintly. "Are you ready?"

  "I am."

  ---

  Vorgrim looked at Francis with something approaching respect when they met again. "You found core already. Surprising. Most take week, maybe two."

  "I had good teachers," Francis said.

  The old shaman grunted. "Good teachers only work if student has ability to learn. You have threads, not veins. That will make this harder."

  They sat in the same spot as before, but this time Vorgrim had Francis face him directly, their knees almost touching.

  "Touching core is like brushing fingertips against water," Vorgrim explained. "Grabbing core is like plunging hands into river and holding current. Different. Much harder. You must reach into yourself and grip power. Not gently. Firmly."

  Francis closed his eyes and began the breathing pattern. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He found the warmth in his chest, felt the threads spreading out from it, and reached toward it with his mind.

  But when he tried to grasp it, really grip it, the warmth slipped away like smoke.

  "Again," Vorgrim said.

  Francis tried again, reaching for the core, trying to wrap his mental hands around it. Nothing. It was like trying to grip air.

  "Again."

  Hours passed. Francis's head pounded from the concentration, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. Each time he reached for the core, it slipped away. Each time he thought he had it, his mental grip failed.

  "Breathing is wrong," Vorgrim said finally. "You breathe like touching. Need to breathe like grabbing. Faster. Sharper. Like warrior before battle."

  He demonstrated, taking quick, sharp breaths that made his chest heave. Francis copied him, and immediately felt different. More aggressive. More primed.

  "Now reach. Not gentle. Grab it like enemy's throat."

  Francis reached out again, this time with more force and aggression. For just a moment, he felt something solid. The core resisted his grip, pushing back, but it was there. Real. Tangible.

  Then it slipped away again.

  "Better," Vorgrim said, and there was approval in his voice. "You touched it truly. Now you must learn to hold. That takes more time."

  ---

  Lyska's eyes held a spark of surprise when Francis told her he'd already found his core. "One day only. Impressive. Your threads make you different, but clearly not weaker."

  She brought him back to the frozen stream, but this time she didn't have him sit on the ice. Instead, she pointed to the water flowing beneath the transparent surface.

  "Core is like this water. Always moving, never still. To grab it, you must become faster than movement. Must catch flow between moments."

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  Francis stared at the water, watching it slide past beneath the ice.

  "Sit. Be still. But inside, be ready to move faster than thought."

  They sat, and Francis forced his body into that same painful stillness from before. But this time, Lyska had him do something different. She had him tense and release different muscles in a pattern. Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot. Over and over, creating a rhythm of tension and release that kept his mind sharp while his body remained motionless.

  "Now reach for core. But do not reach slow. Reach like striking snake. Fast. Sudden. Before it can slip away."

  Francis found the warmth, found the threads, and instead of reaching carefully, he struck at the core with his mind. For an instant, he held it. Really held it. Power surged through the threads, and Francis felt his body respond, his muscles tightening and his heart racing.

  Then the sensation vanished, leaving him gasping for breath.

  "Good!" Lyska said, her voice excited. "You held for heartbeat. Next time, hold for two heartbeats. Then three. Then more."

  They practiced for hours. Each time Francis managed to hold the core for a little longer before his mental grip failed and the power slipped away. His head throbbed with pain that had nothing to do with physical injury, and his body trembled from the strain of remaining still while his mind worked furiously.

  But he didn't quit. He'd endured worse. The Spires had taught him what real pain felt like, what it meant to push past every limit and keep going anyway. This was just another form of suffering, and Francis had learned long ago how to turn suffering into strength.

  ---

  Haldor greeted Francis with a nod of respect. "Heard you found core in one day. Did not think Southerner could do that."

  "I'm one of you now," Francis replied.

  Haldor's smile was fierce. "Yes. And now you train like one of us. Come."

  They went to the training grounds again, but this time Haldor handed Francis real weapons instead of training axes. The blade was sharp, the edge gleaming, and Francis looked at the massive shaman questioningly.

  "To grab core in violence, you need real violence. Training weapons do not make fear. Fear makes core burn bright. Fear makes it easier to grab."

  Francis understood immediately. This wasn't going to be a sparring session. This was going to be a real fight, and if Francis made a mistake, he'd die.

  Good. I know how to fight when death is on the line.

  Haldor attacked without warning, his axe coming at Francis's head in a strike that would split his skull if it connected. Francis blocked, the impact once again jarring his arms as the behemoth of a man struck. He then countered with a slash that Haldor barely dodged.

  They fought, really fought, and Francis felt the familiar rush of combat settle over him. Every movement was calculated, every strike potentially lethal. His Battle Sense tingled, warning him of attacks before they came, and his body moved with the fluid efficiency of someone who'd died hundreds of times learning these exact motions.

  "Now!" Haldor shouted. "While fighting! Grab core! Use fear! Use anger! Use whatever makes it burn!"

  Francis reached for his core while blocking a strike that would have taken his arm off. The warmth was there, burning bright just like Haldor said, and Francis grabbed it with both mental hands.

  Power exploded through him. Not Warrior's Resolve, but something different, something that came from deep inside rather than being triggered by injury. It flooded through the threads, filling his body, and for a moment Francis felt unstoppable.

  Then Haldor's axe caught him across the chest, cutting deep, and Francis's concentration shattered. The power vanished, and pain took its place.

  "Stop!" Haldor called, immediately lowering his weapon. "Healer!"

  A shaman rushed forward, and cool healing washed over Francis's wound. The gash closed, leaving him shaking but alive.

  "You held it," Haldor said, his voice filled with approval. "Not long, but you held it. Felt power flow through you, yes?"

  Francis nodded, still catching his breath. "Yes. It was... incredible."

  "Good. Now we do again. And again. Until you hold it while fighting without losing grip."

  They fought again, and Francis died. The axe took his head off when he tried to grab the core and failed to block in time.

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  "It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"

  Francis smiled. "Just another day, my favorite brother."

  ---

  Days blurred together. Francis trained with all three shamans, learning their different approaches to grabbing and holding the core. Vorgrim taught him to use breathing to maintain his grip. Lyska taught him to strike fast and hold firm. Haldor taught him to harness the intensity of combat to make the core burn brighter.

  Each method was grueling in its own way. With Vorgrim, Francis's lungs burned until he thought they'd burst. With Lyska, his muscles cramped from hours of stillness while his mind worked furiously. With Haldor, he died three more times, each death teaching him something new about how to maintain his grip even while fighting for his life.

  But Francis never quit. He'd learned at the Spires what it meant to push past pain, to endure when enduring seemed impossible. Trina had assaulted him with spell after spell, burning and freezing his flesh, teaching him through agony how to sense magic. This was no different. Just another form of suffering, another trial to overcome.

  And slowly, gradually, he improved. His grip on the core grew stronger. He could hold it for longer periods. The power that flowed through his threads became easier to maintain, though it still slipped away if he lost concentration.

  On the seventh day, Francis sat with Vorgrim and managed to hold the core for a full minute without losing his grip.

  A notification came that surprised him, causing Francis to lose his grip.

  [ Magic Increased - 11 ]

  The old shaman nodded approvingly, somehow sensing a change in him.

  "Good. You are ready for next step. But first, you must combine what all three of us have taught. Must be able to grab core and hold it no matter what you are doing. Breathing, stillness, violence, all same. Core must answer when you call."

  Francis understood. He'd learned three different techniques, but now he needed to master them all, make them work together instead of separately. It would take time, take more practice, more pain.

  But Francis had time. He had all the time in the world, even if he had to die a hundred more times to get there.

  Whatever it takes.

  ?