Jaryne was violently thrust mid-dream back to his cramped quarters in Corindrian’s tower. The weathermaster had shaken the apprentice awake, and was practically leaning over the boy. The archmage’s dark face embellished with the blue, white, and gold of the night sky which shone clear threw the thin window to the right of Jaryne’s bed.

“Wake up boy! Wake up!” the weathermaster frantically shook Jaryne, dropping his characteristic stoicness he held in their lessons.

Jaryne shot up, pushed the weathermaster away, and quickly lit a candle as he slipped out of his bed. The low candlelight revealed the aged wizard curled in pain on the floor; his eyes were wide and sweat dripped from his face. Corindrian held his balance uneasily on the wall to the right of Jaryne’s door, and forced a sentence through his tense mouth.

“Boy! Pack your belongings!” Spittle flew from Corindrian’s mouth onto the floor, the candle too dark to reveal any redness.

Jaryne paused. He had never seen the weathermaster like this before. Something was wrong.

“Go! Pack your things now so I know you’ve done it!” the weathermaster spoke, more hoarse than before, finishing with a cough.

Jaryne dragged his small leather trunk from under his bed and began to fold some of his robes when the weathermaster started, reckless, throwing the young apprentice’s belongings into the trunk.

“No time for care. Everything. Hurry.” Corindrian was not himself, and for that Jaryne found himself scrambling to make sense of what he might need to pack on a short notice.

The now-alert apprentice grabbed any book he could find, any trinket, any quill, and any inkwell he could find and threw them into the trunk. Still in the midst of packing, Jaryne heard the sound of clinking metal, and turned to see that Corindrian had tossed a large sack plump with gold and gems atop his belongings. Never once had Jaryne questioned his master Corindrian, never once had a shred of doubt formed regarding the weathermaster’s stoic orders and abstruse pedagogy. Each dish scrubbed unquestioned. Each book read faithfully. Each chamberpot carried unflinching. Even three years of waiting to learn but a simple charm had not phased the apprentice, for as a child of the double moon, every day of Jaryne’s life was dedicated to preparing for study with a magician, and he swore to Ghalstorin that he would not fail.

And It was the moment Jaryne realized the abundance of wealth Corindrian had placed before him, his first and only festering doubt of the old master coagulated in his thoughts.

“Why are we packing? Are you okay, sir?” Jaryne questioned.

Corindrian collapsed to the floor retching violently, each drop of sweat visible under the smoking candlelight as he expelled red upon the carved stone, confirming Jaryne’s doubts: something was foul, and it was going to get worse. Corindrian looked up from the bloody vomit, his face dripping snot, and barked at the apprentice.

“I’ve been poisoned. Do what I say, or they are goin-”

The archmage vomited again, failing to expel anything before falling to the ground gasping for air. Jaryne stood paralyzed in the center of the room as the most powerful mage in all of Moringia, his idol, his mentor, and master lay before him dying. It was not the sickly despair that froze the young apprentice, but rather the fact that Jaryne knew there was nothing he could do for Corindrian. It was hopeless.

“Jaryne!” Corindrian screamed, his voice piercing Jaryne’s air of helplessness. “Poison-” the archmage retched and gasped for air again as tears began to fall down the apprentice’s cheeks. Jaryne choked on his words as he broke his paralysis to hold the weathermaster up. If his master was going to die, Jaryne believed he sould at least show the mage comfort in his last moments. Finally, breaking through his sobs, Jaryne strained to speak a few words.

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“You’ve been poisoned. I know.”

Red tears fled Corindrian’s face as he embraced the small ceasefire the poison had allowed.

“Jaryne. Please. Pack your things and take...”

Corindrian’s shaky hand reached into his robes, removing the amulet he had worn for the past forty years of his life; his sign, his symbol of Kalitian, the symbol in the first language for water; the center containing the mage’s family crest: a pearlescent cloud.

“Take my amulet. Jaryne. Take my amulet and leave Moringia. Talk to no one. Walk through the Gray Spine to the edge of the borderlands to Hesphyne keep and give this to amulet Lord Burostyne, his father owed a debt to me, and for that he will take care of you. I will set my tower ablaze, take any scrolls you can. You must leave-”

Corindrian wretched and howled in pain, blood streaming from his mouth.

“Pack your things and go!”

“But what of my studies?! I could study with Yularelian! I can’t give up on being a master, I’ve only yet begu-”

“Boy, do not disobey my orders!”

“But what of my family? What of my training? What of the council?! What of our country?! I can stay and help!”

Jaryne held Corindrian’s head close to his one last time, before setting the archmage to the ground.

Corindrian writhed, and nearly choking on his own blood howled in a fury known only to those dragged to the damnable fields of revenge, to those who had supped of the First Yew.

“Country?! Family!? Magicks!? Think! Why do you think they took Nayinian and Ornookian from us? They wanted to kill me-”

Corindrian growled in agony.

“and now if you stay, they are going to fucking kill you! Promise me you’ll leave!”

“Yes! I promise!” the sobbing Jaryne embraced the archmage.

With what remaining strength he could muster, the weathermaster pushed his apprentice off of him, and began to speak a final spell.

Jaryne scrambled to load scrolls and books into his diminutive trunk, as around him the tower began to quake as some of the bricks began to glow molten with heat. The apprentice attempted to listen in for one final lesson, but found the words foreign to him, despite his years of experience reading the first language.

The words were indescribably wrong. The mispronunciations were not that of an amateur mage, but of a disgusting nature; Language and Knowledge defiled. Bastardized as if consumed by rage. Jaryne knew there would be no lesson to be had here and ran, recklessly hitting his trunk against the tower turned-kiln. Dripping molten rock fell downwards onto his arms and shoulders as the weathermaster’s final bloody opus dragged the tower and its surrounding into magmatic oblivion, and throwing all of his weight against the wooden door of the tower shattered the entrance and ran for the nearest pile of snow to satiate the hungry flames still alight his skin.

A barreling storm gathered in the double moon-lit sky, the eye directly above Jaryne, bringing the damned mage’s wrath. With Luck, there would be vengeance. Yet Luck defiled too.

Jaryne, in great pain, began the long and uncertain trek eastward beyond the Gray Spine to Hesphyne Keep upon the borderlands. The storm followed the young mage for weeks, bringing woe to each village he wandered, an echo of the bizarre storm of years ago.

***

Nayinian, Apprentice to Corindrian,

It is my solemn duty to inform you of the passing of your master and dearest friend to myself and the kingdom: Corindrian, archmage of the Arimensian Council, Master of Weather and silencer of the Witch-Queen of Kaylynth has passed away of illness. Jaryne, the last of his two remaining apprentices, seemingly wandered northward in search of his family. The old master has bequeathed none of his possessions to you, opting to leave the fate of any and all of his magickal tomes to the Arimensian Council of Warlocks.

Those of us who remain from the council have opted to separate and move towards the rest of the battalions over the course of the year. Any personal effects of Corindrian’s deemed safe for distribution and appropriate for your rank and relations will be personally delivered by future reinforcements.

Corindrian was a close and dear friend, and it pains me to see that he will never live to see you attain mastery. He spoke highly of your skills, even if he was wary of your impatience and ambitions. I wish you many silent moments to grieve, and that Yuorinis and Decay keep their gaze away from your endeavors.

In Humble and Virtuous Service to Kalitian and the other Eleven,

Archmage Yularelian of the Arimensian Council, Master of Vines, Advisor to the Regent Arimens and the King of Moringia