POV - Azra'il
There are errors born of ignorance, errors born of accident, and errors born of stupidity combined with inflated ego. The third variety is by far the most common when one has a twin brother with the mana reserves of an ancient mage and the self-control of a dog that has spotted a squirrel.
But I am getting ahead of events.
The progression had been, objectively, impressive. In a matter of weeks of regular sessions in the loft, Rudeus had advanced from a tentative water droplet to stable spheres of considerable size, maintained without incantation and with a consistency that I was forced to admit, exclusively for my internal records and never aloud, exceeded what I had projected for the timeframe.
〈Eos, comparative analysis of Rudeus's progress relative to the average magic student in this world.〉
[Comparison processed. Given that the average beginner student would require between six months and a year to produce a stable water sphere with incantation, and Rudeus is producing stable spheres without incantation within a matter of weeks, the most conservative classification would be: absurdly above average. The more precise classification would be: unfairly gifted.]
〈He has the mana reserves of a small natural disaster in a body that still occasionally requires a nappy. It follows.〉
I myself had progressed at the speed the limited channels of this body permitted, which was frustrating in the specific way of someone who knows precisely what they are capable of and cannot do it because the flesh refuses to cooperate. The issue was not insufficient reserves. It was the opposite.
〈Eos, current channel status.〉
[Channels operating at 3.2% of available reserve capacity. I recommend not exceeding 5% without medical supervision. Which, let us be candid, does not exist in this world for the category of problem you would encounter.]
〈And if I exceed it?〉
[The channels of a three-year-old body were not designed to conduct the volume of mana accumulated across more than a thousand life cycles. The most accurate analogy would be attempting to pass an ocean through a drinking straw. The straw does not survive the experience.]
〈Then we remain at 3%.〉
[With restrained enthusiasm, yes.]
It was a limitation I had learnt to accept with the philosophical resignation of someone who has dealt with physical restrictions far more humiliating in far less cooperative bodies. Control compensates for volume. It always had.
The problem was that the sphere had ceased to be a challenge.
"The sphere is easy because the mana remains static," I said one afternoon, when the loft light was good and the book had been temporarily retired in favour of practical experimentation. "You maintain the volume, close the peripheral channels, and the shape sustains itself. It is inert."
Rudeus, seated on his usual crate with a perfect sphere floating above his open palm, looked at me with the expression of someone listening but uncertain of where this is heading. "And?"
"The next step is continuous flow." I allowed the sphere I had formed to dissipate with a subtle movement of my fingers. "Unlike the sphere, flow does not permit errors of control. The mana must move in a constant, directional, and calibrated manner simultaneously. One deviation and the spell collapses. Two deviations and you end up soaking wet."
"Or the loft ends up soaking wet," Rudeus added, with the mildly cautious tone of someone beginning to calculate practical consequences.
"Or that." I raised my left hand, opened my fingers slightly, and directed my mana through the channels with the precision of a surgeon operating on a patient who cannot be moved. It was not a matter of elegance. It was pure necessity; any slip in calibration and I would be channelling more than this body could process without protesting in ways I would prefer not to explain to Zenith.
[Mana flow stabilised at 2.8%. Within safe parameters.]
〈Thank you for the constant and mildly suffocating supervision.〉
[You are welcome. It is my favourite function.]
A stream of water emerged from my palm. It was not voluminous, but it was precise, a continuous and controlled thread that I held stable for a few seconds before directing it sideways towards a piece of stale bread that Rudeus had brought up from breakfast, ostensibly for a snack, but primarily because neither of us had managed to bite into it without risking dental damage.
The water thread cut through the bread with the satisfying efficiency of a blade.
The two halves fell to opposite sides of the crate.
〈That worked better than I calculated.〉
[Shall I record this as technical progress or as luck?]
〈Record it as impeccable technique and ask no further questions.〉
Rudeus looked at the two halves of the bread, then at me, then back at the two halves again, with the expression of someone who has witnessed something they very much want to replicate and is calculating how to do so in a more impressive fashion.
I recognised that expression. It never preceded anything good.
"My turn," he said, with the slightly too-wide smile of someone who has already decided what they are going to do before finishing the sentence.
"Remember what I said about calibration—"
"Yes, yes." He had already raised his hand with the ease of someone fully convinced they are about to produce something more precise, more elegant, and definitively more impressive than what I had demonstrated.
〈Eos.〉
[I am already calculating the potential damage radius. I recommend stepping back half a metre.]
〈I am not stepping back. That would be admitting I have expectations.〉
[You have expectations.]
〈I do. But I shall not admit it.〉
What Rudeus had planned was, presumably, a water jet more precise and more powerful than mine. What he produced was the hydraulic interpretation of what happens when someone with the mana reserves of a meteorological event attempts precision work with no regard whatsoever for the concept of calibration. The stream that emerged from his hand was approximately seven times the volume of mine, charged with the enthusiastic energy of a child who wanted to impress and had opened the channels with all the subtlety of a floodgate.
It did not cut through the bread.
It went through the bread, through the wooden crate behind the bread, through the old loft wall with a damp and thoroughly satisfying crash, and opened a hole the size of an adult's head in the wall, allowing a thread of daylight to enter in a manner that had been entirely unplanned.
The silence that followed was the specific kind that occurs when damage has already been done and the brain is processing the full scope of the consequences.
Rudeus lowered his hand slowly. He looked at the hole. He looked at my expression. He looked back at the hole as though a second inspection might alter the physical reality of what had occurred.
"I used too much mana," he said, with the intonation of a conclusion arriving too late to be of any use.
"Precise observation," I said. "A pity it arrived after the hole."
[Alert: footsteps on the staircase. Two sets. Pattern of quick, medium weight combined with heavy weight. The progenitors are coming up.]
〈How long?〉
[Approximately thirty seconds. Shall I suggest a communication strategy?]
〈I already have one.〉
The interval between the crash and the loft door opening with the urgency of parents who have heard something explode on the floor above was approximately forty-five seconds, which was, objectively, swift for adults operating on standard mortal locomotion.
Zenith entered first, her eyes already scanning the room in damage-assessment mode before she had even completed the movement of opening the door. Paul entered half a second behind her with his hand on the hilt of the sword he carried by swordsman's reflex, which was a reasonable instinct that served absolutely no practical purpose in this particular situation.
The hole in the wall was difficult to ignore, given that it was letting in a draught.
"What happened here?" said Paul, in the voice of someone asking the question as a formality, having already formed an opinion.
They both looked at us. I was seated on my usual crate with my customary upright posture, hands in my lap, expression neutral. Rudeus was standing approximately one metre in front of me, with the hand that had produced the disaster still slightly extended in the air, pointing in the direction of the hole with the silent condemnation of physics.
Rudeus looked at me.
I looked back at him.
He opened his mouth to say something.
"I warned him," I said, with the solemn gravity of a witness giving testimony in court. I raised my left hand and produced a controlled, elegant water sphere. "I said it clearly: calibration, Rudeus. Control the flow, Rudeus. Do not open all the channels at once, Rudeus." I allowed the sphere to dissipate and looked at the hole with the mournful expression of someone who deeply laments an outcome they tried to prevent. "He did not listen. The hole is the result of a unilateral decision made in complete disregard of my counsel."
The silence that followed had a very particular texture.
Rudeus was looking at me with the expression of someone who has just been thrown under a moving cart and is still processing the speed at which it happened. "You—" he began, then stopped, then began again with the voice of someone unable to decide between indignation and involuntary admiration. "You betrayed me."
"I reported the facts with precision," I said, with the clinical innocence of someone genuinely baffled by the accusation.
"You betrayed me with precision."
"If you prefer to frame it that way."
"TRAITOR—"
"Rudeus." Zenith's voice was not raised, but it carried that particular tone that functions as a physical wall for any conversation in progress. She was looking at both of us, then at the hole, then back at us, with an expression that took me a moment to classify. "The two of you were practising magic. Alone. Up here in the loft."
It was not a question, so I did not respond.
Rudeus, with the instinct of someone who recognises the situation has grown larger than the argument with his sister, adopted a mildly defensive posture. "We were only experimenting—"
"You were practising magic without supervision," said Paul, in the voice of someone cataloguing problems in order of gravity. He had moved closer to the hole and was examining the extent of the damage with the expression of a man calculating repair costs. "At two years old."
"Three," Rudeus corrected automatically, then closed his mouth when he realised that was not the most strategic correction of the moment.
Zenith had drawn closer to the two of us with an expression I finally managed to identify: it was the look of a mage recognising technique in another person.
"How long have you been doing this?" she asked.
"A few weeks," I said, with the small, mildly abashed voice of a child who knows she has done something forbidden but is genuinely sorry for it. Which was, for the internal record, an impeccable performance.
[Your vital signs indicate zero remorse.]
〈Thank you, Eos. Most helpful.〉
"And you," Zenith looked at Rudeus with the same gentle danger, "learnt from your sister?"
Rudeus shot me a glance that communicated clearly that he was weighing his available responses and none of them were good. "She... helped," he said at last, with the caution of someone choosing each word as though defusing something.
"He progressed very quickly," I said, with the genuine pride of an elder sister. "I was impressed. He simply gets a little carried away at times."
Rudeus looked at me.
I looked back at him with the most serene expression in my repertoire.
"You," he said, in the very quiet voice of someone at the very edge of composure, "are unbelievable."
"I am trying to help."
"You are burying me."
"I am presenting the facts in a balanced manner."
[For the second time in ten minutes, the intention data contradicts the verbal statement.]
〈For the second time in ten minutes, the intention data may keep itself to itself.〉
Zenith looked from one to the other with the expression of a woman simultaneously trying not to smile and trying to decide whether to be angry. Then she looked at Paul, who was still with his back to them all, examining the hole with the dedication of someone who preferred not to process the rest of the situation just yet.
"Paul," she said, in the voice of someone who has already arrived at a conclusion and is merely notifying the other adult in the room. "Our children are prodigies."
Paul looked at the hole.
"One of them put a hole in the wall," he said.
"And both of them taught themselves magic at the age of three," Zenith added, with the firmness of someone presenting both sides of the argument and already knowing which side prevails. "They need a magic tutor, Paul."
Paul's expression moved through several territories in quick succession. He looked at Rudeus, then at me, then at the hole, then back at Zenith, with the air of a man facing a battle he has already lost but has not yet formally conceded.
"We had agreed," said Paul, in the careful tone of someone invoking a prior arrangement as a shield, "that if we had children, the boy would learn the sword and the girl would learn magic."
"That was before we discovered that both our children taught themselves magic without incantation and demolished our loft," said Zenith, with the unshakeable composure of someone who considers her husband's argument a charming starting point, but an irrelevant one.
"Precisely for that reason." Paul crossed his arms with the posture of someone about to explain something they consider obvious. "Rudeus is a man. A man needs to know how to fight, to protect his family, to hold a sword when the need arises. Magic is..." he gestured vaguely, "support. Rearguard. It is for those who think, not for those who advance."
"You are describing my former profession," said Zenith, with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
Paul opened his mouth. Closed it. Chose a different angle. "I am not saying a woman cannot fight. I have been on the receiving end of enough female swordsmen to know perfectly well that she can." A brief pause suggestive of specific and mildly traumatic memories. "But an intelligent woman uses her head. Magic is real power, Zenith. Support, healing, battlefield control. It is where a woman truly shines."
"How generous of you," said Zenith.
"I don't want to learn the sword," Rudeus repeated, with the direct conviction of someone who has considered and discarded that option. "I want to learn magic."
"A man who only knows magic protects no one when the magic runs out—"
"The magic doesn't run out if you're good enough," said Rudeus, with the straightforward logic of someone who considers that a complete refutation.
Paul opened his mouth. Zenith looked at him. He closed it, but then opened it again to continue arguing with Rudeus and Zenith together.
The debate continued for a period I classified mentally as considerably longer than necessary, given that the conclusion had been evident from the outset. Paul returned to the argument of the warrior, the protector, the masculine responsibility to advance whilst the rearguard provides cover. Zenith presented arguments about natural talent and the hole in the wall as evidence that reality had overtaken the original plan. Rudeus repeated that he wanted to learn magic, with the consistency of an instrument playing the same note without variation.
I observed.
When the debate entered its third circular repetition, I ran out of patience with the same gentleness with which a stone loses interest in floating.
"Why not both?" I said, with the direct simplicity of a child who does not understand why the adults are complicating something obvious. I looked at Paul with the most innocent blue eyes in my repertoire. "Father knows the sword and also knows how to fight in other ways, doesn't he? Why can we not learn both as well?"
The silence that followed was the kind that occurs when an argument too simple to rebut lands squarely because there is no way to counter it without appearing unreasonable.
Paul looked at me. Then at Rudeus. Then back at me with the expression of someone who had prepared to argue with his wife and his son and had not calculated the possibility of being undone by his three-year-old daughter using plain logic.
〈Eos.〉
[Sometimes the most effective strike is the simplest. Noted with moderate admiration.]
"She's right," said Rudeus, with the enthusiasm of someone who has found an unexpected ally.
"She's right," echoed Zenith, with the satisfaction of someone who had known as much for the past twenty minutes.
Paul looked at the hole. Looked at me. Looked at Rudeus. Exhaled through his nose with the resignation of a man who recognises when the field has been lost before he fully understood how.
"I am going to Roa in a few days," he said at last, in the tone of someone announcing a decision that is technically also a surrender. "I shall put out an advertisement for a magic tutor."
Zenith smiled.
Rudeus raised his fist with a satisfaction he did not bother to conceal.
I said nothing. I turned my head slightly towards the hole in the wall, calculating the volume of water that had passed through it, and concluded that Rudeus had used approximately five times more mana than necessary for the intended effect.
The irony was that had I opened my own channels without restriction by an equivalent fraction of what he had used, the loft would not have a hole in it. It would have ceased to exist as an architectural concept.
〈Eos.〉
[Yes?]
〈Add "flow control under emotional pressure" to the specimen's list of priority development areas.〉
[Added. Shall I also note that you considered mentioning to Paul that you have led entire armies using exclusively offensive magic in at least forty-seven documented lives, but chose not to?]
〈It would have seemed arrogant.〉
[It would have been entirely true.]
〈Also that. But it would still have seemed arrogant.〉