The following morning, Leth headed for the patchy village green. He folded his coat twice, kicked aside a few stones, and dropped his coat on the dew-moistened ground.

Leth sat cross-legged on his coat and twisted the ring on his left little finger, before spiralling his mind outwards into the aether surrounding him. Leth likened the process to viewing the same problem from a different angle, similar to turning a chess board around and playing his turn from the other side: same game, same rules, but new possibilities became apparent.

He observed the ebb and flow of swirling energy. The quantity of magic floating about was staggering, passing clouds and ribbons of light tinged with colour, as if they’d travelled through stained glass. The beauty and elegance of the lapping currents distracted him.

Leth picked up a coarse, palm-sized stone from the ground. With his belt-knife, he scratched a spiral onto the stone’s surface then threw the marked rock towards the centre of the green. He nudged the smallest visible strand of power towards the stone; magic coiled around it as the air above his rough-hewn focus stone eddied in vigorous, random patterns.

I’m not sure I can control that much power, I’ve never seen that much gathering in one place before. Leth traced the shape he wanted the energy to take, creating thin, white, frond-like strands above the focus. Sod it, what’s the point in being a Drýmann if I can’t blow things up from time to time? Leth attached his pattern to the inner part of the etched spiral with a gentle, mental nudge.

The collected power surged along his delicate tracing, lighting up the morning air with a bright flash. Forked lightning thrashed within the whirling air, whipping up crumbling clods of earth, and jagged grass fragments, while the focus itself remained eerily steadfast amongst the maelstrom. A bolt of brilliant light struck the heart of his tempestuous construct. The air went dead. Small bits of earth and gravel pattered onto the grass. Leth let out a low whistle.

Feeling apprehensive, Leth approached the large hole he’d made. The focus had split: two halves lay either side of a yawning crater lined with scorched soil, four feet across and twice as deep. He tried to think about what it meant rather than the wreckage he’d caused, but the hole was massive. His face shifted from a grin, to panic, and back again. Leth circled the crater as he considered the merits of blowing up another rock to collapse the sides of the first crater, thereby disposing of the evidence.

A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. Leth froze mid-stride.

“Good morning, Letholdus,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“…Morning, Sir,” said Leth.