Pyromancer Kalirath stood at the edge of the Emberfall Academy’s highest tower, watching the sun sink below the horizon in a blaze that mirrored the fire that had once danced so readily at her fingertips. Below, apprentices scurried across the courtyard, their robes fluttering like autumn leaves in the evening breeze. Young mages, still drunk on the power of their first successful spells, unaware of what sacrifice truly meant.
They ask about phases difficult to leave behind, as if all goodbyes are equal.
She extended her hand, fingers splayed against the crimson sky, and felt… nothing. No warmth gathering in her palm, no spark eager to leap from fingertip to air. The familiar tingle that had been her constant companion since childhood remained absent, as it had for the past two years.
How do you explain surrendering your essence? Not by choice, but by necessity. How do you describe the hollow space where magic once lived?
The memories flowed unbidden. She had been the youngest fire mage to join the Conclave in three centuries, her talent burning so bright it drew envy and awe in equal measure. The flames responded to her as naturally as breath – whispering, eager, alive. Fire was not merely her element; it was her voice, her art, her truest self.
Until the Battle of Ravenscrest Pass.
The invading forces had not expected magic users among the kingdom’s defenders. Their shock when the mountain pass erupted in walls of flame gave Kalirath’s side the advantage they desperately needed. For hours, she maintained the blaze, channeling more power than any pyromancer should attempt alone.
Victory came at dawn. The enemy retreated, leaving their dead and wounded behind. The kingdom was saved. The celebrations lasted a week.
And Kalirath felt the first whisper of absence, a sudden chill in her core where warmth had always dwelled.
The healers had a name for it – Magical Atrophy. The burning away of one’s connection to an element through overexertion. Some recovered in months. Some in years. Some never at all.
At first, she denied the reality, attempting increasingly desperate spells, draining herself to summon even the smallest flame. Then came rage that scorched more thoroughly than any fire she had conjured. She lashed out at friends, mentors, anyone who offered sympathy rather than solutions.
The pilgrimage to the sacred volcanoes of the Eastern Realm followed – months spent meditating in scalding hot springs, breathing sulfurous air, pressing her palms against heated stone. Praying for reconnection to an element that had abandoned her.
Depression settled next, a winter more bitter than any natural season. She withdrew to her chambers in the Academy’s north tower, emerging only when the Council insisted she take on teaching duties. What crueler fate for a crippled pyromancer than to guide others in mastering the power she had lost?
Yet somewhere in those darkened months, while watching frightened first-years timidly conjure their first sparks, something shifted.
She looked down at her hands now – still scarred from decades of channeling fire, but steadier than they had been since the Battle. The sunset painted them gold, an echo of the flames they once commanded.
What she had lost was not merely magic, but identity. Purpose. The certainty of her place in the world. Fire had defined her from her first childish spark at age four, through her meteoric rise within the Academy, to her role as the kingdom’s defender.
Learning to exist without it felt like learning to breathe underwater – impossible, suffocating, wrong. Every instinct fought against this new reality.
Yet here I stand.
Below, a young apprentice practiced in the courtyard, face screwed up in concentration as a wobbly orb of flame hovered above his palm. His control was imperfect; the fire sputtered and flared unpredictably. Two years ago, Kalirath would have seen only the flaws in his technique. Now, she noticed his determination, the quick adjustments he made, the triumph in his eyes when the flame stabilized.
She was a different teacher now. More patient. More attentive to the student rather than the spell. The irony did not escape her – she had become a better guide to magic after losing her own.
The sun disappeared completely, leaving behind a sky smeared with fading embers of light. Kalirath turned from the balcony, her quarters dark before her. Once, she would have lit every candle with a casual gesture. Tonight, she reached for flint and steel.
The spark jumped, caught the wick, blossomed into flame. Small. Ordinary. Beautiful.
Some goodbyes are not truly endings, but transformations. The fire that once lived within her now existed in her understanding, in her teaching, in her memory. Different, yes. Lesser, perhaps. But not gone entirely.
As darkness settled over the Academy, Archmage Kalirath – once the Flame of Ravenscrest, now simply Master Teacher – gently closed the balcony doors, leaving yesterday’s ashes behind.
If you like this little story please consider subscribing to my blog so that you don’t miss any new ones. Also you can check out other stories that I have written and are currently writing like Forbidden Bond, a tale about a human falling in love with a Half goblin while being hunted down by fallen angels and evil nobles. Or you can check out Chronicles of the Giantess and follow Valorie the Giantess as she adventures across the land of Calladan. Please feel free to leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think about any of the stories.
Chadwick Rye 
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