I nod in response. Jarrah’s got it pretty much right. But that mumbling was curious. It sounds like he knew Aces as well. I know Aces spent some time in the Hidden Heart, a sabbatical from assassinations, in order to attempt to learn magic. Did Aces end up at the Enochian Enclave to try that learning? Aces only mastered a few fauna-related abilities. Whistles, coaxing, things that, to Aces’ own eyes, they seemed non magical.

I’m about to press for details about Aces when Jarrah announces, “Here we go. This room will suffice. As far as we can get from intrusion by anyone enthralled by that parasitic pissant.”

Wait a motherloving minute. People enthralled by some entity that is a parasitic personality? Enthrallment ending after a sound trouncing and being splashed with special water? There is no friggin’ way. Come on Reggie, get it together. The Celestial Emperor has been here, on Rayileklia, causing hell and havoc for decades. There’s no way he could have found a way to Can’Z’aas. Right? But if Can’Z’aas was also Aces’ soul, and the emperor had nearly torn it free from Aces’ body, then, then—.

I’m interrupted from my reverie by a round of polite coughing. Once I realize it was my attention that everyone had been seeking, I join in the cough as I gaze about, avoiding eye contact momentarily. Jarrah commands, “Before we discuss any further curiosities, maledictions, politics, news, or anything at all, you will show me what you’ve learned. Sit.”

Huff. I drop a sigh. I was hoping for a mentor, so this isn’t out of line with what I wanted to do anyway, but I think my thought train was going somewhere important. Now I can’t remember where it was headed. Hm? Oh, right, sit. I’ll just flump into a lotus position. Let’s make sure the aura sensing spell is back up, but face slightly at an angle so that I’m not blinded by Jarrah. I draw a deep breath and exhale as smoothly as I can while I draw the rune for cold with my eyes closed. When I’ve finished, I press my palm, and my will into the rune carved into the air. The temperature drops several degrees in the entire room.

Jarrah strokes his beard as he mutters to himself. I’m fairly certain his muttering contains the phrase, “Affinity for absence.” He doesn’t speak at first, yet he does however look expectantly, as if impatient to see what else I’ve learned. I want to cry. I spent a day, and all my essence, life force, willpower, to learn to craft a single rune, and it’s not enough to even warrant a comment by a mentor.

Jarrah deigns to speak, “Well, come on, out with it, your incantation too.”

I flub, “My what?” I know what an incantation is, but I don’t know why I’m expected to have one.

Jarrah demands, “Your chant, your song, your poem, your sonic mnemonics, the spellcasting aid that speeds along the production of your runes.”

I slam my forehead with my palm. Of course there’s ways to make it faster to draw perfect runes. I apologize, “I’m, I’m sorry. I didn’t even know such a thing existed til this very second. I spent all day yesterday drawing the same rune, sitting in silence. By five hundred attempts at drawing it, I was drained, weary, weak. After the thousandth, well, during the thousand and first attempt, I passed out. When I awoke, I was able to finally complete the rune appropriately on my true thousand and first try that wasn’t interrupted.”

Jarrah squints at me though his crazed eyes continue to flick about, as if perpetually scanning every inch of the surrounding area. Despite his rapid eye movements, his face indicates his gaze is leveled directly at me, my heart specifically. I frown as I explain, “If you’re looking for some sort of telltale heartbeat that indicates I’m lying or something, I’m not. Here, if you want a baseline for lying, I’m a purple hippopotamus. There, whatever clues I gave off are what you’re looking for. I don’t like having people assume I’m a liar.”

Jarrah’s brow raises in curiosity and suspicion as he answers, “You’re claiming, and honestly-so, as far as you believe, that you were able to craft a thousand runes on your first day attempting to learn Rayileklian magic, all the while empowering the growth of the rune with subtle spell metamagical rigor. Your motions were barely perceptible, you could likely do those while bound and chained.”

I shrug, frazzled. My response hints at my annoyance, “I, well, I guess so? I don’t know how to explain how much I absolutely do not know about this system of magic. I did a thing, that was the result of an entire day of trying to do that thing. It sucked, and I feel like the worst apprentice mage in existence. Like, I technically didn’t even successfully create any runes whatsoever in my first thousand tries, even though somehow it felt draining.”

Jarrah mutters, “Five hundred empowered subtle runes before suffering, and the child thinks they’re the worst apprentice ever? They truly are from another world.” More audibly, he asks, “Child, How many runes would you expect to be able to conjure on your home world?”

My frown deepens as I explain, “Look, I, I don’t know, we didn’t conjure runes, we just sort of had a system that did things. Nearing the end I was at over five thousand, maybe over six thousand energy, or mana capacity. I figured a rune might only be worth a single energy, since they don’t offer a full spell effect by themselves. Instead they’re more like five to a twenty for just a single rune. I mean, it has to be around a ten minimum, because it felt like I had run out of energy by the five hundredth. But if just single runes up to five hundred took mana, I could conjure an entire swath of duplicated daggers from my inventory, or fifty massive fireballs, or erect fifty towering shields of ice, or hasten my transformations into any one of the previous forms that I’d self-actualized. I know that most spells take thirty three runes, and ones as short as five runes tend to have very minor effects, from what I've seen so far in the books. Fifteen spells versus fifty-five or more feels like a massive difference in power.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

There’s mirth hiding beneath Jarrah’s crazed scowl. He finds this entertaining, funny. I know I was ridiculously lucky with my suite of skills that allowed me to abuse the systems in place on Can’Z’aas. I also know that there’s no way all that will translate to being an archmage on other worlds. But still, I was hoping to at least be able to cast a novice spell with relatively little effort. Instead it’s going to take me five whole days of total focus and concentration, during which I may pass out at least once each day, to learn enough of the runes.

I, I guess I might seem a bit like a spoiled brat. I haven’t seen anyone else conjuring runes in the air, or singing or chanting magic into being. I technically already can cast a sort of basic spell with just that single rune. I could make it chilly for about ten minutes at a time, about five hundred times a day. That’s something, I guess. Right? Ugh. Self doubt, I hate thee. Maybe I’d be more patient with myself, and proud of my current progress if I weren’t racing against a doomsday clock with an unknown ending hour.

I gulp down a sob that fights its way up my throat. The sadness attempting to overtake me is preemptively seeing a loved one die, knowing I failed them, that I was their last chance, and I blew it. Dawn’s a friend, but even if she weren’t, no one deserves to go out like this. It’s horrific. Worse, attached to her demise is the destruction of something everyone in Aasimovia holds dear.

Jarrah whips out a thin cane, or wand, from somewhere, and whacks me in the skull to rouse me from my reverie. I rub my forehead as I turn my attention to him with a furrowed brow. He grins coyly as he explains, “The last three individuals who tried, could not subtly empower a single rune. Their limits on rune conjuration in a given period were measured in the dozens. Your humble bragging is lost on me. Or if you are truly so self-conscious, then you’re just a colossally besotted ignoramus with self-absorption of unheard-of levels.”

My jaw hangs slack as I’m insulted for being hard on myself. I’m at a loss for words. On the one hand, I was just told that, like on Can’Z’aas, where my magics were dozens of times more powerful than most of the strongest human mages, I’ve already got that leg up on Rayileklia as well. On the other hand, he thinks I’m either a braggart, a liar, or a self-absorbed idiot. I can hear Dawn attempting to stifle a giggle, and Teuila is openly snickering.

I try to play up my idiocy, as, of the three things, that’s the least offensive to me. I know, I know, I’m so self-absorbed that I don’t want to be thought of as a braggart. Get over myself. Right? Bluh. Anyway, playing up my lack, my coming up short, I admit, “I don’t even know what this subtle empowerment thing that you’re going on about is. I got lucky with a book that enchanted my brain to let me understand the translation of runes, roughly, and everything else I’ve just had to poke at with a stick. There are no spellcasting instructions in these first few tomes. There’s no manual of spellcraft for dummies in the pile. I know, I checked for that one right away. I didn’t even know what I was doing was any sort of metamagic empowerment.”

I continue my mild rant, “If you’re saying there’s an easier way to craft the runes, that isn’t so draining, then, yeah, sure, I guess I could be a bit less hard on myself -if- I’m able to learn it. I don’t know if you understand what a thousand failures in a row does to someone who has such a, a, a monumental task before them. I can’t keep failing. I. Glp. I can’t.”

I glance at Dawn as my eyes well with tears. She avoids my gaze however. My breath is ragged, wracked with the pain of longing for a long lost friend, a pain that I know I won’t even be able to experience if the curse succeeds. Erasing the memories of Dawn from the minds of everyone she has ever interacted with? It’s horrific. I can’t bear the thought. I bare my teeth as I clench them in an unintentional angered sneer of determination.

My fiery stare catches Jarrah off guard. He studies the resolute nature of my countenance before admitting, “You will gain several skills under my tutelage that may quicken your learning, but you still may not find any thing or any one whose magics are in the purview of disentangling soul curses from the very fabric of reality. If you still wish to learn, I’d be glad of an apt pupil.”

I nod sternly. He’s right. I know he’s right. The likelihood that some random jumble of assorted books taken from a klepto necromancer happens to hold an exact counter-spell to this situation is ridiculously abysmal. It’s the only hope I can cling to however. In frustration, I draw the rune again, quickly, without even feeling my fingers move, and I slam my willpower into it with all my hate, my fear, my love, my worries, my care for those that are affected. I pour every ounce of myself into this one single rune as tears streak down my resolute, angered face. I don’t need a wakeup call, I need hope. Hope is exactly what this rune gives me in this very moment.

After my will is absorbed by the rune, I’m met with a familiar effect. I coat the entire room in a thick layer of frost reminiscent of my Flash Freeze Storm ability. Sadly, it took everything out of me, and I begin tilting to one side as I’m losing consciousness. The shocked look on Jarrah’s semi-frozen face, and the sounds of Dawn and Teuila shivering, shaking loose ice from their bodies are the last sensations I experience while conscious.