There is a persistent pestilence within the hidden arts: the compulsion of the vulgar to strike at others for trifles, to loose workings over wounded pride or imagined slights. Such actions are not the mark of the adept but of petty weakness. The Arte observes all. Every thread pulled leaves its mark, and every hostile spell bears the unmistakable scent of its origin…

Those who hurl attacks from behind veils forget themselves… What is sent forth cannot be unseen. It leaves trails finer than breath, glowing in the aether for those trained to perceive. No glamour can conceal the signature of true intent and the wretched words of the deluded, and those who work in malice make themselves known long before they would wish…

In magical warfare, arrogance is the first enemy. Many attempt to cloak their strikes, imagining themselves unseen, yet the energy they send is a beacon. Its origin traced with ease. The weak arrow sent in the direction of their opponent’s field becomes the very door through which their own essence is laid bare.

One of the oldest lessons is never to underestimate an adversary, yet the undisciplined so often do. They see youth, femininity, and imagine naivety, they see quiet composure and mistake it for weakness. Their attacks are fueled by projections and untempered emotion, blind arrows loosed into the dark. In truth, such assaults are rarely worth the effort of answering. A fortress built on years of discipline cannot be shaken by the crude implements of spite.

And still the irony lingers: those most eager to strike are the least prepared to withstand their own assault. Their shields are thin, their wards frayed, their workings poorly wrought. No concealment spell can disguise the clumsiness of their craft. To the trained eye, the seams in their defenses are as wide as gates…

Magickal skillfulness is not measured in the wasting of power upon trivialities. It is found in the quiet center, where no adversary can breach the sanctum within. Those who hold such stillness need not retaliate. Their mere presence and Work unmakes the unsteady, and the currents of those who sought to harm them dissolve, siphoned clean and drawn deep into the wells of power they once hoped to extinguish.

Each arrow loosed in malice is born already marked for return, its archer laid bare and studied in full. The venom they send is gathered, refined, and savored to the final drop by the one it failed to wound.

Blessed be those of steadfast heart. Thrice-turned is the blade upon the vain and corrupt. So it is woven, so it shall endure.