Ascension of Magic

The silence after his conversation with his mother lingered, wrapping itself around Dorian like a thick, heavy fog. Even as the hours passed, even as the sun began its slow descent in the sky, he felt the weight of her words settling in his mind, like a stone sinking into the bottom of a still pond.

"You're not alone in this."

It was an odd comfort, and yet, there was something almost suffocating about it. His mind drifted, fixating on the idea that Elena, his mother—the woman who had taught him about the world, about life, about everything that had ever made sense to him—knew something he didn't. She understood something about magic, and she trusted it in a way that he couldn't quite grasp.

But Dorian couldn't trust the magic. Not yet.

He knew it was there—knew it better than he knew anything else. But trusting it felt like walking a tightrope, suspended high above a chasm with no end in sight. Magic was unpredictable. One moment it might respond to him like a warm breeze; the next, it could turn violent and overwhelming, like a storm that tore through everything in its path.

He was pacing in his room, his bare feet soft against the wooden floor. His fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser, the bookshelves, the window sill. It wasn't that he wanted to touch everything—it was more like a compulsion. As though by connecting with these things around him, he could ground himself, could anchor himself in a world that was starting to feel less and less like the one he knew.

Magic had a voice, a subtle whisper that spoke to him through the things around him. The objects, the air, the earth—it was as if the world had its own language, one Dorian had never been taught but instinctively knew how to hear. He felt it every time he touched something. Felt the hum in the stone, the wood, the fabric—everything held magic, and the longer he stayed in one place, the more it pressed on him.

His eyes wandered to the small bookcase in the corner of the room, filled with volumes on magic. His mother had carefully chosen the books for him over the years, filled with simple lessons on charms, potions, history, and magical creatures. They were all valuable, of course, but Dorian didn't feel like any of them could help him. None of them spoke to what he was experiencing. None of them could explain the way magic pulled at his chest, the way it called to him.

With a quiet sigh, Dorian stepped toward the bookshelf, his fingers brushing over the spines of the books. They were old and well-loved, their leather covers soft from years of use. As he reached for one in particular—his mother's own old textbook on elemental magic—he felt the magic stir again. It was subtle at first, like a soft fluttering against his skin, but then it grew, pressing in on him, wrapping itself around his thoughts. His hand stilled just before his fingers touched the book.

He wasn't imagining it. The magic was real.

Dorian took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as his hand finally wrapped around the book. The moment his fingers touched it, the magic surged again, swirling around him like a gentle wind. He felt a shiver run down his spine, not from fear but from something deeper—something more primal. The book pulsed with energy, alive in a way he hadn't expected.

He yanked his hand away quickly, and the magic dissipated, vanishing into the air with the same quiet swiftness it had arrived.

But his heart was racing. What was that?

The room seemed far too quiet now. The weight of the silence pressed in on him as he sat down on the bed, trying to calm his breathing. It was like he'd just brushed against something far bigger than himself, something vast and unknowable. Magic wasn't just an abstract force that lived in books. It was... alive. It responded to him. It reached out to him. It was as though it recognized him—acknowledged his presence—and waited.

Dorian didn't know what to make of it. Every instinct in him screamed to turn away, to hide from it. It was too much, too overwhelming, and yet...

He reached for the book again, this time more carefully. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat louder than the last. There was something about this—the pulse of magic in the air, the way the book seemed to hum with an energy he couldn't explain. He placed his hand on the book's cover, feeling its warmth. For a moment, nothing happened, and Dorian nearly pulled away in disappointment.

Then, just as before, it stirred. The book's magic thrummed beneath his fingertips, a quiet vibration that made his pulse quicken. He didn't understand it, but that wasn't the most unsettling thing. The most unsettling thing was the feeling he got when he touched it—the feeling that the magic was waiting for something. Waiting for him to act.

He swallowed hard, his mind racing as he let his fingers linger on the cover. He wasn't sure why he felt the pull, but it was undeniable. The book was calling to him in a way that he couldn't explain, and it wasn't just the book. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, as if everything was in tune with his thoughts, his feelings, the beating of his heart. His mind raced with questions.

What am I supposed to do?

But the answer didn't come. All he could do was sit there, fingers resting lightly on the book, feeling the hum of magic thrumming beneath the surface.