“How about if we find you a new transformation catalyst?” asked Artyom.

  Rotte looked down at the table and mumbled out an affirmative. The previous excitement he showed was nowhere on his face anymore, likely because of where their discussion went, Artyom thought.

  “Alright, getting a catalyst isn’t an easy process, and acquiring a brand new one is even more challenging because you have to forget something that’s become second nature to you. Let’s start at the beginning then.”

  Rotte and the audience looked on as Artyom walked over to one of the garden’s many decorations, a wrought iron brazier standing on top of a thick pedestal, and began dragging it back to the table. He then placed a nearby log inside and ignited it.

  “The easiest way to transform raw magic into an element is by using a large amount of that element if it’s nearby,” said Artyom, sliding back into his chair. “You don’t even have to try, just throw in raw magic and-”

  The flame leaped up two feet as he placed a hand to it.

  “Your turn.”

  Rotte turned towards the fire and extended out both of his hands towards it. He could feel the warmth on his skin, pushing away the chill of the early morning sea breeze that swept across the yard. It felt… calming.

  “Now pour some of your magical energy into the flames. Just like casting a fire spell, but don’t think about anything and just pour that magic out.”

  Rotte, to his credit, was able to keep his mind blank as he went through the practiced motion. He usually practiced his fire spells away from anyone else in case he might harm them, so he was used to only casting in peace. But with everyone sitting right behind him and collectively staring a hole in the back of his head, he wasn’t able to invoke those familiar emotions as easily.

  All to his benefit, as after a moment, the flames shot up by a foot.

  The audience and even Rotte were caught off guard and leaned back in surprise.

  “Nice!” exclaimed Artyom. “Can you feel the warmth of the flames? How your magic just melts into it and becomes part of the flame? Now point your hands away from the fire, towards the empty field, and channel your magic again. Try to mix in the warmth from that fire into it.”

  The young teenager nodded and followed Artyom’s instructions. But this time he had to actually think, actually feel. Even if it was just feeling the flames with the nerves on his skin instead of his heart, he found that both actions were surprisingly similar.

  He focused on the feeling of warmth from the flame, its licks and wisps spitting out from the cast iron bars, throwing uneven waves of heat into the air. After he made it rise, the heat still hadn’t entirely died down, and its warmth was beginning to border on discomfort.

  “Alright, warmth,” Rotte whispered to himself. “Put that warmth into my magic.”

  The old flame reminded him of playing in the garden with the other kids at sunset, before it got dark enough for Sister Elery to call them all back inside for dinner. It was a comforting memory.

  This new fire brought him back to the worst day of his life.

  The whole village was aflame. Corpses littered the street. Soldiers wearing armor as black as the brazier, laughing at the death they’d wrought.

  “Raaah!” shouted Rotte as he unleashed a ball of flame that flew to the end of the garden before hitting an empty patch of dirt.

  The audience in the back began to clap at the showing, snapping the older boy out of his memories. He looked up at Artyom, hoping he’d nod along so they could just continue along. That’s what everyone who saw his magic did, easily impressed by the rare and exotic ability, just nod and clap along while calling him powerful. But he wasn’t powerful enough to save anyone. That’s why he agreed to Artyom teaching him.

  Instead, the older man just slowly shook his head.

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  “What? Didn’t I do what you asked me to?”

  “You didn’t use the brazier to transform your magic,” said Artyom. “And besides, I know what your kind of pain sounds like.”

  Rotte froze. “I-I’ll try again.”

  “Before you do,” said Artyom. “How long did you try to focus on the flames here before you switched to your way?”

  “Well… I tried to, but…” Rotte began, before feeling his mind and tongue suddenly ten pounds heavier. He tried to work his mind for words, but they gave his tongue nothing to say, not that they would be able to get anything out anyway.

  Frustration was beginning to build. Even with Artyom looking like he would happily sit there for the rest of the day and even night, Rotte was losing patience with himself.

  He quickly hit his limit and shot up to his feet and began to walk back to the manor. The looks of the audience met him, filled with confusion and disappointment, and Rotte faced the floor as he continued on.

  Sister Elery got up and ran towards him, but whatever words she could say wouldn’t be able to ease the maelstrom of emotions roiling within Rotte. Frustration, rage, shame, fear. All of them cycling around, feeding off of each other, and giving way to another before Rotte could even fully comprehend one of them. He’d just sleep it off, and hope it was gone in the morning. It was what he normally did.

  But rather than Sister Elery reaching him first, a sturdy hand fell onto Rotte’s shoulder.

  “Hold on, who said we were done with your lesson?” asked Artyom in a calm yet teasing voice.

  Rotte wanted to shake it off, turn around and snap back at his flippant attitude when so many horrors existed in the world, but he couldn’t. Not because of the strength of the grip. No, it was the sense of calm suddenly flowing through him.

  His previous thoughts were still there, pushing back against the new emotion in a roiling tidal wave. But the calmness shifted in time with his original emotions, turning into just the right type of balm to soothe each one. Frustration was met with a feeling of patience, rage with placidity, shame with acceptance and fear with courage.

  The storm within Rotte’s heart began to quickly calm. A constantly shifting weight grew lighter, until it felt like a feather blown on a light breeze.

  “How did you-” began the older boy.

  Artyom just returned a knowing smile. “Want to try again?”

  Rotte nodded, and slowly walked over back to the table. As he got ready to sit back down, he felt his knees buckle and drop him into the chair with a soft thud.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking and how you felt while looking into the fire. I know you were feeling a lot of things then.”

  Rotte nodded. “The warmth reminded me of everyone here, playing with them and how nice this place is. But when the flame grew, it got too hot, and it reminded me of…”

  Artyom placed a hand on his shoulder again, quickly snapping him out of the forming flashback. “That was a pretty warm feeling, right? The first one.”

  Rotte nodded.

  “Try and think about that again, your friends here and how much they matter to you. The warmth of their laughter and their own happiness mixing with yours.”

  Rotte closed his eyes and let himself go back to those recent memories, guided by the hand still on his shoulder.

  “You care about them too, don’t you?”

  Another nod.

  “You want to use your magic to keep them safe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now pour those feelings into your magic, and channel it into your hand.”

  Rotte did as asked.

  Nothing happened for the longest moment, and despite that, everyone in the audience stared at the two in silence.

  And then…

  A flicker of light illuminated the garden, even in the face of the morning sun.

  “There you have it, a new transformation catalyst,” said Artyom with a smile.

  Rotte opened his eyes and looked at his hand, and the flame sitting inside. The magic was familiar, and so too was the element held inside, yet it felt lighter. The burden he had to bring forth to summon it, the pain he traded for power, was no more. In its place, a lighter memory shined bright and carried him instead.

  Artyom couldn’t help but feel his own eyes begin to glisten as Rotte’s began to mist over. “Magic is a thing of beauty. Our kind wields it to do what’s right, to protect those we care about. We might have our burdens, but our power should be used to carve out a better future, not to linger on the past.”

  Sister Elery slowly got up from her spot on the audience and walked over to the two. “Thank you,” she whispered to Artyom, more just mouthing the words as to not interrupt the moment.

  Artyom flashed her a smile. “If you’ve got another half an hour, I was hoping to teach Rotte what I actually came here for; how to actually use his magic.”

  Rotte turned to look at his caretaker with pleading eyes, in complete contrast from the hardened look he’d given the hero’s party the day before.

  Sister Elery was caught off guard by the sudden shift, and didn’t have it in her to refuse. She instead turned around towards the rest of the audience, and saw the other children with their eyes closed shut with smiles on their faces, or holding out their hands trying to will something into them. “I don’t think any of us would mind another lesson!”