Chadwick Rye

When they spoke of Faelan Windrush at the Azurian Academy, it was always with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. “Brilliant but scattered,” instructors would sigh, watching him dash between classes, spellbooks tumbling from overstuffed satchels, his copper hair perpetually resembling a nest recently vacated by particularly energetic birds.

The morning light filtered through stained glass windows in Master Quinzi’s Advanced Spirit Communion class, painting the ancient stone floor with fragments of sapphire and emerald. Sixteen students sat in perfect meditation posture along the circular chamber’s perimeter – fifteen breathing in disciplined unison, and Faelan, whose knee bounced with restless energy as his eyes darted between the meditation crystal at the room’s center and the ornate timekeeper on the wall.

“Apprentice Windrush,” Master Quinzi’s voice, though barely above a whisper, cut through the chamber’s stillness like a blade. “Your mind travels the nine realms while your body remains untethered to the present moment.”

Heat bloomed across Faelan’s cheeks. “Apologies, Master. I was merely… calculating the optimal resonance patterns for this afternoon’s enchantment practicum.”

The elderly woman’s eyes, milky with cataracts yet somehow seeing more clearly than any other instructor at the Academy, settled on him with uncomfortable precision. “And that is precisely why the spirits refuse your call, young one. They do not answer those already preoccupied with what comes next.”

Around him, several students suppressed smiles. Particularly Sorenna Nightvale, whose spirit affinity had manifested at the unprecedented age of nine, and who now maintained a flawless connection to no fewer than seven ancestral guides.

“For tomorrow,” Master Quinzi continued, addressing the entire class but keeping her unsettling gaze fixed on Faelan, “a new assignment. Each of you will identify one small element of your daily practice that undermines your communion with the spirit realm. You will make one precise, intentional improvement to this aspect and document the results.” Her ancient fingers, knotted like old tree roots, gestured toward the door. “Dismissed.”

Faelan gathered his belongings with customary haste, several quills clattering to the stone floor as he crammed books into his already overstuffed satchel.

“Perhaps your improvement could be investing in a larger bag,” Sorenna remarked as she glided past, her movements as fluid and deliberate as her meditation practice. “Or possibly learning to exist in just one moment at a time.”

He forced a smile, though her words stung with the particular sharpness of uncomfortable truths. “And perhaps yours could be developing a personality beyond perfect adherence to Academy protocols.”

Sorenna’s eyebrows arched slightly, but she continued without retort, her silver-embroidered robes swishing with elegant precision against the flagstones.

Outside in the courtyard, autumn painted the Academy grounds in amber and crimson. Ancient willows trailed their golden fingers in reflection pools where senior students practiced water divination. Faelan cut across the central gardens, mind already racing ahead to his next three classes, mentally reviewing enchantment formulas while simultaneously planning revisions to his thesis on crystalline amplification theory.

“Woah!” A solid form collided with him as he rounded a hedge corner, sending papers scattering like startled birds.

“Gods and spirits, Faelan. Do you ever actually look where you’re going?” Hemlock Briar, the Academy’s master herbalist and Faelan’s long-suffering friend since childhood, shook his head as he bent to collect fallen documents.

“Sorry, Hem. Bit distracted.”

“You don’t say.” Hemlock handed back the papers, his earth-stained fingers leaving faint impressions on the parchment. “Where are you rushing to now?”

“Enchantment practicum, followed by elemental theory, then I promised Archivists Morrow I’d help catalog the new acquisitions from the Eastern Temples, then—”

“Faelan.” Hemlock placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, momentarily anchoring him to the present. “When was the last time you ate?”

The question brought Faelan to a rare moment of complete stillness as he genuinely couldn’t recall. “Breakfast… I think?”

“Yesterday’s breakfast, I’d wager.” Hemlock sighed. “Listen, I’ve just harvested fresh cloudberries from the southern gardens. I’m making tea in my workshop before evening rounds. Come by? The berries boost mnemonic function – might help with whatever maelstrom of projects is currently occupying that brilliant, chaotic mind of yours.”

Faelan nodded absently, already calculating whether he could spare twenty minutes between his commitments. “I’ll try.” He glanced at the Academy’s central tower, where the timekeeper’s golden hands showed he had precisely three minutes to cross the grounds before being marked tardy. “I really must—”

“Go,” Hemlock finished with a resigned smile. “As always.”

—

Evening found Faelan in his quarters, surrounded by stacks of research materials, half-finished enchantment projects, and numerous cups of cold tea he’d begun but forgotten to finish. Three candles burned at different heights around the room, marking the progression of hours he’d spent attempting—and failing—to establish any semblance of spirit communion.

Master Quinzi’s assignment haunted him. *One small improvement*. Such a deceptively simple task, yet where would he even begin? His mind kept circling back to Sorenna’s cutting observation. *Learning to exist in just one moment at a time*.

A sharp tap at his window startled him from his thoughts. A small mechanical sparrow – one of his earlier inventions – hovered outside, its copper wings beating with enchanted persistence. When he opened the window, it flew to his desk and deposited a small package wrapped in leaves before powering down.

Inside was a cloth sachet filled with dried cloudberries and a note in Hemlock’s earthy scrawl: *Since the mountain wouldn’t come to Hemlock. Steep for precisely three minutes. No more, no less. And for once in your life, Faelan, just drink the tea without doing anything else. -H*

A smile tugged at Faelan’s lips as he filled his kettle and set it over the small enchanted heating stone beside his desk. The gentle glow of warming magic illuminated the scattered research materials, casting long shadows across theories and formulations that suddenly seemed less urgent than they had moments before.

When the water reached perfect temperature, Faelan carefully measured the berries into his favorite cup – a gift from his grandmother, swirled with patterns of constellations that shifted slightly when filled with hot liquid. As the berries began to steep, he reached instinctively for his notes on spirit communion.

*Just drink the tea without doing anything else.*

Hemlock’s instructions echoed in his mind, giving him pause. With deliberate effort, Faelan set his notes aside, positioned his chair toward the window where the first stars were appearing in the twilight sky, and simply… waited.

Three minutes had never felt so eternal. His fingers itched for something to hold, to write, to calculate. His mind generated and discarded at least seven new approaches to his spirit communion challenges. His left foot began to tap rhythmically against the wooden floor.

When the appropriate time had passed, he removed the sachet and raised the cup to his lips. The aroma of cloudberries filled his senses – sweet and somehow reminiscent of morning mist over mountain lakes. Rather than drinking immediately, he found himself inhaling the steam, allowing the scent to transport him to memories of summer harvests in his home village.

The first sip spread warmth through his chest. The second brought a subtle tingling to his fingertips – the berries’ mnemonic properties beginning to take effect. By the third sip, Faelan realized something extraordinary was happening: he was doing nothing but drinking tea.

No calculating. No planning. No mentally reviewing tomorrow’s schedule or redesigning failed enchantment matrices. Just… present. Aware of the weight of the cup in his hands, the complex flavors unfolding on his tongue, the sound of distant laughter floating up from the courtyard below.

For the first time in recent memory, Faelan Windrush existed fully in a single moment.

When the cup was empty, he sat in the lingering stillness, watching the constellation patterns swirl and settle in the remaining droplets. A curious lightness had settled over him – not the frantic energy that typically drove him from task to task, but something quieter and more substantial.

*One small improvement.*

With sudden clarity, Faelan understood exactly what undermined his spirit communion practices. The spirits didn’t require grand gestures or complex rituals. They required presence – complete and undivided attention to the moment at hand.

Moving to his meditation cushion with uncharacteristic deliberation, Faelan assumed the proper posture and closed his eyes. Instead of reaching outward with his consciousness as he’d been trained, he simply settled into his own breath. One inhalation. One exhalation. Nothing else demanding attention.

In the stillness between breaths, he felt it – the faintest brush against his consciousness, like fingers lightly touching the surface of still water. Not the dramatic manifestation he’d been striving for, but something far more profound: a spirit, responding to his presence.

“Hello,” he whispered, maintaining the delicate balance of awareness without grasping.

No words came in response, but a sensation washed through him – acknowledgment, curiosity, and something like amusement. For thirty heartbeats, Faelan maintained the connection, until the effort of his unfamiliar focus caused the presence to fade like mist before sunrise.

When he opened his eyes, the room appeared unchanged, yet everything felt different. He reached for his journal and wrote a single sentence for Master Quinzi’s assignment:

*My improvement: Three minutes of absolute presence while drinking tea before each attempt at communion.*

—

Two weeks later, Master Quinzi moved between her students, reviewing their documented improvements with thoughtful nods or occasional questioning hums. When she reached Faelan, her clouded eyes somehow found his with uncanny precision.

“Apprentice Windrush,” she said, voice carrying just far enough for his ears alone. “I understand you’ve established contact with an ancestral guide from the Autumn Court.”

Faelan nodded, a gesture she couldn’t possibly see yet somehow perceived. “Yes, Master. Nothing substantial yet – brief connections, impressions rather than conversations.”

“And your improvement?”

He touched the small sachet of cloudberries in his pocket – Hemlock now prepared a fresh batch for him each week. “Just… three minutes of tea. Complete presence. Nothing else.”

The ancient master’s face creased with a smile rarely witnessed by Academy students. “The smallest gates often open to the largest gardens, young Windrush.” She patted his shoulder with surprising strength. “Continue this practice. The spirits have endless patience for those who finally learn to meet them in the present moment.”

As she moved to the next student, Faelan caught Sorenna watching him with an expression of genuine curiosity rather than her usual condescension. He offered a small smile, which she returned with a slight nod of acknowledgment.

That evening, as golden light painted the Academy towers in sunset fire, Faelan sat at his window with his constellation cup. Steam rose in lazy spirals as he watched a pair of sparrows build a nest in the ancient willow outside. His spellbooks remained closed, his research notes neatly stacked but untouched.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and discoveries. For now, there was just this moment – the warmth of the cup, the fading light on ancient stones, and the profound magic that exists in the stillness between breaths.