Aberfa reclined into the pile of pillows, laying on her side. “What did that sallow jade, that false mother, teach you about the Wyrd?”

“That [Archmage], you mean?” asked Brin.

Aberfa clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“Not much. I didn’t think to ask her about it, and it was a touchy subject with that curse on her arm,” said Brin.

Aberfa laughed in delight. “Oh my! The curse! I’d quite forgotten about that! Did she find it very painful?”

Brin frowned. “Lumina focused on teaching me regular magic. Why would she teach me about the Wyrd? Only [Witches] can use it, right?”

Aberfa stopped smiling. “Is that what you think? That the Wyrd is an alternate branch of magic? I see we must start from the very beginning.” She rolled onto her back and tossed a pillow into the air, catching it again. “Tell me, what is the Class that evolves into [Witch]?”

“There are a lot of those. Too many to count,” said Brin.

She crooked an eyebrow. “[Glasser] is one.”

“How interesting.”

“Did you ever think about why that is?”

“What do you mean?”

Aberfa started counting with her fingers. “[Seamstress], [Laundress], and [Enchantress], as well as [Tinker], [Tailor], and [Candlestick Maker]. Common Classes and Rare. As you said, too many to count. Why can they all advance to [Witch]? What do they all have in common?”

“They can all be held by powerless, spiteful people with no self-control?”

Aberfa threw a pillow at him, and he didn’t react as it bounced off his face. It didn’t help, of course, but he felt a spike of fear and anxiety when it landed. He was a little worried that he might’ve crossed the line and that she wouldn’t teach him any more.

“Try again,” she said.

“The Wyrd. You’re saying that they can all use the Wyrd somehow?”

“Very good,” she smiled, and he felt his worry replaced by a relief, and a faint amount of elation that he’d gotten the answer right. It wasn’t a strong emotion, not even enough to be distracting, but it was there.

The worst part was that he wasn’t totally sure if what he was feeling was foreign, or if some small part of him actually did want her approval. He was 90% sure she was messing with his emotions, but that last 10% was still going to eat at him.

“That can’t be right. How can all of them use the Wyrd?”

“You’re thinking of the Wyrd as some alternate source of power. Maybe you’re imagining us siphoning off energy from demons or great spirits or unknown creatures from the void. No, the Wyrd is not that. The Wyrd is not foreign to you. The Wyrd, simply put, is the soul of magic.”

“Oh is that all? How very helpful,” Brin said, and felt another spike of worry and anxiety. Better this than the good feelings. He didn’t want to get addicted to pleasing her.

“I forgot who I was talking to,” Aberfa said flatly. “You’re just like your father when you get like this. Let me try for a more male-coded definition. The Wyrd is the set of forces and authorities relating to the natural laws regarding precedence, inheritance, dominance, and ownership. Does that make more sense to you?”

“A lot more,” said Brin.

“But it’s not quite as precise as the first definition. It doesn’t encapsulate the whole. No, you must learn that the Wyrd is the soul of magic.”

“I’m seriously lost here.”

“Poor thing. Are you just realizing that now?” she asked condescendingly. “Perhaps a practical demonstration is in order.

She stood and clapped her hands, and the room changed. Now they were back in the Cerqueira glass shop. Everything was just how it had been, except frozen in time. Zilly was just saying something to him while distractedly setting down a glass bowl, partially missing the table. It was starting to fall, and he and Cerqueira both noticed at the same time. The high level [Glasser’s] hand was outstretched to catch his valuable piece of inventory, but of course he was too far away. He’d need to use his glass magic.

Aberfa stepped through the frozen scene, gazing down at each of Brin’s friends in turn before considering the bowl. “So here you are in a [Glasser’s] shop. Let’s examine the obvious elements of the Wyrd at play. First, this place belongs to him; it even has his name on the door. He made this place and the things inside belong to him. He has a strong claim of ownership to this entire store. But what is your claim?”

“I don’t have a claim. It’s obviously his store. I’m a guest.”

“You always have a claim. This is a prominent business on a busy street. The door was unlocked and a welcome sign was hung; you had every right to step inside. More, this place is full of glass, and you’re a [Glasser]. How could anyone refuse your right to come and examine it? I need you to place this thought firmly in your mind: You have every right to be here and to do what you are doing.”

“I don’t see how that helps, but ok,” said Brin.

“It helps because it helps. We can maybe accept that you’re also something of a guest. Yes, we can work with that. Now, I’ve explained his claim and your claim. Who has the best claim to the right to catch the bowl?”

“What? That’s really how it works? That’s so weird.”

Aberfa folded her arms. “I’m not going to make the obvious pun, if that’s what you’re after.”

“We’re talking about laws and claims…” Brin gasped in mock surprise. “[Witch] is a lawyer Class!”

He felt the ringing slap across his face before he saw it coming. It hurt like a lightning strike and made his vision black out for a few seconds. He blinked, feeling heat and a throbbing pain radiate from the left side of his face, but when his vision cleared he saw Aberfa giggling.

“I have to admit that was a little bit funny. But dear? Do not call us that. [Lawyers] are illegal in Arcaena.”

“They don’t need lawyers because they have [Witches],” said Brin.

“Don’t test me.”

Brin shut his mouth, and felt warm satisfaction that he’d made the right choice. He frowned harder.

“We’re going to try this again. I’ll play the part of the [Glasser], using his power to catch the falling bowl. You will rebuff him and attempt to catch it yourself. Begin.”

Brin almost didn’t react when time started moving again and the bowl toppled towards the ground. By the time he reached towards the bowl with his magic, Cerqueira’s hold was firmly in place and it pushed him away. He’d responded even slower than he had in real life.

“Again,” said Aberfa.

This time he was quicker and felt his magic connect with the bowl’s first. Then Cerqueira’s magic pulled his away and grabbed the bowl in his place.

“Again.”

They tried a dozen more times, and Brin failed in twelve different ways. He tried to push more mana into the bowl, tried to reinforce his will with violent intent, tried to leap forward to get closer. Each time, Cerqueira’s magic plucked his away the way that an adult plucks a kitchen knife away from a toddler.

“Think about your right! You must negotiate the Wyrd,” said Aberfa, unhelpfully.

Brin tried and failed a few more times, before she said. “Intent. Focus your intent! Imbue in your magic your argument that it is better that you catch the bowl instead of him. Think for, say, thirty minutes, and we’ll try again.”Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Just like that, the lights went out, leaving Brin swimming in an endless void.

He couldn’t see, feel, or touch anything in any direction. The only sensation was the unsettling feeling that he was falling, somehow. That and a lurching sense of fear at what might happen if the thirty minutes were up and he didn’t have an answer.

So he thought, and despite Aberfa’s aversion to the idea, he thought about it the way that a lawyer would. Your honor, my client has every right to catch that bowl. It’s a public business with open hours and he has every right to come and go as he pleases. Moreover, it’s a glass shop, something my client has a high degree of expertise with. In fact, his advanced knowledge from another planet gives him more authority on the matter than anyone alive. It would be safer for everyone involved if he were the one to catch the bowl.

Would that work? He couldn’t help but imagine the opposing lawyer’s argument. This is highly irregular, your honor. My client owns the store and created that bowl with his own hands–or magic, such as the case may be. He has the right to dictate everything that happens in his store and that bowl is currently in his possession until it has been lawfully purchased and paid for. It’s absolutely his and only his right to catch the bowl.

This was the problem Brin couldn’t think of a foolproof argument for that. He really did think Cerqueira was a little more right here.

My client is a guest in this shop, and that entitles him to a certain amount of consideration. It was his friend who knocked the bowl off the table, so he is entitled, nay, required to be the one to make it right. By disallowing him that privilege, your client is forcing him into a position where he’ll be indebted. This is an inconsiderate way to treat a guest.

He thought that was a solid argument, but he still wasn’t sure if it was enough. His gut feeling was that Cerqueira was still more correct here. Claim against claim, the senior [Glasser] would win. Well, he couldn’t think of anything else. He’d just have to hope it was enough.

For the rest of Brin’s thirty minute time-out, he used [Directed Meditation] to focus on the other side of the issue. He now had his argument, but how was he going to use it? He couldn’t just shout it out loud.

No, she’d told him to focus on his intent. Was it enough to just focus on his argument really hard while casting? He’d gotten an introduction to the way that intent could focus magic while practicing the Language. Using the correct words, while deepening his connection and understanding of those words made his magic a lot more effective. Could he do the same thing while casting without the Language? After all, the Language wasn’t actually empowering his magic, more like it was focusing and refining it.

When his time-out was finished, Aberfa wasted no time resetting the scenario, and the bowl started to fall the instant that the lights came back on. He pulled with his magic, trying to imbue his argument into his intent as much as possible.

For the first time, he felt his magic take hold. He felt his argument clash against Cerqueira’s, and knew at once that Cerqueira still had the greater claim. And yet, it was enough. He pushed his mana in and felt it rebuff the other [Glasser].

The act of catching the bowl drained more mana than he’d expect for such a simple task, but he did it. It was his magic that caught the bowl and set it carefully back on the table. Cerqueira stared at him in wide-eyed surprise, and then disappeared, to be replaced with Aberfa.

“Well done,” she said. She daintily extended one finger and pushed the bowl off the table, and smiled in delight when it shattered on the floor. The real bowl wouldn’t have shattered; it probably wouldn’t even have been scuffed. A good reminder that she was controlling the dream.

Brin shook his head. “I don’t know why that worked. His claim was still stronger. I could feel it.”

“Could you really? That would be very impressive for your first time. I’m sure you were imagining it. But you’re right that his claim was stronger.”

“Why did I catch the bowl, then?”

“Your greater strength bridged the gap,” said Aberfa.

So the judge could be bribed, to extend his metaphor from before. It was only that it cost more depending on how flimsy his case was.

“How often am I going to use this?” asked Brin. “This is literally the first time I ever remember the rules of Wyrd working against me like that.”

“If that’s all you remember, then you are a fool. We will continue.”

The dream blurred again, back to the mini-tournament that Lumina had set up between him, Rodrige, Gill, and Myra right before she’d left town. Aberfa forced him to do the fights all over again, only this time he wasn’t allowed to speak a single word of Language.

As before, he squared off against Gill first, with the whole town watching. Aberfa called for them to begin.

Gill’s hands shot up, and a small forest of saplings erupted from the ground around him. “<Wood Sharpen, Grow, and Toughen. Summon!>”

The crowd gasped at the incredible amount of summoned wood.

Brin followed his strategy from last time and summoned a trio of glass spears, only his spellwork was so slow without the Language that he didn’t have time to launch them before Gill moved into his next attack.

“<Shift and Twist. Grow!>” shouted Gill. His wooden saplings thickened out, writhing like snakes. “<Fly and Seize!>”

Gill’s branches grew forward, streaking towards Brin at breakneck speed. He pushed his spears at them, imbuing them with as much intent as he could think of. He wanted to win. Lumina was watching.

The spears hit the wood and bounced off. Unarmed, the wooden branches slammed into him, ending the match.

Aberfa patiently reset the scenario and made him fight again. He lost again.

Instead of resetting the scenario, they discussed the Wyrd. She pointed out that this was his last lesson with his mother before she’d be leaving on a journey, though in this dream she filled Lumina’s place as “the mother”. She walked through the situation, about how she’d been training him all this time so he had to win to prove he was worth it. How he needed to impress her, to show her he was a worthy successor, to justify the time she’d spent on him. He also deserved to win, based on the sheer amount of time and effort he’d been putting into training his magic.

Then they examined Gill’s claim. His parents were also watching. He was talented, too; a genius. Tied with Rodrige as the best of his generation in wood craft in a town that prized that more than anything. He’d worked hard, too, and his magic was better suited to a short duel like this.

They fought again, and this time when Brin’s spears hit the growing wood, Brin felt the distinct impression that his claim was stronger. Like the original match, he dodged and ran until he got an opening and let the bullets fly. Without the Language, they weren’t fast enough, and Gill dodged in turn.

Brin ran until Gill ran out of mana, and they decided to call it a draw.

Aberfa reset the dream without a word.

Brin fought the same battle again and again, improving each time. Using the Wyrd wasn’t a matter of simply switching out batteries. He needed to change his tactics. Close, direct pressure worked better than ranged attacks, because they were better at pitting will against will. The Wyrd favored wrestling matches, not fencing duels.

Every time he tried and failed, Aberfa grew more disappointed. Irritation turned to fury, and the end of each bout was punctuated by a blast of undirected pain through his whole body, as well as a surge of panic and fear. He found that you couldn’t get tired in dreams, but a sort of mental fatigue set in where he couldn’t think about anything else except how he would do better next time.

In the last duel, he summoned a shield first, and pressing it directly against Gill’s onslaught. His intent gave him better Mana efficiency than Gills. He completely drained the [Woodworker] boy’s Mana without moving his feet, and when he started to summon a glass spear, Aberfa relented and called it his win.

By that time it was morning, and Aberfa gave him a hug and a peck on the forehead. He was so mentally exhausted that he didn’t resist it and took comfort in the much-needed warmth.

Then he woke up.

Through training, you have increased the following attribute:

Will +2