Toren Daen

I adjusted the mask on my face, making sure it was flush with my skin and covering my mouth. I breathed in, the scent of blood, sweat, and grime wafting through the air.

I trudged through the healer’s camps, nodding in respect to the clinicians who saw me. I reached a hand out to help a man–with no mana emanating from him–who stumbled over a protruding bit of rubble. I steadied him as he nearly tumbled, the heavy bag of supplies in his hands unwieldy. When he saw my eyes, he swallowed nervously. “For Fiachra,” the young man said in acknowledgment.

“For Fiachra,” I intoned back.

The man walked off, more confidence in his step as he did so. Aurora’s clockwork songbird alighted on my shoulder, the talons nearly digging into my protective gear. “This medical camp has improved in spirit,” she said lightly. “It is… fascinating to observe.”

I exhaled through my nose, turning to walk again. A large bucket of bloody rags hovered near my head under my telekinetic control. The announcement today has lifted many spirits, I thought back. It’s no wonder people feel more purpose in their strides.

It had been nearly half a week since my speech to the people of Fiachra. Since then, I’d immersed myself fully in the wounded camps, utilizing my gifts to the best of my abilities to heal and help survivors along.

The number of wounded mages was off the charts. I was on call for the deadliest of injuries, and I’d born witness to the horrid effects of blithe a hundred times over. The way the toxin spread throughout a person’s mana channels was a grotesque thing to witness, and despite my best efforts, mages who were infected with the poison would never be able to use their magic again.

I’d lost more than one patient as I attempted to pull them back from the brink.

The slog of dead and dying set the entire camps into a grim, dark mood. Every lost person we failed to save drew morale into a deeper pit, one that seemed we’d never claw ourselves out from.

But just this morning, I’d received word from Scythe Seris that the city of Fiachra was likely to be cleared for greater travel. The blithe plague had been confirmed to no longer bear viral properties, and that meant more supplies. More healers. More support.

Despite the hundreds of unadorned assisting the camps, we were still understaffed and undersupplied. With the help of others portalling in from around Alacrya, everyone looked forward to relief from the pressure.

I walked toward the main command tent, depositing the bucket of bloody rags near a dozen others. Teams of men and women would periodically collect those, washing and cleaning what they could while discarding the rest.

I pushed through the tent, doing a cursory inspection. Aurora’s puppet hummed with a melodic tune as I entered, drawing the eyes of the many men and women inside.

Trelza, the tall, bald surgeon, turned to look at me with eyes of stone. As the lead medical professional of the East Fiachra Healer’s Guild, he’d quickly been put in charge of the patients wounded by blithe. As East Fiachra regularly had to treat those suffering from blithe symptoms, the Guild inadvertently became the greatest source of knowledge and surety in this trying tragedy.

“Daen,” the man said curtly. “You have another assignment.”

As we’d worked together in the wake of the Plaguefire Incursion, Trelza’s anger at the breaking of my oaths had quickly dissipated. In the face of pragmatic need and helping those less fortunate, the iron-eyed surgeon had pushed his personal reservations aside.

I nodded. “What is their situation?” I asked. Most of the time, I was tasked with using my heartfire healing to painfully flush a mage’s mana channels and veins of remaining blithe. It was something I was uniquely suited for, and I had long since grown adept at the action.

“The patient’s sternum, core, and spinal region are pierced by a blade,” Trelza said evenly. “The wound is presumably self-inflicted to staunch the spread of blithe along the mana channels. While this act successfully prevented further infection, all the remaining mana, blood, and plague have begun to build up like an explosive cyst within the core. Our analytics team was hesitant to perform any further tests for fear of the core bursting, causing fatal injuries for all involved.”

I furrowed my brow. “I understand.” My eyes flicked to the side, where Wade–the Rats’ sentry–was gulping down a glass of water at an almost feverish pace. “Wade, I’m going to need a few more rats for this.”

The brown-haired sentry set down his glass, trying to catch his breath. He looked at me from beneath his bangs, Apple the skaunter cowering near his feet. The little mana beast was utterly terrified of Aurora’s steampunk songbird. “Alright,” he said breathily. “Are you going to… to do that thing–”

I chanced a glance back at the sentry as a few rats, certainly under the influence of his spellforms, scurried toward my feet without fear. Sensing opportunity, Aurora’s relic swooped down, snatching a few up in her claws. They didn’t struggle, even as they were held in the bronze talons of a predatory construct.

“I am,” I acknowledged. “I’ll give you a signal to release your control again, so you don’t have to… experience it.”

Wade slumped back into his chair, shivering slightly. “Thanks. That one time, I was just too slow.“ He looked up at me, his spectacles flashing. “That’s what you did to Mardeth, yeah?”

I nodded gravely.

Wade snorted. “That’s good,” he said, a surprising note of venom in his tone. ”Get going, Toren,” he said tiredly. “It’s harder to maintain control when they’re clasped by that… that thing. The rats hate it even more than actual birds.”

I left the tent, a purposeful stride in my step as I weaved through the streets toward where Trelza indicated the patient was located. Aurora’s clockwork construct whirred. “The boy has remarkable mental fortitude, to weather the experience as he did,” my bond commented.

Yet we can’t afford to have him feel it again, I thought, remembering that same experience so long ago. The clarwood forest all around me, my blood slowly pooling underneath as the bodies of skaunters slowly cooled… One can’t remain unchanged after such an experience. I should have been more careful as I worked. He only got the barest experience of it before he cut his tether short, but still.

I turned down a road, nodding to Greahd as she directed the washerwomen. She had garnered a reputation of her own in the wake of this disaster: the Mother of Fiachra. It was her speech that encouraged the downtrodden of the slums to save their oppressors from their mutual enemy. It was her drive; her compassion that every unadorned emulated, showing the world a different kind of strength.

Greahd smiled widely, a sense of peace radiating from her eyes as she waved back. Perhaps there had been a disaster in this city, but with her guiding warmth and simple expressions of empathy, I had a feeling all would make it through.

The older woman waved at me, beckoning me closer. I hesitated for a moment, torn between approaching and going directly to my patient.

Just a little chat, I thought, drawn toward Greahd like a cold man to a warm hearth. To lift the spirits.

I smiled beneath my mask as I approached, nodding to the washerwomen in respect. They bowed and smiled in turn, before I finally reached the Mother of Fiachra.

“Hey, Greahd,” I said, noting the buckets of bloody rags she and her compatriots were working to clean. “Not too overwhelmed here, are you?”

There were a lot of wounded, and thus a lot of rags.

Greahd shook her head, her mousy brown hair swaying in its bun. “We’re fine, Toren,” she said simply, but then she looked up at me with those infinitely kind eyes. “I was just wondering about you. You’ve been going about for days using that magic of yours on everyone, not even giving yourself time to sleep and rest. You’re a growing man, Toren. You can’t let yourself burn out too quickly.”

The smile beneath my mask softened as Greahd’s words washed over me. In the wake of this disaster–the Plaguefire Incursion–I had failed many, many people. Both by allowing Mardeth to get so far, and because I could not save every patient I treated.

And it was Greahd who cared for me. Greahd who ensured I didn’t go up like a tinderbox, working myself to death in atonement.

How does she do it? I wondered absently. How can she care for everyone?

“I’ve been taking your advice,” I said more seriously. The first few days were the hardest. That was when I lost the most people I’d tried to save, and despite my time working in the clinic in East Fiachra, I hadn’t fully conditioned myself to the reality of losing someone you were trying to save. “I’ve been giving myself more time. Between each surgery, just to process it. To… care for myself.”

Greahd’s smile was soft and slightly sad as she set down the rag she’d been washing, before she sidled over to me. She gave me one of her big hugs–the kind that made you feel safe and warm. I towered over the woman by more than a foot, but ever since she’d helped me improve my violin, this had never changed.

I allowed myself to hug her back. Allowed myself this moment of peace and respite for the barest instant.

But time waited only for the dragons, and even then I was certain Kezess Indrath could not eternally halt the flow of the world. “I’ve got to see to a patient,” I said as I separated from the portly Mother of Fiachra. “So, unfortunately, I can’t stick around too long.”

Greahd nodded in understanding. “You do good work, Toren. I’m proud of who you’ve become.”

I coughed in embarrassment as I moved away, and despite my mask, I was sure the flush in my cheeks must have been obvious. “Thanks, Greahd,” I said. “I hope I always live up to your expectations.”

I turned to go, already trying to force myself toward the clinical state of mind I needed for surgery, but Greahd’s voice echoed out behind me. “We’re having a cookfire tonight, Toren!” she called after me. “I’ll give you the greatest portion of stew we’ve got!”

I smiled as I finally walked away, humming a light tune to myself. In my head, Aurora sighed fondly.

“A good woman,” she thought. “I suppose that the roses that manage to grow despite the stomping of boots and the cut of the scythe are the most beautiful.”

I simply nodded in response as I strolled along the streets, ironing out my thoughts for what was to come.

I finally reached the tent where the patient I was looking for was located. Aurora, I thought, keep your grasp on those rats tight. We’re going to–

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar gruff voice emanating from the tent.

“Merciful Vritra, woman,” it slurred gruffly. “There is no need for your coddling! I am strong enough to see myself through this!”

I heard a disgruntled huff. “You can barely move your arms, my lord,” another voice snapped back. “Your fever is running higher today. I need to lay the rags, or else–”

I blinked, registering both voices as the latter continued to talk. Renton Morthelm? I thought incredulously. And… isn’t that Benny’s mother? Baela?

I pushed open the flap of the tent, not quite sure what I was expecting. Sure enough, Highlord Renton Morthelm was situated on a bare gurney, feebly trying to wave away the attendance of Baela, the lowborn woman from East Fiachra.

“I have managed my own care for decades,” the sturdy man said, though the words were uttered with a bit of a wheeze. They also fell a bit flat due to the jagged blade handle jutting from his sternum. “No need for–”

Across the tent, Benny, who was twiddling his thumbs in an expression of supreme boredom, hopped from his chair as he spotted me. A wide, wide smile stretched across his face, his eyes sparkling. “Mister Daen!” he cried, running forward. I knelt, allowing the young boy to hug me as he barreled into my chest. I chuckled, ruffling his choppy hair.

I looked up, noting Baela’s fond expression. “Lord Daen,” she said respectfully. “Lord Morthelm is refusing to–”

“My name is Renton, woman,” the aforementioned older man protested.

“Lord Morthelm is refusing treatment,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Since he awoke earlier today, he has done nothing but refuse to be properly cared for.”

Benny blinked. “Yeah, he’s weird,” the frostbitten boy said with childish candor. “Momma helped him for days and days without him making a noise. And now he says he doesn’t want it! Doesn’t make sense to me.”

I watched as Baela’s face gradually flushed to a color so deeply red I feared she would pass out. “Now, Benny,” she said, her voice strained from embarrassment. “Don’t you think you should go back to your chair? You need to be still so we don’t bother Lord Morthelm.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“I did that for forever,” Benny countered, looking up at the clockwork bird on my shoulders. He audibly gasped as he saw the burning red stars within the eye sockets. “It’s so pretty!” he breathed, entirely unphased by the presence of the asura within. “Like the sun! They’re just like your eyes were before you fought the bad man!”

I gently pushed the young boy away from me, feeling Aurora’s fondness radiating like a steady torch through my mind. She released the rats in her talons, leaving me to use my telekinetic emblem to hold them aloft. The steampunk sparrow leaned forward on my shoulder, matching the young boy’s eyes.

“He is so curious,” my bond said. “There is such purity in one so small, despite all he has suffered.”

Benny raised a hand, seeming about ready to pet the clockwork construct. Baela seemed to suddenly realize the possible danger, forgetting Lord Morthelm for the barest moment. She stepped forward, her eyes opening wide.

I gently raised my own hand to block Benny’s. “She isn’t a pet, young man,” I chided. “Hold out your hand instead. Like a handshake. That’s how you greet people, isn’t it?”

Benny’s face pinched into something surprisingly serious for a five-year-old as he held his hand out, eyes darting from Aurora’s puppet to his own hand and back.

Aurora directed her clockwork songbird forward, allowing its head of bronze to brush his own palm. The little songbird trilled contentedly, something akin to a mechanical hum as orange-purple light bled through the gaps. I smiled slightly, the sight obscured by my mask.

Unfortunately, I had a job to do. Aurora, sensing the shift in my mood, reluctantly withdrew her puppet’s head. Benny looked down at his hand, starstruck by the interaction. Baela herself hadn’t even breathed, seeming to sense the importance of the moment.

I slowly stood, gently directing the dazed Benny toward his mother. “I’m afraid I’m not here for a visit,” I said, my eyes flicking to the groggy Renton Morthelm’s. “Lord Morthelm here is due for treatment. Afterward, you can tend to him all he needs,” I said, smirking slightly at Baela.

She bowed her head, hiding the flush in her cheeks as she corralled her young son toward the exit of the tent. “Thank you, Lord Daen,” she said. She paused uncertainly near the exit of the tent. “You do much for us.”

I waved dismissively as I focused on my patient. He was watching the woman leave with something akin to fondness in his cloudy eyes. “I only do what I can, miss,” I said. “As you have done.”

She left the tent a bare second later.

“So, the famed Spellsong is my surgeon now, too?” Morthelm said, his voice sounding more clear as his eyes focused. “The proper thing to do would be to bow, but you’ll have to excuse my inability.”

I moved forward, inspecting Renton’s chest. The handle of some sort of cane jutted from his sternum, shifting to a thin blade that pierced his mana core and presumably part of his spine as well. “I’m surprised you’re lucid enough to talk,” I said, calling my heartfire to the tips of my fingers as I circled the bed, inspecting the intrusion from different angles. “Considering how close this blade must be to your heart. You likely have a pierced lung, and the only reason you can even talk is because the blood from that injury is being compressed into what’s left of your core instead of into your lung.”

Renton wheezed, his silverish hair caked with sweat. Baela wasn’t wrong about his fever. “Wouldn’t let those bastard vicars claim me, too,” he forced out. He must have been in inordinate pain, yet none of that showed on his face. “I saw what happened to the others. Would’ve rather died. Stabbed what was left of my cane into my core.”

I turned toward the man, lowering my voice. “Without your help, the Incursion wouldn’t have ended so cleanly, if at all,” I whispered, moving closer. Scythe Seris had ordered a tight noose around information relating to the basilisk blood crystal and its destruction, but I thought it only right that this man knew the impact of his actions.

Especially in case I failed to heal him.

Renton looked away. “That was not why I acted,” he said quietly.

I exhaled, allowing my mind to drift into the serene, clinical place it went when I performed my medicine. I walked forward, noting the straps along the gurney. “We don’t have anesthetic handy,” I warned. “So the surgery I am about to do will be very, very painful. I’m going to need to strap your arms down.”

Renton clenched his teeth. “I am of Highblood Morthelm, Lord Daen. Pain is nothing,” he ground out. “Do what you must.”

I nodded, then cinched his large arms to the bed beneath him. In preparation, I enveloped both of my hands in a layer of fire, burning away any pathogens that might be present. Gloves and antiseptics were reserved for the non-mage surgeons. Hopefully, more supplies would be in soon, but patients like Renton couldn’t afford to wait another day or two for a mage who could put on gloves.

I tore Morthelm’s shirt open, revealing the wound in truth. A deep, blackening purple mixed with green spread from the stab.

Indeed, he’s only alive because that blade stayed in, I thought, my eyes tracing the contour. I’m going to need precision for this.

I pulled a certain item from underneath the folds of my protective gear, revealing Brahmos’ inverted white horn. The rats hovered in front of me, utterly unaware of their trapped state by my telekinetic emblem.

I looked to the side, signaling Aurora’s construct. She spread her wings, the sound like a hundred knives sharpening, then flew out of the tent.

I waited for the telltale signs as my bond’s construct finally reached Wade. Sure enough, the rats began squeaking and screaming in terror as the sentry released them from his control. I smothered the noise with a sound shroud, hefting the white horn.

I heard each of their tiny heartbeats as a pulse of lifeforce, perceptible to my ears as a bare thrum. I exhaled, feeling my mind drift slightly. I am sorry.

Then I drove Brahmos’ horn into a rat’s chest. I called on my own heartfire, the tendrils funneling along my hands as they focused themselves through the horn. Like ensorcelling chains, I knew the threads of orange-purple fire had coated the little rodent’s heart like a mourning shroud.

Then I began to pull. There was no struggle of wills; no true resistance. I was a man, and this was a rat. It’s heartfire could do nothing to resist the tenuous draw of my own strength.

I absorbed the rodent’s lifeforce quickly, its lifespan drawn into my reserves of aetheric energy. When it had become less than a shriveled husk, I slid the inverted horn from its chest, then moved on to the next one.

In the days-long treatment of patients, my reserves of lifeforce had quickly run dry. Yet I was still needed. Aurora, pragmatically, had proposed a solution.

And so here I was, draining the life from a few rodents at a time to allow me to heal those in need.

A worthy trade, but one that still unnerved me slightly. The reality of what I was doing had long since settled into my bones.

I breathed a puff of purple-orange mist as three husks, each vaguely resembling a rat, were left behind.

I turned around, my reserves of aetheric energy ready for what I needed to do. I slipped the inverted horn back onto my belt, feeling reassured by the connection I had to it. Renton’s wide eyes were locked on the rodent corpses as I waved them away in a pulse of fire.

“Try and stand still,” I said, moving forward carefully. I looked over the wound in Renton’s chest, then placed a hand over his sternum.

I called to Morthelm’s heartfire with my own, settling into my Acquire Phase as I shut everything else out. I pointed two fingers over the man’s chest, a thin tendril of heartfire threading from my index and middle fingers. Overtop that, a layering telekinetic shroud elongated before red plasma finally subsumed it all, a thin scalpel of plasma extending from my digits.

I ignored how Renton’s breathing hitched; how he tensed deeply. I lowered my makeshift scalpel, making a thin, thin incision over his chest. Lord Morthelm grunted in pain, but it was inconsequential.

When the flesh had been cut through, I finally got a look at the core underneath. Sure enough, the blade had pierced straight through his core. What was left of Renton’s mana core looked swollen and sickly, the buildup of blood and blithe within just about ready to burst.

If I just ripped the blade from Renton’s chest, the blithe would spread over his innards, causing untold harm as it finally found release.

That led me to my current plan: I needed to pierce his core, providing an alternate route of release that I could control.

I angled my fingers, preparing to make the incision. My own heartbeat pulsed with the steady surety of a drum, my fingers never wavering.

I pressed my plasma scalpel into Renton’s core. Immediately, he screamed in pain, but a combination of telekinetic pushes and the bed’s restraints kept him from shifting at all. A stream of dark green liquid erupted from the core, but before it could make any progress through his body, my own fire-coated palm burned it all away.

I waited for the majority of the pressure to release. There was still a bit of blithe left in his nexus of power, but no longer was it ready to burst like a grenade.

The man was sweating bullets, his breathing stilted. Indeed, the blade in his chest had nicked the edge of one of his lungs, but hadn’t fully pierced it. Instead, the edge traveled toward his spine.

I revved my heartfire, calling out to Highlord Morthelm’s as I grasped the handle of his broken cane sword. I locked eyes with him, hoping to convey my silent surety.

Then I drew the blade from his body. It was a painstakingly slow process, as I had to try and direct my healing toward the places where the edge had vacated his flesh, sealing over each bit with the excess energy I’d taken from the rats.

Time fell away, becoming meaningless as I immersed myself in saving a patient. Flesh healed over as the blade slowly left, Morthelm’s ragged cries long since turned to pained grunts from exhaustion.

As the blade finally left his core, I directed a steady stream of fire into the pierced organ, scouring away any remaining blithe that might be hiding within. And then the knife was finally free.

I exhaled as the weapon clinked onto a nearby metal table, a large scar over Renton’s chest the only indication that anything had been amiss.

I stepped back, allowing my Acquire Phase to settle back into my core. The plasma scalpel along my fingers finally dissipated as I exhaled, wiping a single bead of sweat from my brow. “It seems you’ll live, Lord Morthelm,” I said, working my stiff hands.

Renton was heaving for breath, his face a mask of sweat. His eyes bulged slightly as they looked down at his chest. “I– I couldn’t feel my legs earlier,” he muttered. “I can feel them again.”

“Your sword nicked the nerves along your spine,” I said, unlatching the restraints along the gurney. “I managed to heal that.”

Renton ran astounded hands over his chest. Then they paused. “I can no longer feel mana,” he said, seeming surprised to be uttering those words. “It… it has abandoned me.”

I clenched my jaw. This part was often the hardest of every single surgery. While I saved many lives, none with cores infected by blithe would ever be able to use magic again. I had grown accustomed to maddened rants, disbelieving pleas, and broken stares in the wake of this news.

“I can’t heal your core,” I said solemnly. “That’s beyond my power. Probably beyond anyone’s power.” Anyone except the Legacy.

Renton’s head thumped against his pillows as he looked up at the ceiling of his tent. “I see,” was all he said.

I tilted my head, genuinely surprised by his lack of emotion on the subject.

“You seem surprised, Lord Daen,” Renton said, chuckling hoarsely. “Why?”

“I’m used to accusations. People begging. People trying to rip me apart for the news. You’re the calmest I’ve ever seen.”

The highlord moved his legs, seeming to revel in the action. “When that woman, Baela, was taking us away from those vicars, I saw it all. What you were trying to do.”

I froze in the act of burning the blood from my fingers, the flames sputtering out.

Renton’s old, wise eyes focused on me. “When you played your violin before the Denoir Ball, it called to mind a feeling of creeping safety being wrenched away. The fear that all I’d built would wash away by a simple mistake. And,” he worked his jaw. “And when I saw your friend, the Young Rat, working alongside Sevren Denoir during their mad rush for the Vicar of Plague, I could see it in them, too. That same terror I’d always felt, of all you’ve loved crashing down.”

Renton looked at his palms. “I understood them,” he whispered, seeming awed by the words he uttered. “I’ve lived a long, brutal life, Lord Daen, but very rarely have I been so thoroughly surprised by a realization as that. And so I resolved to stop those vicars. To give your friends a chance, no matter the cost.”

I lowered my hands. “Understanding is the first step to peace,” I said quietly, echoing the words of the djinn, J’ntarion.

I’d given my dimension ring to Sevren, hoping he could find a way to mend the damaged artifact. Yet now, I knew the first thing I would do when I got it back. I’d mark down another annotation in Of Mana and Minds.

That the entire endeavor I worked for was possible. There could be a society of mages and nonmages working in tandem. Without oppression, and without hell.

“So you say, Lord Daen,” Morthelm said quietly. “So you say.”

—

I left the tent feeling a sort of heady warmth in my veins. The sun seemed a bit brighter as I walked back toward the tent, the surety of my purpose set.

Aurora’s construct settled onto my shoulder. “You seem happier than when I last left you, my bond,” she thought to me.

I think, I thought absently, I feel like I have made a difference. I wasn’t just some background character. I could bring about change. I could make things better.

Aurora’s clockwork bird shifted. “Of course, Toren,” she said soothingly. “Was there any doubt?”

My eyes traced over the many men and women working for the betterment of Fiachra. Mage and nonmage alike. Always, I thought back. But now…

I turned to the side as I sensed a presence, the mana warping notably. I furrowed my brow as I felt Cylrit approach, hovering imperiously over the crowd. All around us, men and women went to their knees as they prostrated before the retainer in signs of respect and subservience.

“Spellsong,” the man said without inflection. “My master needs to meet with you.”

I looked toward the command tent, feeling a beat of indecision on leaving right now. But I could always return. “I’ll follow you,” I said, engaging my telekinesis emblem to push me into the sky.

I followed after Cylrit for several minutes, an uncomfortable silence stretching between us. We slowly made our way closer to the Fiachra Ascender’s Association, streets passing us by quickly.

“Before we arrive,” I said, breaking the silence, “What exactly changed? Is the quarantine going to continue longer than expected?”

Cylrit was quiet for a long moment. “You can save your questions for Scythe Seris,” he said curtly. “It is not my place to answer.”

I frowned, feeling a spark of annoyance at the man’s dismissive attitude. I shoved it down, however, as we finally reached the entrance to the Ascender’s Association.

Scythe Seris was waiting for us, hovering in the sky above. I frowned, looking down at my telekinetic supports below me.

I would not be able to fly up that high.

Cylrit looked down at me with something approaching mockery as he hovered near his mistress.

Thankfully, Seris seemed to recognize my limitations. She lowered in the air, her presence masked as ever.

“Lord Daen,” she said evenly, her eyes tracing my surgeon’s garb. “It appears to me that you are clothed for a medical examination rather than a meeting.”

“Considering I’ve been doing nothing but the former for the past few days,” I breathed, “You have me wondering who I’ll be meeting.”

Seris’ brows pinched as she lowered slightly, drifting closer to where I stood on the ground. I caught a whiff of that floral perfume of hers–the one that resembled her tea leaves. I swallowed imperceptibly.

How could I even smell it through my surgeon’s garb? I wondered. I was starting to wonder if there was some magical effect involved with it.

“High Vicar Varadoth has made a public announcement in regards to the Plaguefire Incursion,” she said solemnly.

I ground my teeth, feeling my heart beat a tick faster at the mention of the High Vicar. “What did he say?” I demanded.

Seris seemed unperturbed by my tone. “He does not condemn Mardeth, nor does he endorse him. Instead….” I felt my breath catch as the Scythe’s aura flared slightly. “Instead, he makes a public offer to Spellsong,” she said with an air of quotation, “That you may prove your soul.”