The soft glow of the lamp outside his door cast elongated shadows across Malrik's small room. He lay in bed, seemingly lost in the depths of sleep, but his senses, subtly enhanced by the low hum of mana within him, registered every creak of the floorboards, every distant cough from the servant's quarters. He knew their routines, the times they checked on him – a brief glance through the cracked door, a quiet moment of listening. It was enough.
His hand closed around the object hidden beneath his thin blanket. It was a small, unassuming piece of wood, dark and gnarled, pulsing with a faint, inherent warmth. The 'Trinklet', as he mentally labeled it, was a relic of the Lodge's deeper history, a piece of naturally mana-infused wood that resonated with sympathetic energies. He hadn't found it; he had felt it, buried amongst forgotten things in the dusty attic during one of his solitary explorations. Conventional mages would likely dismiss it as little more than a curiosity, lacking a core to channel its potential. But Malrik didn't need to channel; he needed to absorb and influence.
With silent, precise movements, he sat up. The air in the room felt still, heavy, a stark contrast to the chaotic energies he knew were raging outside the Lodge walls. The news of the Demon King's war was a constant, low thrum beneath his thoughts, a reminder of the stakes. His quiet, hidden training wasn't enough anymore. He needed to accelerate. He needed to test the boundaries of his physical endurance and his internal mana control against actual threats. And for that, he needed to disappear without being missed.
Focusing inward, Malrik reached for the reservoir of mana he had painstakingly accumulated within his body. It flowed, a silent, obedient current, into his hand, surrounding the wooden Trinklet. He didn't attempt to shape the mana in the traditional sense, no complex incantations or visible gestures. Instead, he guided it, merging his internal energy signature with the wood's natural resonance. It was a process akin to tuning an instrument, finding the precise frequency that allowed his will to influence the wood's form.
Slowly, impossibly, the dark wood began to soften, to flow like thick tar under the invisible pressure of the mana and Malrik's focused intent. He visualized himself – his slight frame, the curve of his spine, the angle of his head when asleep. It was taxing, demanding a level of fine control he was still mastering. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool night air. The mana responded, weaving and reforming the wood, drawing in ambient energy from the room to supplement the Trinklet's core.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. The wood pulsed and solidified, taking on a semblance of flesh and bone. It wasn't perfect, the texture still slightly too smooth, the color a touch too uniform, but in the dim light and seen from a distance, it would pass. He focused his will again, this time directing a small, controlled pulse of mana into the core of the wooden figure. It wouldn't grant it consciousness, but it would mimic the shallow, rhythmic breathing of sleep.
(Internal Monologue: A crude imitation, but sufficient. Kaelen and the servants are not trained mages; they rely on sight and sound. A still form in a bed, breathing softly... it will buy me time. Time to learn, time to grow strong. Every minute I spend refining this body, testing my limits, is a minute stolen from their watchful eyes. This is not deception for its own sake; it is a necessary investment in my future. Their war is a distraction from the true conflict – the struggle for power in a world ruled by brute force.)
He gently lifted the wooden figure, surprisingly light, and placed it carefully in his bed, pulling the blanket up to cover its lower body and leaving only the head and shoulders visible, positioned as he usually slept. He adjusted a stray piece of the blanket, ensuring the profile looked natural in the dim light. It felt surreal, looking at this silent doppelganger, a testament to a power they didn't understand, a power that bypassed their meticulously crafted magical laws.
With his absence masked, Malrik moved silently to the window. It was latched from the inside, a simple precaution. A focused surge of mana against the mechanism, not to break it but to subtly stress the metal at a molecular level, caused the latch to yield with a soft click. He eased the window open, the cool night air carrying the scent of damp earth and pine.
He slipped out, landing silently on the soft ground below. The Lodge loomed behind him, a symbol of his gilded cage. Ahead lay the Whisperwood, dark, ancient, and alive with unseen energies. His few meager tools – the stone shard, the cordage, the 'borrowed' knife – felt inadequate, almost comical, against the backdrop of a world at war and a forest rumored to harbor corrupted things.
Entering the treeline felt like stepping into another realm. The air grew colder, thicker with mana – not the scattered, ambient energy of the Lodge grounds, but something deeper, wilder, laced with the ancient power of the forest itself and the subtle taint of dark magic that had seeped over the mountains. His internal mana reserves stirred, resonating with the external energy like a tuning fork.
(Internal: This is different. Richer. And... heavier. The whispers aren't just wind through leaves. Something ancient stirs here, something the war has perhaps awakened or agitated. Good. More power to draw upon. More challenges to face.)
He moved slowly, deliberately, his senses extended. The night was a symphony of hidden sounds – the rustle of unseen creatures, the snap of twigs that weren't beneath his feet, the distant hoot of an owl that sounded less like a bird and more like a mournful cry. His eyes, adapted to the dim light by a subtle internal mana push, scanned the tangled undergrowth. He felt exposed, vulnerable, his frail body a stark contrast to the raw power swirling around him.
(Internal: They trained me to be unseen, unheard. Now I must train myself to survive when I am found. This body is weak, a liability. Mana offers resilience, but it will not deliver a killing blow or sustain a long fight on its own. I need muscle. I need speed. I need to learn the instincts they tried to suppress.)
He moved deeper, drawn by the promise of power and the gnawing urgency that the war instilled. He wasn't hunting for sport or survival in the conventional sense. He was hunting for strength. The creatures of the Whisperwood weren't just prey; they were sparring partners in a brutal, solitary training regimen.
A low growl, unlike any animal he had ever heard, echoed from the darkness ahead. It was guttural, laced with a faint, unpleasant magical signature. His internal mana flared instinctively, heightening his awareness. He froze, melting into the shadow of a massive oak.
(Internal: First contact. Don't react, observe. What is it? How does it move? What are its weaknesses? My physical strength is negligible. I must rely on evasion, precision, and my internal power. Can I manipulate the mana around it? Distract it? Weaken it?)
Through the leaves, he saw movement. A hunched form, too large for a wolf, too low to the ground for a bear. Its eyes, reflecting the faint moonlight, burned with an unnatural, greenish light. It sniffed the air, head twitching, its growl intensifying. It was clearly corrupted, twisted by the dark energies leaking from the Demon Lands.
(Internal: It's hunting. And I am in its territory. Good. This is exactly what I need. A real threat. A real test.)
He gripped the small knife, the cool metal a grounding presence in the swirling, chaotic mana of the forest. His heart pounded, a primal rhythm against the silent control he imposed on his body and the mana within it. The creature took a step forward, its corrupted form outlined against the darkness.
The hunt had begun. Not a simple pursuit of prey, but a desperate, dangerous apprenticeship between a boy with a hidden power and the brutal realities of a world descending into chaos. His wooden double slept soundly back at the Lodge, a silent promise of his return, while Malrik stepped fully into the role he was forging for himself – a predator learning to hunt in the shadows, unseen and underestimated, preparing for a conflict far greater than the one currently consuming the world.