Not because he was excited.
Because he couldn’t afford mistakes.
The Grand Academy didn’t grade potential. It didn’t care about dreams or effort. It tested language, logic, and execution. If your syntax was off by a syllable, your spell collapsed. If your modifiers were misaligned, you didn’t cast fire—you called heat without structure, and the backlash burned you.
Haste killed spells.
So he packed like he was building a compiler.
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Two pairs of robes, weather-resistant. Woven with minimal arcane interference.
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Five rolls of parchment, sealed in wax.
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A second wand, shorter, for close-casting—used when hand articulation mattered more than gesture length.
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Rations—measured by caloric value per hour of study, not taste.
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Ink, two grades. Charcoal for draft diagrams.
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A spare lens for sigil alignment, though he didn’t rely on diagrams like most.
Magic, at its core, was language.
The base operator did the heavy lifting—ignis for fire, ventus for wind, tenebrae for shadow—but it was the modifiers that gave them shape, direction, purpose. Words nested within words. Sentences with weight.
He included Lexicon Fracta: A Practical Guide to Magical Syntax and Theoretical Triggers in Reactive Casting, even though they added bulk. If the exam allowed freeform construction, he’d have an edge.
He hesitated at the last item: a small copper charm, bent and wrapped in faded thread. No enchantment. No sigil.
Just a knot his mother had tied the night before she died.
It served no magical purpose.
He packed it anyway.
He left Stillmere before dawn, as planned. No farewell, no audience.
His father didn’t say goodbye. Just handed him a wrapped loaf and a new canteen.
“Eat every day,” he said. “Don’t try to think through hunger.”
That was the closest thing to “I’ll miss you” Orion had ever heard. And honestly, it was more helpful than sentiment.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
He took the food, gave a silent nod, and walked into the morning mist.
The road was longer than expected.
Not physically—he’d mapped the route down to the hour—but mentally.
The repetition wore at the edges of his thoughts. Trees became interchangeable. The sky turned into a blank canvas where syntax floated, rearranged itself, repeated.
He muttered test strings under his breath as he walked.
“Ignis circulum axis uno.”
A controlled flame ring, single axis.
“Ventus minor fluctus decresco.”
Wind—lesser surge, dampened flow.
Each word mattered. The base word cast the spell. The modifiers changed the shape of reality. Getting one out of place wasn’t like mispronouncing a name—it was like crossing wires with live power.
He practiced the sequences in dirt at every stop. Tiny, precise diagrams to reinforce mental parsing. He didn’t need them, not really. But it helped lock the syntax into muscle memory.
On the third night, it rained.
He cast a weather ward around his camp. Not for comfort—he could sleep wet if he had to—but to test control.
“Umbra circulus protego quies.”
Shadow-circle. Protection. Rest-state.
The spell snapped into place cleanly. The rain hissed against the edge and slid off in silence.
He didn’t sleep. But he closed his eyes and let the quiet hold.
He arrived in Lalehan just after noon on the fourth day. Four days early.
The city was alive with movement—horses, carts, guards, banners, noise. Magic hummed in the air. You could feel it in your teeth if you stood still long enough. Students were already crowding the streets: would-be prodigies, third-sons of noble houses, scholarship hopefuls from the east. All of them dressed like they’d already been accepted.
Orion didn’t get lost.
He’d memorized three maps—regional, citywide, and a block-level overlay that let him predict traffic flow near the Academy gates.
He found a modest inn, three blocks away. Quiet. Clean. No frills. He paid for the week and took the smallest room.
Then he got to work.
Each morning, he walked the edge of the Academy’s grounds. Never too close. Just enough to observe.
He tracked guard rotations. Noted where they lingered and where they didn’t. Watched where students gathered, where officials entered. He made mental diagrams of the layout—not for intrusion. For understanding.
He studied spell residue in the stonework. Saw lux anchors etched into benches, anti-glamour wards beneath the entry arches. The Academy wasn’t just a school.
It was an engine.
Every evening, he returned to his room and practiced spell constructions aloud, voice low and steady.
He tested alternate structures.
“Ignis globus—” Fireball.
Then: “Ignis compresso circulus axis terni.”
Compressed fire ring, triple axis.
He corrected his own phrasing mid-cast. Whispered failure points and recompiled. Not with diagrams. Not with instinct.
With language.
He didn’t care about flair. He cared about stability. Optimization.
While others practiced to be seen, Orion practiced to understand.
The night before the exam, he sat by his window with the charm in his hand.
Copper wire. Thread. A single, imperfect knot.
No glyph. No command word. No utility.
But it grounded him.
He closed his eyes and recited his opening structures. Reviewed the syntax trees he’d mapped from memory. Ran through layered constructs, fail-safes, and fallback terminology in case a trigger rebounded.
Outside, laughter echoed faintly from the street. Someone cast a small glamour overhead—light in the shape of a bird, clumsy and bright. It fizzled out after a few seconds.
He didn’t watch it fall.
His focus was internal.
He whispered one last line to the night.
“Lux minor, tenuem, ratio plena.”
Light. Small. Gentle. Complete structure.
A soft glow formed in his palm—nothing flashy. Just exact.
He let it fade, turned the charm once in his fingers, and leaned back.
He didn’t need luck.
He needed to be ready.
And he was.
Above him, the stars above the Academy were clear.