Schillian's heart raced with excitement as he returned to his secret spot in the woods, the fire spell still fresh in his mind.
I can do this, he thought, his pulse quickening.
He raised his hand, the same way Koran had done. The Aether pulsed, responding to his intent, but it was difficult to hold onto.
Compress, condense, create.
A flicker of flame appeared in his palm. For a brief moment, Schillian felt the magic take form.
It was real. He had done it.
But his triumph quickly turned to panic as the fire flickered too wildly. He had no idea how to control it.
He flailed, trying to hold it in place, but the flame grew—growing out of control.
"Wait—how do I stop this?!" Schillian shouted, his heart pounding.
His mind raced as the fire spread, and instinctively, he aimed his hand at the ground.
Release!
BOOM!
The explosion knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground. The earth around him was scorched black. His ears rang, his body aching.
Before he could even scream, everything went black.
When Schillian regained consciousness, he was back in the inn, he feel intense pain from burns and bruises. His parents stood nearby, worry etched on their faces.
"Schillian!" his mother cried, her voice trembling. "What were you thinking? You could have been killed!"
His father, more composed but still furious, crossed his arms and glared down at him. "Magic is not a toy. Do you understand how dangerous this was?"
Schillian could only look down in shame. But deep inside, the spark of his achievement remained.
He had cast a spell.
And no amount of scolding could take that away.