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In a dimly lit, ancient mage's study, a young apprentice, Arid, with intense concentration on his face, holds his hand over a stone bowl filled with perfectly still, dark water. Beside the bowl, a small terracotta pot holds a vibrant green sprout, freshly emerged from the soil. An older, stern-faced master mage, Aldemar, watches closely. In the background, near a wooden study door, a cautious female figure, Lysara, observes the scene with a worried expression, partially obscured by shadows. The room is filled with shelves of old books, arcane tools, and dried herbs. Soft, magical light emanates subtly from Arid's hand and the sprouting seed. Fantasy art, highly detailed, dramatic lighting, rich textures, oil painting style.
A scene from my upcoming book:
Aldemar said little about it. He nodded, made a note, and had Arid attempt something more difficult the next day. Only his eyes betrayed him. They kept lingering a fraction too long on Arid’s hands, as if he expected them at any moment to do something other than what they were meant for.
‘Today,’ the master mage said one morning, ‘something different.’
He placed a stone bowl on the table, filled with still, dark water. There wasn't a single ripple on its surface. ‘Hold your hand over it. Not in it. Over it. And make the seed in that pot sprout.’
Arid swallowed. Lysara was standing behind Aldemar, near the study door. She had been assigned to tidy up the herbs—or so she had claimed. She didn't move a muscle, but her gaze said it all: *be careful*.
He closed his eyes. He sought the Vitae—that soft, earthy current—and beckoned to the seed. It worked. He felt it pulsing within the earth; he could almost hear it. When he opened his eyes, a fresh green shoot stood in the pot, and the water in the bowl remained undisturbed.
‘Good,’ Aldemar said. He didn't sound relieved. ‘Again. Faster.’
It happened on the third attempt. Arid was tired; his thoughts were drifting to the courtyard, to Jorvik’s sword spinning through the air, and something inside him shifted aside like a door that had been left ajar for too long. The water in the bowl contracted—a sudden shudder rippling from the rim toward the center.
A second later, Lysara ‘accidentally’ bumped into the table. The bowl slid, water sloshed over the rim, and she mumbled an apology. ‘My sleeve. Sorry, Master.’ She wiped up the water with her sleeve, without looking at Aldemar.
