The Light Beyond The Rift

She found herself seated in Lorran's personal study a space that, to her surprise, was a far cry from the grandeur of the Scryer's Hall. Instead, it carried an understated elegance. 

The room felt akin to a library carved from dark wood, with towering shelves brimming with ancient tomes and scrolls. A faint scent of aged parchment and polished oak lingered in the air, lending warmth to its scholarly atmosphere. 

A single window on the far wall let in soft, natural light, its glow accentuating the intricate carvings in the woodwork—one rune for each element, subtly worked into the design. At the centre of the room stood a simple yet finely crafted desk, its surface tidy, save for a few scattered scrolls and an inkpot with a feathered quill resting beside it. 

The furnishings were modest: the sturdy chair where Aileen now sat, a low table with a flickering lantern, and a single armchair near the window. Everything suggested a space for reflection and study rather than display. 

As Aileen's gaze wandered, she found an unexpected sense of comfort amidst the books and stillness—even as her nerves flared at what was to come. 

"One's sanctum should be an extension of oneself, don't you agree, Miss Lobhdain?" Lorran's calm, measured voice broke the silence as he entered the room, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of surprise on Aileen's face as she took in the modest room. 

"I—uhm—" Aileen stammered, her words catching in her throat. The unexpectedness of being called to his study, combined with her embarrassment at failing to conceal her astonishment, left her struggling to respond. She cast her gaze downward, hoping to shield herself under the weight of his knowing gaze. 

He observed her struggle for words, his sharp eyes softening ever so slightly. He turned toward the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of ancient tomes with practiced familiarity. 

"You needn't be nervous, Miss Lobhdain," he said, his voice even. "I imagine you're wondering why I called you here so promptly. It is not often I divert from the order of things, but exceptions... they can be necessary." 

Before she could form a reply, a sudden, overwhelming thrumming sensation surged through her senses, just as it had in the Scryer's Hall. The sound was not merely heard—it was felt, a deep vibration that seemed to resonate within her very bones. Her hands shot up to cover her ears, her eyes squeezing shut in reflex as the sensation intensified, drowning out the room around her. It was as if the very air had turned against her, pressing down with an invisible weight, making her heart race and her head spin. 

Her breath quickened, each beat of the thrum a pulse of chaos that threatened to overwhelm her. Panic clawed at the edges of her mind, but just as suddenly as it had come, the sensation ceased. A silence so sharp it felt like a physical absence replaced it, leaving her gasping as though she had surfaced from deep water. 

She hesitated, her trembling hands slowly lowering from her ears. Blinking, she opened her eyes to find Lorran watching her, his expression no longer one of detached authority but of sharp curiosity. His silver eyes seemed to pierce through her, searching for answers she did not yet know she held. 

"Just like your mother," he murmured, his voice soft, tinged with childlike wonder. He tilted his head slightly, as though examining her from a new angle. 

"My mother...?" She muttered, her voice trembling as she struggled to recover from the overwhelming sensation that had just assaulted her senses. 

His expression inscrutable, Lorran turned to one of the towering bookshelves lining his study. With deliberate care, he selected a tome, its dark leather cover worn with age. Opening it, he removed a single, fragile page and handed it to her. The paper was yellowed and brittle, its surface filled with meticulously penned accounts from various mages. Each entry, centuries apart, detailed a strange, painful sensation—one strikingly similar to what she had just experienced—describing the thrumming that overwhelmed them when they were the target of a magical spell. 

Each account ended with the mage's signature and the date they had documented their experience. Her eyes skimmed the entries, her heart pounding as she absorbed the information. But when her gaze fell upon the final entry, her breath caught in her throat. 

The signature at the bottom of the last account was unmistakable. 

Alanna Lobhdain – The twenty-second day of Moonspell, in the year 1488. 

"Those who possess this gift—if it can even be called that—describe it as a double-edged sword," he began, his tone measured. "When a spell is cast against them—no, even the mere thought of using a magical attack—triggers a response. Their body reacts instinctively, overwhelming their mind with warnings... albeit excessively so. 

"Your mother described it as feeling ripples in the air, created by the magic before it was even cast. When those ripples reached her Aegis, she could sense her opponent's intent and the spell's direction." 

Lorran paused, his gaze sharp. "However, the stronger the ripple, the harsher the shock. "His eyes fixed on her, as if gauging her reaction to this revelation. 

Aileen's mind swirled with questions, each one giving rise to more. Why were there only twelve names listed, even though one of the first dated back as far as the year 101? Why had she never experienced this phenomenon before now? 

As she studied the page more closely, a chilling realization struck her—all the names belonged to either powerful, renowned magicians and some who she had never heard of before. 

She stared at the page, hands trembling, the weight of its implications pressing down on her chest like an iron vise. 

Aileen looked up, her amber eyes meeting Lorran's steady gaze. "What does this mean for me?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended but laced with urgency. "Am I... destined to be like them?" 

He leaned back slightly, his silver hair catching the soft glow of the lantern on the desk. His expression remained calm, though his piercing gaze seemed to study every nuance of her question. "What this means, Miss Lobhdain," he began, his voice steady and deliberate, "is that you possess an extraordinary burden... and an equally extraordinary potential." 

She felt a chill run down her spine as he continued. "This gift, as some have called it, is not static. It can be honed. According to these accounts, those who bear it can, through discipline and training, learn to dull its shock and transform it into a refined edge. The stronger you grow as a magician, the sharper and more useful this sensitivity becomes." 

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if choosing his next words with care. "You see, this sensitivity isn't merely a warning system. With mastery, it evolves. It becomes a tool, allowing you to detect more than just the intent of an attack. You could perceive the nature of the spell itself—its composition, direction, even the emotional state of the caster." 

Her breath caught. The idea of sensing her opponent's intentions before they even cast a spell was both thrilling and terrifying. She leaned forward, her fingers tightening around the page. "And if I can't control it?" she asked hesitantly. "What happens then?" 

For the first time, Lorran's expression hardened, the faintest shadow passing over his face. "If you cannot control it, the gift will control you," he said, his tone grave. "It will remain the double-edged sword it is now, cutting you down as easily as it cuts down your enemies. There have been those who never learned to master it, Miss Lobhdain. 

The accounts tell of magicians who were crippled by the power, unable to withstand the shock to their heightened senses, causing them to abandon magic altogether." 

Her heart sank at his words, a knot of dread twisting in her stomach. "Crippled?" she echoed, her voice trembling. 

He inclined his head, the faintest flicker of empathy softening his otherwise stern demeanour. "Yes. But you must understand, you are not alone in this. That is why you are here. The accounts also speak of those who not only mastered their gift but used it to achieve greatness. Their knowledge lives on, their tomes entrusted to the great Librarium after their passing." 

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "You have inherited something rare, Miss Lobhdain, but that does not mean you must bear it alone. The Guild exists to guide you, to ensure that your gift becomes a strength rather than a weakness." 

Her mind reeled, torn between the enormity of the challenge ahead and the tantalizing potential of what she could achieve. She clutched the page tighter, her gaze drifting to her mother's signature at the bottom. A new question burned in her mind. "Did my mother... master it?" 

Lorran hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he answered. "Your mother was one of the most remarkable magicians the guild has had in over 300 years and one of the finest I've had the privilege of teaching. She honed her gift to a degree that made her a force to be reckoned with...but talent often comes with sacrifice." 

"What sacrifice?" She pressed, her voice tinged with desperation. 

He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back as his gaze drifted toward the window. "That is a tale for another time," his tone measured but firm. 

"For now, your focus must remain on the path ahead. Your life will be fraught with challenges, Miss Lobhdain—challenges far beyond what most mages will ever encounter. Few will understand what you endure, and fewer still will offer you sympathy." 

She felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach, a wave of uncertainty and gloom washing over her. The weight of Lorran's words settled heavily on her, her unease must have been evident judging by the subtle shift in Lorran's expression as he regarded her. 

The old mage reached into his robe, withdrawing an azure coloured, tear-shaped crystal, its surface glinting like polished quartz. He extended it toward her, his gaze steady and probing. "Do you know what this crystal is, Miss Lobhdain?" Lorran asked, his tone carrying a note of curiosity. 

"I—it's an aura crystal. It can locate traces of magic and identify the source and type of magic present in an area or within individuals." 

"Correct," Lorran affirmed, placing the crystal gently on the desk before her. As it left his grasp, the crystal shimmered and quickly turned a pristine white. "Aura crystals are indispensable in our work. Inquisitors use them to detect traces of magical usage at crime scenes so that they can find the culprit, while we, as magicians, rely on them to determine a person's elemental affinity—a cornerstone of their training." 

"Do you understand why determining one's aura before training is so vital?" His tone was inquisitive, making her wonder if the test had already begun. 

"B-because" Aileen stammered, gripping the armrests of her chair tightly, "a person might waste years trying to learn every affinity of magic... or worse, they might not even be able to wield magic at all, and—" 

The weight of her words struck her like a blow. Her chest tightened as panic clawed its way up her throat. What if she couldn't wield magic? What if this journey, this dream, had all been for nothing? Her vision blurred as her head began to spin, her breaths coming shallow and uneven. 

"And those with no affinity for an elemental magic are then assigned to become supports or join an organisation." He added gently, his voice softening as he noticed the growing distress on her face. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his presence grounding her panic. "Your mother is a great inquisitor and a powerful mage. Her legacy runs strong in you—I can feel it," his tone steady and full of conviction. 

Her breathing steadied under Lorran's firm but reassuring gaze. His words, though comforting, only added to the weight of expectation. She looked down at the aura crystal, its surface catching the moonlight like a small beacon of hope. 

He took a step back, his hand retreating to clasp behind his back once more. "Let us proceed, Miss Lobhdain," he said, nodding toward the crystal. "Pick it up. Focus on it. Let your thoughts, your emotions, your very essence connect with the crystal. It will reveal the element you resonate with, your magical affinity." 

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out. The crystal felt cool against her palms, its surface smooth yet strangely alive, as if it pulsed faintly with its own energy. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply attempting to steady her thoughts. 

The room seemed to hold its breath, the faint rustle of wind beyond the walls vanishing into an unnatural silence. Aileen's pulse pounded in her ears, her mind a storm of doubt and fear. 

What if it stayed white? 

What if she truly had no affinity? 

What if— 

A memory surged forth, cutting through her panic like a blade. Her mother's midnight-black hair, her eyes—mirrors of Aileen's own—shimmering with love. It had been the day her mother left on her mission, the day Aileen made her promise: to become a powerful mage and stand beside her as an inquisitor. 

Her mother had knelt beside her, pressed a precious necklace into her hands, and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her voice had been soft, her words tinged with an unshakable melancholy. 

"I can't wait. Hold onto it for me till then." 

Even then, Aileen had sensed something—an unspoken fear in her mother's voice, as if she had known she wouldn't be coming back. 

Determination flooded through Aileen. She would find her. 

Aileen's eyes snapped open just as the crystal pulsed to life. Its colour twisted and swirled, the surface humming with energy before erupting into a blinding yellow light. 

Lorran instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, while Aileen, transfixed, watched as shapes and symbols flickered across the crystal's surface, shifting too quickly to grasp. Then, just as suddenly, the light flickered out, leaving the crystal stark white once more. 

"What happened? Why did it stop glowing?" She asked, bewildered. 

Lorran lowered his hand from his face, his sharp, discerning eyes fixed intently on Aileen. His expression, usually so composed and unreadable, betrayed a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps even concern. "In all my years," he said slowly, his voice tinged with both intrigue and caution, "I have never witnessed an aura crystal shine so brightly, nor turn that particular colour only to revert back to white. This is... unusual. We must try again." 

She nodded hesitantly, her hands trembling slightly as Lorran retrieved another, albeit smaller crystal from his desk. He handed it to her with deliberate care, watching her every move. "Focus," he instructed. "Let your thoughts flow into it. Let it feel you." 

As she grasped the new crystal and closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she channelled her focus once more. But unlike the first time, nothing happened. The crystal remained inert, its surface stubbornly white and unresponsive. 

Undeterred, Lorran retrieved two more crystals of varying sizes and shapes. Each time, he repeated his instructions, and each time, Aileen poured her emotions and energy into the crystal, willing it to react. Yet, like the second, they both remained untouched—white and still. 

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his thoughts, Lorran took the final crystal from her hands, placing it carefully back onto the desk. He turned to face her, his gaze heavy with contemplation. "I am sorry," he said at last, his tone softer than before. "It would seem that the first reaction was... an anomaly." 

Her chest tightened as a whirlwind of emotions surged within her—disappointment, confusion, fear. She clenched her fists to steady herself. "What does this mean?" she asked, her voice trembling. 

His expression grew solemn, though not devoid of compassion. He reached out, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. His voice, when he finally spoke, was measured but heavy with regret. "I must inform you, Aileen—you do not possess an affinity for any of the four elemental magics and for that, I am truly sorry."