The rumor had spread even before the exercises began.
Five mages.
Five.
And not a single one had managed to cast even the simplest spell.
The accounts varied.
Some spoke of speed.
Others of an unknown technique.
A few even mentioned a kind of pressure … invisible.
But they all agreed on one point.
They had been unable to do anything.
“Amelia didn’t leave them a single opening.”
“They tried, I’m telling you! The flow was there, and then … nothing.”
“And after that, she marked them. All of them. With her rapier.”
A nervous laugh.
Then silence.
“If it had been a real fight…”
No one finished the sentence.
Granddon listened without intervening.
He had missed the previous day’s training session.
He still struggled to understand how a young woman of such refined bearing had obtained such a prestigious position. Many whispered that her uncle, the renowned Dionysos, had used his influence to secure her place within the military ranks.
Yet what had happened the day before was enough to silence those rumors. The recruits, initially skeptical, had quickly realized that the truth was far simpler … and far more humiliating for their pride.
It was not her name that had placed her there.
It was their inability to face her that kept them from admitting it.
♦ ♦ ♦
The courtyard had been rearranged for the trial.
In the still air floated six pale rings, perfectly aligned toward a wooden target set at the far end of the field.
Amelia watched from the stands.
Beside her stood a man dressed in light colors, upright as a statue, his attention fixed on the scene. When they exchanged a few words, it was always in low tones—too low to be heard, yet noticeable all the same.
“Pass through the rings. Strike the target.”
No further instructions.
Amelia’s bow rested near the firing line.
Visible.
Accessible.
Almost provocative.
Some were surprised by it.
Others hesitated.
Reluctant to touch a woman’s weapon …
even more so that of the instructor.
A first mage stepped forward, confident.
He cast a glance toward the stands, seized the bow—
And understood.
His muscles tensed.
His jaw tightened.
The bow bent—barely.
A muffled snicker passed through the ranks.
He forced it.
Managed to draw the string … just enough to humiliate himself with dignity.
He changed strategy.
Magic first.
A sphere of light burst forth—straight, precise.
It passed through one ring.
Then two.
At the third—
it faltered,
if only for an instant.
As though it hesitated to continue existing.
Then it tore apart.
Cleanly.
Without resistance.
As though it had been … rejected.
A few nervous laughs broke out.
“That was just to warm things up,” he said.
No one responded.
The next ones did not dare touch the bow.
Fire.
Ice.
Wave.
Stone.
Wind.
Always the same result.
But this time, Granddon saw something else.
As the spell passed through the fourth ring—
a slight distortion,
almost imperceptible.
The magic was not disappearing.
It was being redirected.
One mage tried to “cheat.”
He cast a spell without aiming.
The fourth ring absorbed it—
but a spark burst from it,
sideways,
deflected,
extinguished instantly.
An uneasy silence followed.
“Impressive,” someone murmured.
“Yes. If you’re trying to kill yourself with magic.”
A few turned their gaze away.
Granddon observed.
This was not a test of power.
Nor even of precision.
It was about reading.
His gaze drifted toward the stands.
Amelia had slightly inclined her head toward the man in white.
He answered without looking at her.
A detail.
An unnecessary one.
And therefore revealing.
Granddon looked away.
Back to the rings.
Constrained flows.
Imposed circulation.
Artificial ruptures.
Not a barrier.
A path.
They were not meant to pass through.
They were meant to reveal how one forced it.
“Hey.”
He flinched slightly.
A mage shot him a half-annoyed, half-mocking look.
“You haven’t tried yet. Your turn.”
Granddon realized he was the last.
He stepped forward.
Took the bow.
Heavier than he had expected.
Not by weight.
By intent.
A snicker rose as he tried to draw the string.
He pulled.
A little.
Too much.
The string resisted.
A stray tension climbed up his arm.
He released immediately.
A faint breath escaped him.
Almost inaudible.
A mistake.
He adjusted.
A glow spread along the wood.
Subtle.
Controlled.
The fire did not burn.
It accompanied.
The bow responded.
The tension gave way.
Without resistance.
As if the weapon simply refused … to be misused.
Silence fell.
Even the mockery stopped.
Granddon inhaled.
Not to focus.
To verify.
Whether his understanding would hold—
or break,
like the others.
He aimed.
The arrow flew.
Without flare.
Without display.
One ring.
Then two.
Then three.
At the fourth—
it wavered.
Only for a moment.
Granddon adjusted.
Barely.
The trajectory stabilized.
Fifth.
A shiver ran through the assembly.
Sixth.
The arrow struck the target.
Not the center.
But it struck.
Silence.
Heavier than before.
In the stands, Amelia inclined her head slightly.
She applauded.
A single gesture.
Precise.
At her side, the man in white allowed himself a faint smile.
As if a hypothesis had just been confirmed.
Granddon slowly released the tension.
Not relieved.
Not proud.
Simply …
aware that he had come close to failure—
and that he understood why.
Profile
Role : Chief mage to the Marquis of Sinevergo
MBTI : ISFP
Race : Human
Advanced, precise, and rich language level, with a comic, pathetic, satirical, and tragic tone.
- Calm
- resourceful
- logical
- obliging
- learned
- Cynical
- deliberately vague
- ironic
- excessively pragmatic
- proud
Granddon is a mage who favors analysis over impulse. Where others seek displays of power, he focuses on understanding structures, balances of power, and long-term consequences. His intelligence does not manifest through spectacle, but through a steady ability to connect facts, anticipate reactions, and identify weaknesses.
He observes before acting, listens before judging, and never commits without first weighing the real costs — human, political, or strategic. This calculated caution can give the impression of cold distance, even cynical detachment, but it stems above all from a refusal of approximation and waste.
Granddon did not choose his master lightly: the Marquis of Sinevergo knows how to reward competence and loyalty, and Granddon understands the value of a power that recognizes merit when he encounters it.
Granddon is neither an idealist nor a blind executor. He accepts authority as long as it follows a rational logic, and he always maintains a degree of intellectual distance. His humor, often dry or tinged with dark irony, is never gratuitous: it serves to defuse the absurd, endure tension, or highlight the incoherence of a situation.
Ultimately, he is a man of measure in a world of excess — aware that survival does not always depend on brute force, but on the clarity with which one chooses when to act… and when to refrain.