Lucas returned home to the warm glow of the kitchen, where his father was already preparing dinner. They ate quickly, and afterwards Lucas told Steven everything: Elizabeth's proposal to train him, and his plan to study under her. He didn't tell of her true identity for that wasn't his to tell, his father also didn't ask how Elizabeth was connected to the other side - trusting his son. Steven didn't argue - only offered gentle caution.
"It's not about how fast you go," he said, "but about building a strong foundation. Pace yourself."
That night, Lucas decided to study a recipe he'd read but never truly looked at: an accelerated healing potion. Unlike typical brews that magically mend wounds, this one simply accelerates the body's natural healing by drawing extra nutrients from elsewhere. He'd always dismissed it as pointless - until now. If his training under Elizabeth was to demand more of his body, he wanted every edge he could get. By speeding up muscle repair instead of merely resetting damage like Recovery Potions, he could turn exhaustion into gains.
The next day, Lucas waited for Elizabeth at the usual lunch table - but she never appeared. Instead, he found her waiting after school, leaning against the iron gate. He mentioned his potion plan and was relieved when she nodded in approval. "They'll help," she agreed, then waved him along. Expecting a hidden dojo or a quiet glade for sparring, Lucas followed her to the local park.
He frowned. "This your training ground?"
Elizabeth laughed, tugging her hair back over one shoulder. "Unlike children of the Big Three, most demigods start much lower, especially the kids of minor gods, and Hecate's children focus on magic, not muscle. You may have magic in your blood, but to survive, your body has to be as strong as your mind."
She nodded toward the path. "After school, we'll begin with endurance training. We keep going until you collapse, then you get a fifteen‑minute break."
Lucas let out a cry of surprise "yoga?!"
"Flexibility is vital," Elizabeth explained, folding her arms. "And it helps calm your muscles after a run."
Wincing, Lucas let out a hopeful whisper. "And then what...strength training?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. This phase is all about survival: outrunning danger, not slugging it out. After yoga, we'll head back to your house in the forest and start tree‑climbing drills, running along branches, jumping between trunks. Endurance, Flexibility, Agility. Only once you master those do we add strength training."
With that, she set off down the path. Lucas hurried to keep up, already dreading and secretly looking forward to the run ahead.
...
Eight weeks.
Eight weeks of sweat, bruises, scraped palms and aching legs.
He had been broken and rebuilt.
And when the weeks trickled into months, Elizabeth finally called an end to the routine.
One afternoon, as they finished their run beneath a canopy of gold‑streaked leaves, she slowed beside him and said simply,"You've got a foundation now. Strong enough to not die tripping over your own feet."
Lucas wheezed something like a thank you.
Elizabeth smirked. "You're welcome."
That night, she explained the shift.
"We're cutting your physical training in half," she said. "Three days a week, we still run, climb, dodge, all that good stuff. But the rest?"
She held up a worn leather notebook.
"We're going to your house. And we're going to learn. I've already spoken to your father—he agrees."
Lucas blinked. "What kind of lessons?"
"Real ones," she said. "Herbology. Greek history - the kind they don't put in schoolbooks. And magical theory."
"Actual spellwork?"
"Not yet," she warned. "First, you learn the roots. You don't cast until I believe you have studied all the books, even then I won't teach spellcraft until I believe you to be ready."
He nodded, more serious than usual.
But what he didn't hear was Elizabeth whispering under her breath
"Hopefully that only comes after you reach that place, I don't know much magic"
And so the next phase began - not in sweat, but in ink. Not running, but reading.
...
The fire crackled softly as twilight draped itself over the room. On the table between them sat three bowls, each filled with dried herbs: one green and flaky, another rich and purple, and the last a dull, speckled gray.
"If you want to create potions, you start by understanding the ingredients. Not just what they are, but what they mean."
She simply gestured to the first bowl.
"Name it."
Lucas leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. He frowned.
"Wolfsbane. Aconitum napellus. Poisonous in small doses, fatal in large ones."
Elizabeth nodded. "Good. Now the second?"
Lucas lifted a few of the purple petals in his fingers, sniffed them. His nose scrunched.
"Belladonna. Deadly nightshade. Another poison." He paused. "You're going for a theme today, aren't you?"
The corner of her mouth twitched. "What about the last one?"
He frowned, studying the gray dust. "Looks like dried yarrow, but... it's old. Powdered. Harder to tell."
"It's asphodel. The kind that only grows where death lingers. You'll smell the difference when your senses sharpen."
Lucas nodded slowly, thinking.
"So they're all poisons… but they're also… magical catalysts?"
"Exactly," Elizabeth said. "Magic doesn't care about good or bad. It cares about will, intent, and truth. These plants are powerful because they demand respect."
She leaned forward.
"Wolfsbane holds the border between wild and man. Belladonna sharpens the line between life and illusion. Asphodel calls to the dead."
He looked down at the bowls again, more thoughtful now. "So a potion isn't just chemistry."
"It's a story," Elizabeth said. "Told in pieces. You're not just mixing plants. You're choosing which truths to awaken."
...
Elizabeth flipped a page in the old, leather-bound book, History of the Gods (Uncensored) between them.
Lucas squinted at the faded ink. "So... they just drew lots? To divide the whole world?"
Elizabeth didn't look up. "That's the story."
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "The Sky, the Sea, and the Underworld - split between the three brothers."
She glanced at him, then tapped the side of the book sharply.
"Don't say their names."
Lucas blinked. "Why not?"
Elizabeth folded the book shut with a thump.
"Because they're listening. Or they could be. The more you say a god's name, the more likely you are to draw their attention.
Elizabeth re-opened the book, more gently this time.
"So yes, the world was split"
"But it wasn't fair, was it?" he asked. "The war was won with help. Allies. The Titans fell because the gods didn't fight alone."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "You've been reading."
"I've been thinking," he corrected. "Everyone says the Titans were tyrants. But from what I can tell, the Olympians weren't much better."
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a grin.
"And here I thought I'd have to spoon-feed you. Good."
She gestured to a different page, this one showing a web of minor gods.
"History isn't marble statues and heroic speeches. It's stories. Twisted, rewritten, buried under centuries of divine PR."
Lucas looked at the page, silent.
...
Lucas slouched in his usual spot on the porch, notebook open, quill in hand. Elizabeth tossed a bundle of notes into his lap, hand-scribbled pages, diagrams, a few sarcastic footnotes in red ink.
Across the top of the front page, written in looping cursive:
"Magical Theory for Dummies - By Someone Smarter Than You"
Lucas squinted. "Subtle."
Elizabeth grinned. "It's called effective pedagogy."
Lucas looked at her confused
"Teaching"
She took a seat opposite him, lighting a candle not for need, but for atmosphere.
"Alright, idiot. You've learned structure. You've read everything I've shoved at you about domains, Mist theory, historical applications. Now we talk about the why."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were already doing that."
Elizabeth pointed at his chest. "No. You've been learning what magic is. Now you learn what it wants."
Lucas blinked. "...Wants?"
Elizabeth nodded, standing and beginning to pace like a lecturer on a mission.
"Magic is not just energy. It's an extension of intent - yours, mine, the universe's. When you cast, you're not just using power. You're shaping a narrative. Magic is an editor of the world's story. The Mist is the page. You're the pen."
Lucas scribbled that down quickly.
She paused beside the candle, her fingers hovering over the flame. "Think of magic like a deal. It gives you what you ask for - if your request is honest, sharp, and properly wrapped in will. But magic hates ambiguity. Say something half-formed, and the Mist might answer with its own thought. A dangerous one."
Lucas looked up. "So… magic interprets?"
"No," she said. "It reflects. Like a mirror made of fog. If you're unclear - scared, angry, distracted, that reflection warps."
She picked up a worn book from her bag and flipped it open, revealing a diagram of three overlapping circles.
Emotion.
Intent.
Knowledge.
"This," she said, tapping the center where they met, "is resonance. The sweet spot where the Mist listens perfectly."
Lucas leaned forward. "And if one of those is missing?"
Elizabeth smirked. "You get set on fire. Or you summon your dead goldfish. Or if you're really unlucky, you attract something older than you should've."
Lucas made a face. "Noted."
"Which is why," she added, "we still haven't started spellcasting."
Lucas groaned. "Come on!"
"Nope." She jabbed her finger at his notebook. "Because you're just now learning the difference between power and precision."
He looked down at the page. The words hung there:
Magic doesn't want obedience. It wants understanding.
"Magic is dangerous, Lucas," she said finally, her voice quieter now. "Not because it wants to hurt you. But because it'll follow your orders… even if you don't know what you're asking."