Orion’s room was silent, except for the soft scrawl of a quill on parchment. Outside, the afternoon sun waned beyond the narrow windows, painting the walls in hues of gold and lavender; inside, the air felt heavy, as if waiting for thunder to strike.
A tension lingered, and he knew he was close to achieving a workable model.
Every spare surface was covered with notes, diagrams, and half-written equations. He had scarcely slept for the past three days, obsessively conjuring and discarding new theories.
The next lesson with Madame Eira was close, and Orion was determined not to face it with the same unanswered questions.
It would take a long time for him to learn everything there was to know about the phenomenon called magic, but at the very least, he wanted to keep moving forward.
He rose now, stretching limbs stiff with study, and paced around.
After his initial failure to isolate light mana, he returned to the basics, documenting everything he could remember about his experiences with magic and trying to identify patterns.
His first attempt was when he’d prepared the Sapping Brew in secret. That time, he’d achieved great success, with even his mother praising his results as remarkable, and yet she had noted that it wasn’t exactly perfect.
Something had been missing from his vial, and he was finally beginning to understand what.
His second encounter with magic was during a flying lesson. The broom had failed to respond to his calls, leading him to create a formula to mimic its levitation. It finally worked, but only managed to elevate him a few inches.
His third “success” was the leaf he’d picked up in Silverpeak. He’d managed to mend the broken halves, but it wasn’t quite the same as what his mother had done with the cups and table. Again, it was a partial replication, which meant he was missing something.
The last spell he had managed to cast a few days ago was the Torchlight spell. That had been a true success, as he had managed to heal some of his tiredness.
And it had happened because he had been able to incorporate the ambient mana, which was light-aspected, not because he had properly replicated the spell.
There was a singular thread running through these seemingly unconnected experiences.
His purely scientific approach wasn’t in doubt. He knew it was the way to go. But evidently, he’d been arrogant, thinking he already knew everything there was to know.
That just meant he needed to experiment.
Over the next week, Orion worked in cycles of frantic scribbling and exhausted sleep. He catalogued every variable he could imagine, going so far as to incorporate some of the magical theory he’d been reading about to fill the gaps his own understanding couldn’t reach.
While he would have liked to jump on elemental affinities right away, he first needed to ensure that his understanding wasn’t flawed.
Thus, he finally began compiling what he’d discovered into a single corpus, effectively creating the first scientific primer to explain what casting a spell truly meant.
Intent was the clarity of the caster’s desire for phenomena. This was the most basic requirement for a spell to work, and everything he had observed so far indicated that unless there was an active desire for something, no magic could occur.
Knowledge was the caster’s understanding of the phenomenon. He would have thought this was the most important factor, but experience had taught him that one didn’t necessarily need to know what a spell was to cast it.
Still, he was fairly certain that it played a significant role in how “expensive” each spell was. At the very least, the threshold for basic spells was quite low; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to explain how Initiates could cast spells at all, given that they had barely been taught a few prayers and no actual theory.
Energy was the raw mana; it was rather self-explanatory. The Sanctum taught that it was an omnipresent force, describing it as the essence of the World, and Orion interpreted that to mean that mana was an energy field, not unlike an electromagnetic field. Knowledge and Intent interacted with it, resulting in the effect known as “magic.”
Attunement was the ability to interact with mana. The higher it was, the more people could hand-wave away other factors, though he still believed there to be a minimum threshold.
If his burgeoning theory was correct, a caster could have a single point of attunement and still be able to produce magic if they knew every aspect of a spell. This would certainly explain how he was able to be cast as a toddler.
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Lastly, there was one component that had eluded his notice until now, but was impossible to ignore. The affinity factor, which described the specific types of mana necessary for a spell to function properly, was the element that tied everything together.
With the Torchlight spell, it was clear that there had been something missing, but with the benefit of hindsight, he was now putting together the pieces of his previous “failures”.
For the Sapping Brew, mom had the kids spark the fires with a spell, when it would have been faster and easier to use the oil I know she keeps in the Pantry. That probably imparted some properties into the potion that my magnesium fire couldn’t.
The same applied to the broom flight. He had managed, through stubbornness and determination, to create something different: a levitation spell that didn’t require any of the enchantments likely present on the Sanctum’s brooms. However, it was clear that he was missing something, as his flight only lasted a few seconds.
Again, the repair spell his mother used likely had some elemental affinity, possibly a very exotic one. This would explain why he had to give up on replicating it entirely and only succeeded in repairing the leaf through his scientific knowledge, effectively creating a distinct spell. Although it was weaker, it didn’t require elemental affinity.
Thinking about it now, it makes sense that mana, like all energy, can be expressed uniquely under different conditions.
The question was, why? Why did a place like the Sanctum produce a mana field so uniquely attuned to the Light?
If he could answer that, he’d have his solution.
What is Light magic? Observe existing phenomena, draw conclusions, test them, and then you’ll have the Truth.
Orion wouldn’t claim he was close to the answer yet. However, with so many tomes still awaiting him in the library, he thought he might get there sooner than many would expect.
He wasn’t afraid of a little research.
For the next two weeks, Orion spent every other waking moment in the library, reading anything from mythical tales of great witches of the past to dense treatises about the nature of elemental magic.
As he read, he made note of everything that might illuminate the true nature of the element.
He dissected stories, took apart dogma and read through the lines of religious doctrine.
Whenever a High Priestess was noted to have been particularly talented at something, he wrote it down. If a researcher claimed to have figured out the proper chant to invoke a specific magical effect, he didn’t balk at the ridiculousness and instead tore apart lexicon and grammar, seeking to find the kernel of truth hidden in the idiocy.
Ultimately, Orion came to a realization. While the method used by the Sanctum, as well as by most of the Cyril Magocracy, was clearly less precise than his— and he was being generous— it had the advantage of simplifying much of the necessary understanding.
In essence, Knowledge was secondary to intent in the “traditional” casting methods, where it held a dominant position in the one he’d been developing.
If I fully understood the Torchlight spell, I would bet all my possessions on my method creating a superior version. However, it remains true that the traditional approach allows many more people to dip their toes into magic—without spending years, if not decades, learning the basics of physics.
All throughout his fugue, he noticed the librarian kept a weary eye on him. She seemed to have taken a dislike to him, which was unfortunate, because he found her to be one of the few rational people around.
As time went on and his notes became increasingly copious, more witches took notice of his efforts. Some merely smiled at him as if he were a curiosity, while others scoffed upon realizing that he hadn’t been reading sacred histories to develop his faith, but to understand magic better.
Orion kept on working, every day coming closer to understanding.
Once he had finally exhausted himself and what the library offered to an Initiate like him on the theory of Light mana, he went to find his mother in her workshop, cataloging vials.
He had just woken up after another long night of research, during which he finally began consolidating some preliminary conclusions into a single journal.
He still felt that something was missing, and he suspected that without some practical experimentation, he wouldn’t be able to determine what it was. However, since he had a readily available source of information, he decided to make use of her.
The warm glow of morning illuminated her face as she turned to him with a soft smile.
“Mom,” he began, feeling oddly vulnerable, “I’ve been working on something I’d like you to take a look at.”
He laid the journal open before her, thick with equations and marginal notes. She smoothed out his white curls, still tousled from sleep and concentration, and leaned in to read. Her brow flickered with interest as she traced the symbols, the equations, the definitions he’d drawn out of the mess that was traditional magical theory, and the flowcharts.
“This looks very well put together, moonbeam,” she murmured, fingers caressing the pages. “Your work ethic never ceases to amaze me.”
Encouraged, Orion pressed on. “I’ve been developing a model to explain Light mana and how elemental affinities change how spells materialize, all else being equal.” He tapped a diagram showing the interaction between the Spell Variables he’d defined earlier. “This is what I’ve come up with to explain the mechanics of a spell, but I’m still stuck on exactly how to include specific elemental types of mana.”
He met her eyes. “I know the coven teaches that Light mana is the power bestowed upon us by the goddess, but I’ve come up with a model that would define it more precisely.”
Asteria froze. The journal slipped from her fingers. For a breathless moment, Orion thought she would laugh—she had teased him before about his obsession with categorizing things—but instead, her smile grew somber.
“That…” she said, her voice low, “could be considered heresy.”
He frowned. “Heresy? But everyone already knows that different types of mana behave differently? I would just be clarifying exactly how.”
Her gaze turned distant, a flicker of regret in her eyes. “Light mana is not a common energy,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, with more conviction: “It is the gift of the Moon-Mother. Her blood, shed upon the Lunar Sanctum, to protect and nurture her daughters.” She gently picked up the journal, staring at it blankly. “This… Moonbeam, I understand you like to study things in detail. However, you must understand how dangerous it is to share it.”
Orion’s throat tightened. “But—”
She raised a delicate hand. “Promise me you won’t discuss this theory with anyone again—not Selene, not your classmates, and certainly your teachers.” Her tone was firm, leaving no room for debate.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I promise,” he whispered, not really understanding. She closed the journal, her expression hardening.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I recognize your intentions are good. However, there are people who would label you a blasphemer. They would take your work and either destroy it or use it to accuse you of terrible things. Already, whispers have been circulating about your unorthodox methods. I see now that I was too lax… I cannot—will not—allow that to happen to you.”
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he cursed his young body. Orion had been aware he was living in a cult; he had recognized religion would be an obstacle, but his mother’s faith and sense of duty had never clashed so sharply with his logic.
He stood numbly as she walked to the brazier and dropped the book into its fire. Ink curled from the edges as knowledge turned to ash, and smoke spiraled upward.
Asteria placed a hand on his shoulder as the last of his journal burned. “You will understand one day, moonbeam. I’m doing this to protect you.”
He watched the embers die out. Betrayal and fury churned in his chest, but he said nothing. When at last the brazier glowed empty, he snapped to attention. “I understand,” he said, though he did not mean what she thought he did.
He would not abjure.
