Thwack. The log split cleanly into two even halves. Aelric laid another log on the old tree trunk and swung the axe again. Thwack. Another even split. He smiled to himself and laid another log, and on the work went.

Thwack. It was a warm autumn day, and his father's spare tunic that his mother had given him that morning was already soaked through with sweat.

It was as laborious as any of his chores, but he found himself enjoying the precision of the task and the bite of the axe handle against his palms when his blade swung true.

Thwack. He was deep in the rhythm now.

Even though he had arrived at the edge of the forest just after dawn and his muscles ached with every swing, he felt as if he could go on forever.

He raised his axe over his head for another chop just as a voice called out, “Tell me it isn't so! He’s still logging!"

Thwit. The axe chipped the side of the log, sending splinters flying, Aelric dropped the axe to cover his eyes.

There was a burst of laughter. "It's no surprise he's still logging!" said a second voice between the guffaws as Aelric rubbed sawdust from his face. “He can’t even swing an axe right!”

Aelric's heart sank as he recognized the voices and lowered his hands. The three young men were his age, although each was at least a full head shorter and narrower than him.

Lari was the shortest of the three. He was the cobbler's son and had a high-pitched voice that Aelric should have noticed the moment he had piped up, but he had been so intent on his chopping that he'd not heard them come up the path.

The second voice belonged to Tarek, who was inseparable from Lari. Some said they were lovers, but Aelric’s father had told him one of the village secrets. The two boys shared the same father, Elder Keen, who was married to neither of the boys’ mothers.

Apparently, Lari's father hadn't minded, but Tarok, Tarek's home father, threw a big fuss when his wife came clean to him. Maybe it was because the child's arcumen was the lowest in the family, or maybe Tarok was truly upset that his wife had an affair.

To patch things over, Elder Keen had promised the boys their choice of the clearing when they came of age. It was also why they got preferential treatment at school and why Elder Keen snuck them food from the guest table at the village feasts.

Aelric wanted to rub his knowledge of their secret in their faces whenever they made their jeers at him. But today, he didn't even look at them. His focus was all on the third boy who had not yet spoken.

Brint was the tallest of the three and, while he still appeared short and scrawny beside Aelric, he made up for it with a natural handsomeness that even brought young women from as far as Village Holt to call on him.

Brint was their leader—not just of this little pack but of all the boys in the village. Even Yorge, who was meaner than a snapping snake, followed Brint's direction when it came to it. The latest rumor said the elders would announce him as the next chief-in-training at the autumn festival in a few days time.

Brint was why Aelric had no other boys his age as friends.

"How many times do I have to tell you," Brint began with a seemingly warm smile on his face, "I hate it when you stare at me like that."

"What do you want?" Aelric said, keeping his voice neutral even though his pulse had already quickened.

Brint shrugged. "Nothing. We were just passing by."

Neither of them broke away their gazes. A long moment passed before Lari piped up.

"We're heading to the lake," he said, clearly uncomfortable with the silence. "Last chance of the season before the water gets too cold."

That snapped Aelric out of his glare. A swim would be perfect right now to wash away his sweat and soothe his muscles. He wondered if Feyna would be there.

Brint's smile widened, seeming to read his thoughts. "Everyone is going. My father's barbecuing a doe he arrowed earlier this morning."

Aelric didn't know if Brint was telling the truth or not. It had been a difficult season with poor crop yields, and the harvest festival was just a few days away. It was unlikely anyone was giving out food beforehand. But Brint's father was the richest man in the village, especially now that his son's already strong arcumen had fully developed as he reached adulthood. There'd been many rumors of late of Brint's affinity for magic, and each time Aelric heard them, it made his heart sting.

If Brint’s father had slain a doe that morning and was offering it to the village, everyone was sure to go. Including Feyna.

"Well, not everyone,” Brint continued. “Some families still don't have enough firewood to last the winter."

On cue, Lari and Tarek guffawed at the not so subtle insult.

Aelric gritted his teeth, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The other boys and girls would have finished their logging weeks ago. Aelric was nearly done, but, once again, as he had throughout his childhood, he felt a burning at the back of his throat and warmth in his cheeks.

But he did not reply. As his father had taught him, to react with anger was beneath his dignity. And it was exactly what they wanted. Aelric said nothing.

Brint sighed. "I just don't see why Feyna ever entertained being with a boy that can't even cast a chop spell."

Rage rushed into Aelric's veins. The only thing that kept him from rearranging Brint's handsome face was the knowledge that he'd bring shame and further strain to his family's standing in the village.

That, and the fact Brint wasn't within arm's reach. The boy could have him writhing in a spell-bind before Aelric even made it three steps forward.

So, in the end, all he did was glare at Brint with all his hatred. Glared at him until the three lads had walked far down the path and disappeared around the bend. He hadn’t even heard their parting words.

It was not that long ago that Brint had been his friend. His best friend. And now he hated the hunter's son with the fiery passion of a boy wronged and betrayed.

The breaking of their friendship had happened when Feyna had fallen in love with Aelric, for by then, Brint had fallen for Feyna. She had just turned fifteen, and the lanky girl that the two boys played with as children was growing into a stunning feminine youth.

Aelric did not understand why Brint had suddenly turned cold toward him back then. But when that coldness became mockery and scorn, he understood. Brint hated him for receiving Feyna's affections.

But unlike Brint, Aelric had always loved Feyna, ever since the moment she gave him the pink daisy she picked from the grass patch from Instructor Ral’s front yard when they were four years old.

He had few memories of his early years, but this one he could remember as clear as day. How the flower lifted and righted itself until the stem disconnected from its base and floated up before his eyes, petals spinning.

"What are you doing?" Aelric had said to the little girl with the glowing finger.

"It's for you, silly," she had said with a giggle.

They had been together for a year now, both on the verge of becoming full adults. She was even more beautiful now, more lovely than the heroines of the ages. But even if she wasn't, even if she had still been that lanky, boyish girl, he would have loved her all the same.

The thought of her made Brint's words sting all the harder in Aelric's mind.

"Can't even cast a chop spell," he had said.

Aelric frowned and looked at his open palm. "I do know that spell," he muttered. In fact, it was his only spell, a gift from his mother for his fifteenth birthday.

He could remember feeling overjoyed when she gave him the spell talisman. She had gotten it at a bargain during a trade with one of their neighbors who didn’t have use for the thing.

Aelric accepted the gift eagerly and felt a rush of joy as the memories of performing the spell flooded into him from the cold silver-glowing stone. Nondescript memories, no sights or sounds, just the act of performing the spell again and again. It happened in the span of two moments, and then it was done. When he looked at his right hand again, there was a glowing yellow sphere of light that hovered above his raised index finger.

Now the yellow orb haunted him, for it was the only spell he could cast, and it would be the only spell he was likely to ever own.

His eyes drifted to the fallen log that he had chipped with his axe. He pointed at it and shouted, "Chop wood!" For a moment, he stood in horror as nothing seemed to happen despite feeling the trickle of arcana leave his body. But then the yellow sphere floated forward and flashed into a glowing yellow axe.

The axe sprang toward the log, splitting it in two. But the cut was made vertically on a foot-long log that had been lying on its side, leaving the two halves cut short and wide.

Aelric let out a laugh. "Not even as good as my arm and my axe."

The momentary levity woke him to what he had done. "Ma is going to kill me!"

The family was at their wit's end with debts, and his parents had forbidden him to waste a single arca this season. And here he had gone and wasted his entire day’s arcana on a log that he couldn't even bring home.

He hoped that his mother would not notice. It was only two arcas after all, but while other teenagers could waste tabs of arcana in a single day on useless spells, he knew that for his family, two arcas saved was still two arcas of debt repaid.

After taking account of the results of his work, he quickly packed all the well-cut firewood into the pushcart he had arrived with. He found he really had gotten lost in the work and chopped more wood than he had needed to.

With today’s work done, his family would have enough to last the winter.

After he finished loading the cart, Aelric headed home, hoping to make it to the lake in time while the suns were still out and the waters warm.