Low-Fantasy Occultist

Three granite chunks spun through the air, circling Tim’s shoulders in a tight ring. He let his breathing slow, anchoring his focus on their momentum. He fed a steady stream of mana into [Speed Up], and the rocks blurred into a gray ring, whining as they raced around the practice room with enough force to carve through men like butter.

A year ago, before coming to the Tower, this would have been beyond him. Now he exhaled and overlaid his second layer of magic.

Gray vapor seeped from his boots, rolling across the scorched flagstones—a lingering scar from the demonic invasion that had nearly broken the Tower and that the Archmages had decided to leave as a lesson that even here, they were not safe. The mist filled the room, carrying [Mental Prison] with it and layered with [Slow] and [Fear].

Tim held the layered spells for three full minutes as sweat stung his eyes. It was twenty seconds longer than he’d managed last week, but he wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

His unruly brown hair plastered to his forehead. He severed the mana flow, letting the rocks clatter to the floor and the mist evaporate into the ventilation shafts.

He wiped his brow with the hem of his tunic and checked his status.