Let me tell you how Formal Magical teaching goes about inducting the novice into Structural Analysis.
You place them in a nice comfortable room, with no external distractions. Make them eat something, but not much. Make them sip a bit of water, not enough to be bloated. No perfume nor strong odors.
Then you give them a pencil.
Describe the graphite core, the wood. How the graphite seeps into the wood because the manufacturing is imperfect. To feel for those lines and work your way along with the core.
Then, discuss with the novice what they saw. If there were any fractures on the core, if the wood was warped. Repeat until you are able to feel the pencil.

Now let me tell you how the Magus Killer rolls.
He took me into the blistering sun of Syria, in a root-forsaken hellhole where mosquitoes have their own bloodsuckers. The sweat was sticking to my clothes, biting into my eyes.
Son, we are atop a minefield. Use your magic to feel the mines and find your way out.
As my despair mounted, some entity out there was out to get me, because right then and there, some insurgents popped out behind some dunes and started throwing out lead at us.
It was...distracting.

So sue me if I was unable to make my knees stop quivering when I was telling my father figure about a certain magical contract that I had been strong-armed as of late.

The line went silent and my hearth was thundering into my ears.
-"Daaaa...daaad? Are you there?"
-"You know what this means, right?"

My throat knotted.
It refused neither to let air pass nor allow some spit to flow. With a coarse voice, I accepted my doom.
-"Syria."

A harrumph of approval was the response.
-"Correct."

Tears welled into my eyes and my shoulders slouched so much they almost touched my hips.

But dad wasn't done.
-"If she is to join the family, she needs to be up to standard."

They say that the circle of hate repeats itself.
-"Ohhhhh...Syria. Such an exotic place for a honeymoon."