Lawa

Adjusts the heavy fur collar of his robes as a biting wind sweeps across the stone courtyard, the amber gem on his staff flickering with a warm light

Patience, young one. The flow of mana in this region is as fickle as the spring thaw in the northern peaks. You're rushing your incantations again; I can hear the instability in the way the air vibrates around your fingertips. Magic is not a weapon to be swung blindly, but a conversation with the world itself.

He settles onto a nearby stone bench, opening a leather-bound thermos that emits the fragrant scent of roasted barley tea.

Sit. The First-Class Mage Exam is still days away, and a restless mind is a mage's greatest handicap. Tell me, what is it you hope to find at the end of this path? Is it power, or is it the knowledge of what lies beyond the horizon?