The forest behind Elderfield wasn't large, but it was ancient.
Twisted trees with gnarled roots stretched like sleeping giants across the mossy floor. The air always felt a bit cooler here, a little thicker, like the woods remembered things the village had forgotten.
This is where Harris Wells began to train.
He didn't tell anyone, of course. Not his foster parents. Not the friendly baker who always gave him extra buns. Not even the neighbor's cat, which seemed far too clever. This was his secret and secrets were power.
Every day, after finishing his chores and homework, Harris would sneak off with a satchel filled with stolen candles, rocks, twigs, and an old broken clock. Not magical tools. Not yet. Just things to help him focus, test, and fail quietly where no one could see.
He called it his "Arcane Garden" a small clearing near the heart of the forest, surrounded by thick trees that kept out wandering eyes and curious animals. He carved symbols into the dirt, made makeshift targets out of bark and rope, and practiced.
And failed.
A lot.
"Lumos," he whispered, and the stick glowed dimmer than before.
"Wingardium Leviosa." The rock floated an inch, then dropped like dead weight.
"Accio stick!" The twig didn't even twitch.
He gritted his teeth, panting, sweat soaking his shirt. His head pounded. A thin line of blood trickled from his nose again.
He sat down hard and wiped it away.
"Not enough… I need more control. More focus."
But he didn't give up.
Over the weeks, the Arcane Garden became his real classroom.
He tested his limits, learning how many spells he could cast before the headaches hit.
He mapped the flow of magic through his body, imagining them like invisible veins that pulsed with energy. If he concentrated, he could feel it a tingle beneath the skin, especially in his fingertips and chest.
He discovered something else, too.
If he meditated quieted his mind and slowed his breathing the headaches came slower. His magic obeyed faster.
He had invented, without knowing, a crude form of magical meditation.
One day, during a particularly still afternoon, he closed his eyes and simply listened.
To the wind through the leaves.
To his heartbeat.
To the hum of something deeper, ancient, like the forest was alive and watching him.
And then… it happened.
A shimmer in the air, a subtle shift.
He opened his eyes and saw it a flicker of gold dancing over his skin, vanishing as quickly as it came.
Magic.
Raw, formless, but there.
He wasn't just casting spells. He was tuning into magic.
And it terrified him.
Not because of what it could do.
But because of what he might become.
"If I go too far," he whispered to the forest, "will I still be me?"
The wind didn't answer.
But deep in the shadows, something moved. Watching. Waiting.
And Harris Wells knew, his journey had truly begun.