I’ve never seen a dwarf with such a spectacular “resting grump face” as Master Borduk Ironbraid. He’s got this long, silvery beard tied in about ten knots, bushy eyebrows that practically form a unibrow, and a scowl so deep it could double as a pickaxe groove. My dad told me Borduk was “the best in the village” when it came to magical training—he just forgot to mention that “the best” also equated to “the grumpiest.”
Anyway, Dad dragged me (I’m Gromli Flintfoot, in case anyone’s wondering) right to Borduk’s stone hut at dawn. I’m still half-asleep, carrying a small breakfast roll I hoped to eat in peace, but no such luck. The old dwarf snatches it from my hand, sniffs at it like it might explode, then grunts and hands it back.
“Eat faster, lad,” he growls, “we’ve got work to do.”
So that’s how my training began.
Turns out, the reason I passed out in the mines was pretty straightforward: I’d tried to channel way more earth magic than my “mana core” could handle. I’m still not 100% sure what a mana core actually is—somewhere between an internal battery and a mystical soul-lung, apparently. But hey, I’m five years old. Let’s cut me some slack.
According to Borduk, every living thing has a capacity for mana, but dwarves like me are a bit special because we’ve got an affinity for earth magic. The only catch is we usually take years to learn how to properly store and direct the energy. Of course, I had to be the outlier who discovered a shortcut on day one and nearly face-planted into a lifetime supply of rock dust.
“First lesson,” Borduk says, tapping a chalkboard with a stubby piece of coal, “infuse your core. Slowly. Don’t go swinging pickaxes at walls before you’re ready.”
He shows me this breathing exercise that’s part meditation, part ear-wiggling (kidding…mostly). I’m supposed to close my eyes, picture the earth’s energy flowing around me in shimmering lines, and then let a little bit in at a time. But trust me, “a little bit” is trickier than it sounds. It’s like sipping from a firehose—just because you only want a drop doesn’t mean you won’t get blasted in the face.
Still, I give it my best shot. I focus on the stone beneath my feet, the tickle of mana swirling in the air, and attempt to coax just a sliver of that power into my center. My heart flutters, my chest tingles, and I can feel something warm and heavy settling in my gut—like I swallowed a small, cozy boulder. Next thing I know, Borduk’s nodding, which for him probably counts as a standing ovation.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Not bad, lad,” he concedes, trying (and failing) to hide the faintest hint of pride. “Keep at it. You’ve got potential, even if your technique’s greener than moss.”
When the whole “mana infusion” thing gets too weird, Borduk shifts gears to runes. Now, if you thought a language class was tough, wait until you see dwarven runes. They look like someone tried to play tic-tac-toe with a drunken spider. Each symbol connects to a magical concept—like earth, fire, wind, or more obscure stuff like “binding” or “sharpening.”
“These glyphs allow you to control the arcane flow,” Borduk explains, pointing at a particularly squiggly rune. “Draw it right, and you can channel the magic you store in your core without blowing your eyebrows off.”
Let’s be honest: I’m used to scribbling with crayons. Now I’m trying to carve intricate shapes into a slate tablet with a stylus that has zero grip. It’s about as graceful as a baby giraffe on roller skates. Borduk stands behind me, muttering corrections in a voice that’s half-muffled by his massive beard.
“No, no—tilt the stylus just so. Add a tail here, an extra curve there. One misstroke, and you’ll just draw a symbol for goat cheese.”
In fairness, goat cheese runes might come in handy if I ever want to open a tavern. But for now, I focus on the real spells, scrawling half a dozen practice glyphs until they look… well, not perfect, but passable enough that Borduk doesn’t confiscate my stylus.
After hours of this, my hand’s cramping and my eyes are sore, but I’m also buzzing with excitement. I can already feel a difference in how the mana flows through me—like I’m learning to handle it instead of drowning in it. Granted, I’m nowhere near ready to single-handedly carve a mountain, but hey, baby steps. I’d rather not repeat my earlier faceplant fiasco.
Eventually, Borduk sends me off with homework: more breathing drills, more rune practice, and a stern warning not to “play around” with earthen magic unsupervised. Knowing me, I’ll probably push my luck at some point, but for now I’m too tired to do anything but nod.
I trudge home, toolbelt jangling around my waist, and find Dad waiting with a big grin and a pot of stew. He doesn’t say much—just pats me on the head and serves me a heaping bowl, but I can see he’s proud. Maybe dwarven life isn’t so bad after all.
So that’s the start of my training. I’m learning how to keep my mana from short-circuiting my small body, discovering the arcane cheat-sheet known as runes, and apparently making Grumpy McGrumperton proud (in his own grouchy way). Sure, it’s not exactly the childhood I imagined back when I was flipping through TV channels in my old life, but it’s weirdly satisfying. Who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll be the legendary dwarven mage I never realized I wanted to become.
Just as long as I don’t pass out in a pile of rocks again. Let’s avoid that.
