Chapter 18 The Spell You Never Cast

  The grand lecture hall of Arcanum Hall was quiet. Rows of students sat waiting, eyes fixed on the elevated dais where a single chair and lectern stood. Some fiddled with enchanted pens. Others whispered incantations under their breath. But all went silent the moment the old mage appeared.

  He walked with a staff, not because he needed it, but because it was expected of someone his age and title. Grand Magician Elowen, known across the Five Kingdoms as the Firemind of Fenwhal, didn’t look particularly imposing. His robe was wrinkled. His hair was thinning. His spectacles slid down his nose every time he tilted his head. But when he cleared his throat and raised one hand, the silence deepened. Even the floating lamps above dimmed.

  "I was not born with talent," he began, adjusting his glasses. "And yet, here I am. The youngest Archmage in my day. The founder of three towers. The writer of seven grimoires. The man who once held off a dragon battalion with a ward and an apple."

  A few students chuckled politely.

  He smiled faintly. "You think that’s impressive? Do you think I was special? I wasn’t. I was lazy. Afraid. Good at talking about doing things, but not doing them."

  He tapped his staff once. A memory rune shimmered in the air beside him. It played a hazy image of a much younger Elowen, sitting in a dusty dormitory, surrounded by books and half-scribbled plans.

  "This was me," he said. "I planned. Gods, did I plan... I made charts. Timelines. Lists of spells to master. Lists of books to read. And every night, I’d tell myself, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll begin.’"

  He looked out over the crowd. "But tomorrow doesn’t come."

  He turned and paced slowly. "We live in an age where even thought can shape the world. But there is a poison in this generation. A belief that preparing to act is the same as acting. That reading about fire magic is the same as calling flame. That dreaming of greatness is greatness."

  He stopped again.

  "Doing the work," he said, more quietly now, "is doing the work."

  There was a pause. Then the memory rune changed.

  Now it showed him, older, hands burned, eyes bagged, in a field of ash. Practicing spells until the sun set and rose again.

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  "I broke bones. I lost friends. I failed. Hundreds of times. But every failure taught me something I could never have read."

  He tapped the staff again. "You want to succeed? Do the thing. Cast the spell. Not once. But a thousand times. Burn your fingers. Get it wrong. Then get it right."

  He sauntered down the steps into the crowd, passing stunned students.

  "The work you avoid," he said, "is where your success hides. Behind the missed meals. Behind the ruined shoes. Behind the spells that backfire."

  A student near the front raised a hand nervously. "But Grand Magician, what if we're not good enough yet?"

  He smiled.

  "Then you will become good enough by doing the thing."

  He turned at the bottom of the stairs, his robe trailing behind him.

  "Class dismissed. You may now begin."

  But a few students didn’t rise. One brave soul near the middle row raised a tentative voice. “Grand Magician Elowen, if I may—what if we do the work and still… don’t become great?”

  Elowen turned back, walking slowly toward the center aisle. “You misunderstand,” he said gently. “The goal isn’t to become great. The goal is to do the work. Mastery isn’t a crown—it’s the callused hands of someone who didn’t stop.”

  Another student, clearly more cynical, folded his arms. “But isn’t this all just romanticizing struggle? What if some people just… aren’t meant for this?”

  Elowen gave a knowing smile. “Perhaps they aren’t. But that’s not for the world to decide before the attempt. It’s for the individual. Greatness reveals itself only in the process, not before.”

  A murmur spread through the hall.

  Another hand shot up—a young girl, wide-eyed and serious. “Did you ever want to quit?”

  “Yes,” Elowen said simply. “Many times. I nearly did. But quitting is also a choice. One you must make just as deliberately. And one you will live with.”

  He glanced around the room. “You all want to become mages. But you won’t be mages tomorrow. Not next week. Not even next year. You’ll become mages the moment you stop waiting to feel ready and start doing magic every single day.”

  The students finally began to rise. A few looked shaken. A few inspired. One or two looked like they might cry. But all of them, in their own way, looked changed.

  Elowen stepped back up to the dais, watching them file out.

  Only one student lingered—Marcus, from the back row.

  “Grand Magician,” Marcus asked, “what was the spell you never cast?”

  Elowen paused, then looked down at the boy and said, “It was called ‘Perfection.’ I kept waiting to cast it. Still am.”

  And with that, he turned and vanished in a gust of shimmering light.

  Lately, I’ve been struggling with my creativity. Honestly, I’ve been in a bit of a slump—feeling stuck, unmotivated, and just… not myself. I want to create, I want to be consistent, but for some reason I just couldn’t get myself to start.

  Today was a baby step out of that fog. It’s been months since I uploaded, so here’s one. You can expect at least two more this week. :)

  But seriously—If the first step is the hardest, why do we avoid it the most, even when we know it's the only thing that can save us?