Eldritch Guidance

“Ember Gear.

“You may have heard of the college it’s named after or encountered it in passing, but what exactly is an Ember Gear? In simple terms, it is the crowning achievement of archmage Nowell Gollum, a visionary inventor whose groundbreaking work is destined to resonate through generations and millennia long after this publication.

“At its core, an Ember Gear is a perpetual motion machine—a remarkable feat of arcane engineering that defies conventional understanding of physics. This extraordinary device consists of a massive gear that spins effortlessly on its axis, generating motion without the need for any external energy source.

“Ember Gears have infinite torque and as it spins it generates heat in the process. The more resistance it faces, the hotter it becomes. This phenomenon is precisely why it is called an Ember Gear; it radiates warmth and energy as it operates. To mitigate this issue, the gear is encased in a specially designed heat-proof apparatus that allows it to turn freely while protecting the surrounding components from the intense heat generated during operation.

“Moreover, the Ember Gear is engineered to be nearly indestructible, crafted from a unique blend of advanced materials and powerful enchantments that allow it to withstand the test of time and the rigors of continuous operation. This remarkable durability means that the Ember Gear requires maintenance only every few decades, primarily to ensure that the enchantments remain potent and effective. The only limiting factor in its operation is the surrounding mechanical components, which can succumb to melting under extreme conditions.

“The original Ember Gear, created millennia ago, still exists today, continuing to turn and generate electricity for the entire city of Graheel.

“Nowell Gollum, who grew up in poverty, harbored dreams of creating inventions that would improve the lives of people everywhere. He envisioned that the energy generated by an Ember Gear could empower communities, drive innovation, and foster a better quality of life for all. His aspirations were rooted in a deep desire to uplift humanity.

“Long after his passing, Gollum's creations continue to serve this purpose, providing clean, sustainable energy that enhances the daily lives of countless individuals.

“In honor of Nowell Gollum's extraordinary contributions to the world, the Ember Gear College was established as a beacon of innovation and a nurturing ground for aspiring engineers and inventors. This prestigious institution is dedicated to advancing the fields of engineering and various other branches of advanced mechanical sciences, embodying Gollum's vision of harnessing technology to improve lives and foster sustainable progress.

“In addition to its rigorous academic programs, Ember Gear College places a strong emphasis on research and development. Faculty members and students alike are encouraged to pursue groundbreaking research that pushes the boundaries of technology and engineering. The college actively partners with industries, government agencies, and research institutions to facilitate knowledge exchange and promote the practical application of innovative ideas.

“As students walk the halls of Ember Gear College, they carry forward Gollum's vision, ensuring that his spirit of innovation and dedication to improving humanity endures for years to come.”

—Writing of Archmage Setta on “The Founding of Graheel and it’s University”

Alan waited outside Mitra’s office, a knot of cold anxiety tightening in his gut. Today was supposed to be a practical session at the training grounds, a chance to demonstrate his progress—or lack thereof—with the volatile Lightning magic he’d been struggling to control. The fact that she’d summoned him to her office instead felt like a summons to the principal’s office, an ominous deviation from routine.

He was convinced this was it: the moment of his dismissal from the Enforcers. The unspoken transgression hung between them. He had deliberately withheld crucial information about Cid—their past connection, Cid's nature—and Mitra had remained in the dark until Jaffar and the botched capture operation. In the tense weeks since, she had never confronted him about the betrayal of trust. The silence had been its own punishment, a drawn-out anticipation of the axe finally falling. Now, he feared, it was about to drop.

Being expelled from the Enforcers meant more than losing a position; it was a domino that would topple many things. His standing at the Arcane Eye College, his access to resources and mentorship—all of it was tied to his role. Without it, his sworn promise to his deceased friends, the vow to ascend to the rank of Archmage in their memory, would crumble into dust. The waiting was its own special torture, each second stretching out, filled with the echo of his own failures.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door swung inward.

Mitra: “You can come in now, Alan,” her voice called from within, calm and businesslike.

Alan swallowed hard, his throat dry, and stepped across the threshold.

Mitra’s office was a landscape of chaos. Towering shelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound tomes and bulging case files. Every flat surface not occupied by a lamp or a curious art piece was buried under precarious stacks of paper. It reminded Alan of Archangel Lazarus’s sanctum, but stripped of its arcane relics; here, the clutter was bureaucratic, not mystical. His eyes were drawn to a pair of exquisite, curved swords mounted on the wall behind her desk—katanas, he recognized, weapons from the distant eastern continent, their polished blades speaking of a discipline far removed from academic paperwork.

Mitra herself was buried behind two formidable towers of documents, her long green hair spilling over her shoulders as she bent over her work. She pushed a stray lock behind her ear with an impatient flick, seized a paper from the top of the left-hand pile, signed it with a swift stroke, and added it to the right-hand pile with a soft thump.

Mitra: “Take a seat,” she said without looking up, gesturing vaguely toward the worn leather chair facing her desk.

Alan obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the scratch of her pen and the soft rustle of paper. He watched her work, the knot in his stomach refusing to loosen.

Finally, she set her pen down with a sigh.

Mitra: “I apologize that I couldn’t make it to the training grounds today,” she began, massaging her temples. “This new joint unit with the police—the Sleuth-Hawks—is proving effective, but the administrative beast it has spawned is eating my life. Endless reports, requisition forms, jurisdictional agreements…” She glared at the teetering stacks. “Damn university administrators. They love to waste paper.”

Alan’s gaze flickered between Mitra’s weary expression and the mountains of paperwork. A flicker of cautious relief sparked within him. This didn’t feel like a prelude to an expulsion. It felt like a busy woman dealing with an avalanche of tedium.

Mitra: “There are still two things I need to handle with you today,” she continued, leaning back in her chair. “Well, technically three. First, this.” She slid a single sheet of paper, accompanied by a pen, across the desk toward him. “The university insists on formalizing our arrangement on paper. A declaration of discipleship. If you could sign at the bottom, we can check one box off their endless list.”

Alan picked up the form, his eyes scanning the formal language.

Alan: “So, that’s it?” he asked, a wave of disbelief washing over him. “This makes it official?”

Mitra: “As far as I was concerned, it was official the day you agreed,” she said with a slight shrug. “In the old traditions, a spoken oath between master and student was bond enough. But we live in an age of ledgers and legalese. Now, everything must be committed to paper, filed, and forgotten in a basement somewhere.”

Alan nodded, the simple act feeling momentous. He took the pen, its weight familiar in his hand, and signed his name at the bottom of the page with a firm, clear script. The deed was done. He was, officially and irrevocably, Mitra’s disciple.

Alan handed the paper back to Mitra who took the paper but didn’t even look at it and just placed in the pile on her left side she was putting

Mitra: “And onto the second thing. I want you to know I’m not kicking you out of the enforcers.”

Alan was taken aback, as it just appeared as if Mitra had just read his mind.

Alan: “How…”

Mitra: “Jafar. He came to me last week to beg me not to kick you out of the enforcer. I told him I wasn’t going to, but he explained that you were terrified that I was going to do that.”

Alan: “Jafar…” he had mumbled.

Ever since the incident with Cid, with Jafar becoming wheel chair bound, Alan’s and Jafar’s relationship had felt a bit weird. They were both thinking that the other was mad at each other. But, despite that Jafar came to Mitra and begged her not to kick Alan out of the enforcers. It was this moment that affirms a reality Alan has neglected and forgotten about. Despite the hurt and betrayal, Jafar was still one of his best friends. He had already lost too many people he cared about in his life and he felt he was being stupid by distancing himself from Jafar and losing another friend, but this time instead of death it would be his own doing that ruined that relationship. Alan decided that after this he would go meet with Jafar to push through awkwardness and try and mend that connection between the two.

Mitra: “Seems to me you’ve forgotten what kind of person I am,” Mayumi said, her voice cutting through Alan’s swirling doubts. “I don’t mince words. I don’t play games. If I intended to punish you for what happened with Cid, you would have known it immediately. There would have been no ambiguity.”

Alan: “But… why?” he asked, the question spilling out before he could stop it. He felt a nervous flutter in his chest, but he needed to understand. “I lied to you. By omission, but I still lied.” He understood the sacred bond between master and disciple was forged in trust above all else. His deception was the kind of crack that could shatter the foundation before it was even fully laid.

Mitra leaned back, her gaze analytical yet not unkind.

Mitra: “As I assess the situation, you were operating under significant duress. Cid had directly threatened your life should you reveal his secrets. That is a powerful motivator. Furthermore, from what Jaffar relayed, your silence was also rooted in a personal code. You made a promise to Cid, and you honored it, even when it became inconvenient or dangerous. I can respect that.”

Alan: “The world is built on promises and is destroyed by breaking them,” he murmured, the old Goliath saying rising unbidden from memory, a lesson from his grandfather.

Mitra’s eyebrows lifted in recognition.

Mitra: “Ah, the old adage. How… ironically fitting in more ways than you realize." She paused, her expression turning more serious, her eyes seeming to see past his face and into the turmoil beneath. “Which brings me to the third matter. I can see it in you, Alan. A deep-seated self-loathing. I recognize it because I’ve felt it myself, and recently. It’s the rot that sets in when you are powerless to protect the people you care about. The relentless voice that asks, ‘Why wasn’t I strong enough?’”

Alan’s gaze dropped to the floor, her words striking a chord that vibrated with painful truth. Images flashed behind his eyes: the chaotic flight from Gix, the smoke and screams of his old home as the Endless War cult attacked, the moment he learned his sister hadn’t escaped, Cris’s vacant, resurrected eyes turning against him. So much loss. So much failure.

Mitra: “So I must ask you,” she continued, her voice firm. “Are you going to wallow in that hatred, let it consume you from the inside? Or are you going to take that feeling—that burning, aching need—and forge it into a weapon? Will you use it as the fuel to ensure you are never powerless again?”

Alan looked up, meeting her gaze. The chaos of his memories crystallized into a single, cold point of resolve. He was tired of the taste of ashes, of the sound of retreating footsteps—his own.

Alan: “Yes,” Vexal said, the word simple and final. He nodded, the motion sealing a pact with himself.

A glint of approval shone in Mitra’s eyes.

Mitra: “Good. Then understand this: the training I have in mind will make our previous sessions look like child’s play. It will be brutal. It will be relentless. It will break you down, physically and mentally. Your pride, your preconceptions, your very sense of self will be ground into dust. I will not lie to you—it will hurt, in ways you cannot yet imagine.” She leaned forward, her intensity palpable. “But if you survive it, if you rise from that dust, you won’t just be a better mage. You will be on the path to becoming S-Class. And perhaps, one day, an Archmage. Knowing the cost, are you still willing? If you wish to decline, I will understand, and we will never speak of it again.”

Alan didn’t hesitate. The ghost of his sister, the memory of his friends, the sight of Cris’s urging him along—they all stood behind him, silent witnesses.

Alan: “There have been too many times in my life where I’ve had to run,” he said, his voice steady, iron entering his tone for the first time. “I’m done running. I want to stand. I want to face the things that try to take everything from me. So yes. I’ll face anything.”

A rare, genuine smile touched Mitra’s lips, transforming her stern features. It was the smile of a sculptor who has just found the right piece of marble.

Mitra: “I knew you would. I saw the spark of it that day you insisted on chasing Cid with me. That stubborn fire.” She stood abruptly, the motion full of purpose. “Alright then. No time like the present. Come with me. It’s time you met your senior.” She strode out of the office, leaving Alan to scramble to his feet and follow, stepping from the world of paperwork and promises into the unknown crucible that awaited.

♦♦♦♦♦

Alan stood beside Mitra in a private, sun-dappled training ground reserved for advanced instruction. The area was purpose-built: sturdy wooden target dummies stood at various distances, their surfaces scarred from countless spells. A central dueling platform was encircled by a ring of humming protective crystals, their soft azure glow weaving a net of contained energy to prevent stray magic from causing real harm.

They had arrived moments ago and now stood in a silence that felt heavy with expectation. They were waiting for Mitra's most senior disciple to arrive, and the absence of anyone else made the spacious grounds feel oddly empty and exposed.

Uncomfortable with the quiet, Alan sought to fill it, his curiosity and apprehension about the coming regimen getting the better of him.

Alan: "Um, Mitra? What exactly are we starting with today?"

Mitra, arms crossed and gaze fixed on the empty dueling platform, turned her head just enough to look at him before returning her attention forward.

Mitra: "We are shelving fusion magic for the immediate future," she stated. "Your ability to manifest Lightning is not in question. Your control over it is. In its current state, it is as much a threat to you as to any target. Therefore, we will focus on foundational disciplines designed to hone your aether control."

Alan: "What discipline, exactly?" he pressed, needing something concrete to grasp.

Mitra: "The technique is called Reactive Enhancement. You recall the principles of standard Enhancement Magic, I trust?"

Alan: "Yes," he replied automatically.

Mitra: "Explain it to me. Not the rudimentary version, but the advanced theory. Consider this a spot check to ensure you haven't neglected your foundational studies."

Alan took a breath, organizing his thoughts.

Alan: "Enhancement Magic is the process of channeling aether directly into the body's physical systems to temporarily amplify strength, speed, and durability. All elemental variants provide a base physical boost, but the chosen element imparts secondary properties. Wind Enhancement grants increased agility and reduces effective weight, while Earth Enhancement increases mass and stability, making the user harder to displace."

Mitra: "And its primary limitation?" she prompted.

Alan: "The accumulation of residual aether in the muscle fibers," he answered, recalling lectures from his Lionheart days. "Prolonged use causes aetheric strain, leading to fatigue, pain, and potential tissue damage. With Fire Enhancement, for instance, overuse manifests as a severe burning sensation within the limbs themselves. Most mages have a hard ceiling of about one hour of sustained use before requiring a full day's rest to purge the buildup."

Mitra: "Correct. Now, Reactive Enhancement is everything standard Enhancement is, but it sidesteps that limitation entirely. The method is simple: you do not use enhancement magic until you require its effect."

Alan blinked, not following.

Alan: "By... not using it? But that's basic combat doctrine—you deactivate it when the immediate threat is over."

Mitra: "What I am describing is more radical," she clarified. "You do not activate Enhancement Magic at all until the precise nanosecond it is required. You are about to throw a punch. You do not enhance your entire arm for the wind-up, the swing, and the impact. You flood your fist with aether only in the instant before contact, granting it explosive power while protecting the bones. The moment impact is done, you cut the flow. To move quickly, you do not enhance your entire body; you pulse aether into the sole of your foot only as it pushes off the ground. You use magic in flashes, in critical instants, not as a sustained aura."

She turned fully to face him now.

Mitra: "This method results in such minuscule, intermittent aether accumulation that a practitioner can operate for twenty hours or more before approaching the strain of a single hour of standard use. You will collapse from normal physical exhaustion long before you suffer from aetheric myalgia."

Alan shook his head slowly, trying to process the sheer mental and magical dexterity that would require.

Alan: "That sounds... insane. The concentration. The split-second timing. The aether control would be a nightmare."

Mitra: "Precisely," Mayumi said, a hint of challenge in her voice. "The entire purpose of mastering this technique is to forge that control. If you can learn to wield your aether with such pinpoint precision and reflexive timing, mastering the volatility of Lightning magic will become a manageable challenge, not a suicidal gamble. And it is far safer to practice with than lightning. Failure here results in a sore muscle or a bruised ego, not a charred skeleton."

Alan's face cycled through a series of expressions—doubt, calculation, grim determination. He remembered Mitra's reputation as the "Green-Haired Demon" of the training grounds. He knew this would be brutal. But the memory of his powerlessness, the faces of those he'd failed to protect, hardened his resolve.

Alan: "Okay," he said, his voice firming. "I trust you. Even if I can't quite see how being able to enhance myself in bursts for a full day is practical, or how I'm supposed to learn something this... precise."

Mitra: "You are underestimating it," she countered. "Because the aetheric strain is so low, you can safely channel far greater power in each ‘burst’. Standard enhancement multiplies your physical abilities by a factor of two to four. Reactive Enhancement can achieve a multiplier of six to twelve. It is the difference between a steady torch and a lightning bolt." She gestured to the empty space before them. "And you will learn it through relentless, repetitive conditioning until the action becomes reflex—hence the name. You will not think; you will react. Your body will learn the timing before your mind does."

Alan: “OK. So how do I go training for reactive enhancement?”

Mitra: “Well get as soon as—” she was cut off by a loud, boisterous voice.

???:“Hey Mitra! Sorry I'm late!”