The room smelled faintly of salt.

  Lucas sat at the small table near the window, turning a simple stone between his fingers. Outside, the resort was sinking into twilight, the horizon painted in deep reds and warm oranges.

  Elizabeth lounged across from him, one boot kicked up on the chair, idly flipping through a battered magazine she had stolen from the spa lobby.

  "So," she said without looking up, "how was your little lesson with Circe?"

  Lucas smirked slightly, setting the stone down.

  "She tried to toss me into the deep end of illusion creation, then dared me to fail while smiling the entire time."

  Elizabeth finally gnced up, one eyebrow raised. "Sounds about right."

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

  "And you?" he asked, genuinely curious.

  Elizabeth gave him a look so ft it was practically an art form.

  "What else is a girl meant to do at a spa resort?" she deadpanned.

  Lucas chuckled, shaking his head.

  "Must be nice," he muttered.

  Elizabeth grinned, flipping another page zily. "If you get bored pretending to be a magician, you can always come get a seaweed wrap."

  He ughed quietly, feeling the tension of the past day finally bleeding off his shoulders.

  It felt good, having her here.

  ...

  The training ground was empty when Lucas arrived.

  Circe stood at the far end, her robe the color of deep forest moss, hands folded neatly behind her back.

  She wasted no time.

  "Magic," she said crisply, "is not a cage. It is not a chain of words you bind yourself with."

  She waved a hand, and shimmering images appeared in the air: threads weaving themselves into complex patterns, spells fring into existence before colpsing into dust.

  "You have treated it like architecture, rigid, stale" she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard.

  Lucas listened carefully, saying nothing yet.

  "Real magic," Circe continued, "is painting with the soul. It is a dialogue with the world itself. The Mist does not obey rules. It obeys strength of will. Vision. Imagination."

  She turned, her golden gaze slicing into him.

  "You must stop asking 'what should I do?' and start asking 'what do I want to create?'"

  Lucas frowned slightly, thoughtful.

  "And wards? Potions?" he asked.

  Circe gave a rare, almost approving nod.

  "They are different. They require structure. Ingredients. Recipes. Alchemy demands precision. But Mist weaving, illusion crafting, spirit manipution... these are art, not science."

  She let that linger for a moment.

  "You have learned structure: wards, potions, minor spells. That is the frame.Now, you will learn to shape the world itself."

  ...

  One Month.

  Lucas knelt in the center of the training courtyard, the stones cool against his palms. The Mist pulsed faintly around him, waiting. Breathing slow and even, he shaped it not with force but with memory: the distant cshes of steel, the warmth of fire, the smell of wild flowers. Before him, the courtyard shifted. A familiar campfire appeared before Lucas, the one he sat at to avoid Capture the Fg. Circe watched from the shadows, her arms crossed, saying nothing. Approval was measured in silence.

  ...

  Three Months.

  Sitting cross-legged on the training floor, Lucas closed his eyes and stretched his awareness outward. An attendant sat across from him, arms folded, suspicious. He reached not for her mind, but for the threads around her spirit, tension, fatigue, low irritation. Gently, he tugged at them, easing the tension without forcing it. When the attendant sighed and shifted to a more rexed pose, Lucas smiled to himself. Spirit manipution was not about domination. It was about suggestion.

  ...

  Four Months.

  Lucas stood inside a ring, focusing on a different ring across the yard. Distance meant nothing, control was what he was after. Mist wrapped itself around him, cool and alive. He stepped, and the world folded for a heartbeat. He reappeared a few meters away, stumbling slightly but upright. Mist travel was taxing, dangerous if overreached, but he grinned through the dizziness. Close.

  ...

  Ten Months

  Lucas faced Circe, she was standing with her guard down as ease. He cast his spell, the winds picked up swirling around them like a tornado, but there was no real strength behind these winds, merely fpping her clothes.

  Circe frowned, unknowingly disappointed, but then the second effect came, colourful confetti appeared within the winds reflecting the light and drawing Circe's gaze, a brief sound around her like the ughter of a joker. Circe turned towards Lucas yet saw nothing but a fleeting shadow. The ughs echoed all around, unpredictable shadows dancing around her. Lucas appeared within this chaos, behind her, sweat dripping.

  "Illusions, Weather manipution and Subtle Spirit Manipution, a good start"

  Something changed within Circes gaze.

  ...

  The sun hung low, bleeding gold across the courtyard.

  Lucas stood alone on the bck stone floor, the sea breeze whispering through the open arches.

  Circe watched from the edge of the training ground, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.

  No instructions today. No summoned illusions. No sharpened words.

  "You are finished," she said.

  Her voice held no triumph, no warmth. Only the truth.

  "Hecate asked me to prepare you. I have done so."

  To be honest he was far better then she let on, he wielded the mist almost as good as her, he no longer needed incantations, apart from ck of experience and some necessary combat, Lucas was a true master of magic.

  Lucas bowed his head, a gesture of respect, not submission.

  Circe's mouth quirked in something like the ghost of a smile.

  The final lesson ended with no grand ceremony, no words of farewell.

  Lucas turned and walked from the courtyard without looking back.

  Lucas arrived at the dock, the scent of salt and damp wood rising to meet him. His boat bobbed gently against the worn posts, just as he had left it; though not untouched. During his months at Circe's isnd, he had returned quietly between lessons, yering new wards into the vessel's hull, refining the enchantments with his growing mastery.

  Now, the boat practically hummed with protective magic, its frame wrapped in invisible sigils of concealment, resilience, and silence. Lucas smiled faintly.

  Combined with his greater control of the mist and broader knowledge of magic. When the time came to bypass Scyl again, he would not rely on hope. He had no doubt he could slip past the ancient terror without so much as a ripple.