Flight, among mages, was a surprisingly uncommon activity.

Not because they lack the capability—most competent spellweavers could manage some form of aerial locomotion—but because humans fundamentally weren't designed to be airborne. Something deep in the ancient brain recognizes the wrongness of a human body suspended hundreds of feet above hard ground with nothing but invisible forces keeping it aloft.

If humans were meant to fly, they'd have wings. But humans, of course, have never been particularly good at accepting the limitations nature imposed on them.

Adom Sylla hated flying. This wasn't breaking news.

Air filled your ears and mouth, stinging your eyes if you weren't prepared. Visibility became compromised as tears blurred your vision. And if you happened to have a fear of heights? Well, tough luck.

But since his return, Adom had found himself airborne on multiple occasions—none of them pleasant. Given his life's trajectory, more such "opportunities" seemed inevitable. So might as well get used to it.

He stood at the edge of Braydon's Cliff, trying very deliberately not to look down at the jagged rocks and frothing water three hundred feet below. The wind tugged at his clothing, almost playfully. Behind him stretched the empty field he'd crossed to reach this point, deliberately chosen for its isolation.

He'd done considerable research on flying options.

Enchanted brooms were popular among professional aerial mages, but Adom couldn't fathom who had decided that sitting astride a narrow wooden handle for hours was a good idea. The chafing alone was enough reason to seek alternatives.

Despite this obvious design flaw, brooms remained the standard because they were relatively cheap to enchant, easy to disguise in urban settings, and had centuries of established spellwork behind them. Tradition, as with many things in the world, often trumped comfort or common sense.

Some mages also opted for full transformation, taking on the forms of birds or bats. But the process was slow, painful, and severely limited spellweaving capabilities. A raven couldn't form proper spells with its wings, and maintaining concentration through the disorientation of having an entirely different body structure was its own challenge.

That left elemental propulsion. Wind, in Adom's assessment, was the most efficient method. It required less mana than gravity manipulation and offered better control than fire's explosive bursts.

A few days ago, maintaining a [Wind Lift] powerful enough for sustained flight would have rapidly depleted his reserves. But that was before his mana pool had expanded to 950. Now, he could theoretically cover hundreds of miles without significant strain.

Theoretically.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Sam's voice crackled through the communication crystal tucked in Adom's pocket.

"I've done it before," Adom replied, adjusting the thin mask covering the lower half of his face. "In the dungeon, remember?"

"You were kind of forced to. Is that not what you told m- Hey! Zuni! Don't touch my chocolate bar!"

"Which is why I'm practicing." Adom replied, ignoring the ongoing battle between Sam and Zuni back at the academy. "I need to stop being afraid of heights."

He tapped the frame of his glasses, activating the enchantment that transformed them into sealed goggles. Elegant little things, custom-made by the same lady who imbedded Riddler's Bane into them initially.

The ear issue had been trickier to solve. Stuffing cotton in them would block the wind but also Sam's voice through the crystal. Eventually, he'd settled on runebound earplugs that produced a thin membrane of hardened air—a miniature shield spell modified to fit his ear canal perfectly while still allowing sound through.