I always had a knack for magic, but I abandoned its path many years ago.
When I was young, I'd often linger near the Lacemaker Pond in the North-East. The bitter cold didn't bother me, for I was much too focused on the spectacle that unfolded whenever the sorcerers came to train.
With a flick of the wrist, they stitched ice crystals into the air and embroidered the frozen lake with a web of delicate fissures.
One such eve, an adept I didn't recognize leaned to {sic} fervently into his cast, clumsily tipping the floe below. A novice, I reckon — weaving northern lights across the sky in one moment, and slipping beneath water the next. I stood at the edge of the pond, waiting for him to resurface, but his soaked spellcasting equipment dragged him from the aurora and into the deep. Had the cold night not pulled me away, I'd be waiting still.
