“Try to light the wick,” Elian commanded, pointing to a single unlit candle.

As the candle burned, Elara realized that the gate at home didn't need a spell to lift it. It needed her to understand the weight of the stone, the friction of the hinges, and the strength already in her arms. Magick hadn't given her a new world; it had finally allowed her to see the one she was already standing in.

Elara looked at her hands, which felt stubbornly ordinary. She had come to him seeking the power to move mountains—or at least to move the heavy stone gate of her father’s sheep pen. She wanted the "high magick" described in old tomes—the kind that transformed the practitioner's identity through repetition and symbolism.

A tiny, blue-tinged flame flickered to life. It wasn't a mountain-moving explosion, but it was real.