“Is it always like this with you?!” Anton shouted as they rode. He sounded more than a little panicked, but the exhilarated grin on his face belied his true feelings.

“Only when I decide to be the hero,” Wyatt called back.

Just like Wyatt had known, Anton had come under attack an hour ago. It wasn’t the whole encampment against them—thank the gods—but it had been enough that they would’ve been slaughtered if they had stayed.

“You rescue teenagers from their evil uncles a lot?” Anton yelled over the pounding hooves. He was grinning now as he looked behind them. They had managed to pull a few more horses with them as they escaped. Both Wyatt and Anton held the reins of two horses by their reins, as they had ridden straight through the camp.

“Only when I have to,” Wyatt said, rolling his eyes at the youth’s sarcasm. If he didn’t have the skill to back his words up, his uncle would’ve killed him long ago.

In truth, he was surprised it had taken so long for Gerald, Anton’s uncle, to try and kill them. Anton’s parents had been exceedingly wealthy traders who owned a fleet of merchant ships that made enough money for Anton’s grandchildren to live comfortably. They had died suddenly and suspiciously. According to their will, Anton was to live with his uncle Gerald, who would take care of him and see to it that their vast business empire would be given to him when he was ready.

In truth, it had been surprising to Wyatt that Anton had been spared this long. They had sat around their own fire, Gerald and his lackeys glaring at them both from their fire across the camp as Anton had told him how cruel his uncle had been, telling him that he was going to go the same way as his parents and that he would never see his fortune.

When Wyatt had asked why they were on a caravan traveling from Velaire to Mesaa and not on a trading boat sailing around the world, Anton had shrugged and told him that this trip was supposed to learn the ropes. When he had then asked why he hadn’t hanged his uncle from a rope, Anton had shrugged again and told him that he couldn’t kill the last of his family.

Learning the ropes indeed, Wyatt thought, almost snorting from the irony. He learned the way of the sword instead. While Anton was young and unseasoned, his raw skill was more than enough to cut through his enemies like butter. He had hesitated upon killing his uncle, booting him in the head and seemingly knocking him unconscious. Now, he was behind them at the head of his little sortie, far enough away that they couldn’t see him in the darkness, but close enough that they could still hear his shouts.

“I’ll kill you!” Gerald shouted, breaking Wyatt from his thoughts. Speak of the devil and he shall be heard, Wyatt thought with a hint of amusement. He was too far away for them to catch them unless they turned around to fight, which he really didn’t want to do if they didn’t have to. “I’ll kill you both! I’ll find your families and slaughter them in their beds! You’re dead, boy, and you too, Wyatt! I’ll pull your family out of their graves just to piss on them!”

Everything stopped. Wyatt whipped his head around, looking for Gerald in the darkness. It was faint, but he could see him—a fat man on a straining horse half a kilometre back.

“Wyatt,” Anton said, slowing down with Wyatt. A worried look crept across his face. “Wyatt, what are you doing?”

Wyatt said nothing. He was shaking. He had never felt so angry before. If he could combust into flames from rage alone, he would’ve already done it.

“He should not have mentioned them,” Wyatt said quietly. He reached for his magic and was surprised that he was already holding it in a vice-like grip. “He should have left well enough alone.”

“Wyatt,” Anton began, and the youth flinched as Wyatt turned to glare at them. Still, he stiffened and held firm, which Wyatt grudgingly respected. “Wyatt, we can’t fight them head-on. We managed to surprise them the first time, but we’ll die if we fight now.”

Wyatt said nothing as the pounding hooves came closer and closer. Half a kilometre turned into a quarter kilometre. He could see the details on some of their faces now, all of them snarling their names and shouting the same taunts that Gerald was still shouting.

“You can’t, but I can,” Wyatt said, turning away from Anton. He stopped when Anton grabbed his shoulder.

“Your family wouldn’t want you to throw away your life,” Anton said. The teenager jutted out his chin defiantly. “I need you, Wyatt. We must leave now, or we’ll be cut to pieces!”

Wyatt closed his eyes, at war with himself. The pounding of hooves was loud, almost impossibly so, but the loudness afforded him a sort of clarity he wouldn’t receive otherwise. He had always felt a strange sort of peace when battle was close.

“You’re right,” Wyatt said at last. The riders were impossibly close now. Too close to outrun and too many to outfight. “Close your eyes, Anton.”

“What?”

“Do as I say!” Wyatt snapped; he didn’t look to see if Anton obeyed him before he raised a hand toward his foes.

He didn’t have to raise his hand, but Wyatt always found it easier when he did. He saw a lot of mages doing it as well with their wands and staffs and whatever else they used. He didn’t have a Focus, so instead, he held his hand up, narrowed his eyes, and struck.

Wyatt didn’t know exactly what he was doing. With magic, he always felt like he was stumbling about in the dark. He didn’t care, he never did. He channeled his magic, forcing it up from somewhere in his chest, down his arm, and out his hand, right into the torches that were still flickering.

Wyatt fed his anger into his magic that now lingered into the torches. There were six of them, carried throughout the pack of riders. Good, Wyatt thought distantly. He fed the anger at his families’ deaths and the anguish that he still felt. He strengthened his channeled magic into them until the flames swelled and continued the swell. The riders didn’t notice—they were now within a few dozen strides from them.

There was a vague sense of awareness coming from the flames. Nothing remotely resembling a human mind, but it was enough to communicate with.

Burn, Wyatt told the flames, which swelled under his words and power. He kept feeding his magic into them, and they ballooned even further. Burn them all.

“Wyatt!” came Anton’s shout. “We—”

The world exploded.

Wyatt rode the firestorm, gritting his teeth as the explosion fueled by his magic and rage billowed. He used the last of it to form a sort of shield around him, Anton, and their horses. His magic rapidly failed, bringing Wyatt to deep exhaustion extremely quickly.

Screams of surprised pain kept him going, forcing the flames and his unleashed magical power away from himself and his charge.

Just as fast as the storm came, it went, leaving Wyatt panting. He surveyed the destruction he had caused and winced. We won’t be able to hide this, Wyatt thought. No one liked a powerful mage running around and causing trouble. After this, many people would be looking for him unknowingly, either to use him for their own ends or to clap him in irons.

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His ears rang, and his eyes burned from the incandescent flash of light. The explosion had been bright enough to be seen and heard for miles around, which meant they had to distance themselves from this calamity as fast as possible.

In the pale moonlight, it was hard to see the fine details, but even with his temporary near-blindness—it had been as bright as a midsummer’s day for a moment—he could easily see what he had done.

Most of the horses and men were dead, splayed all over the area like they were a child’s playthings. The men were almost all dead or grievously burnt as their arms and legs rested at unnatural angles. The cries and calls of man and beast alike were the same as any battlefield: as chilling as they were pathetic.

Wyatt’s ears were still ringing as he rode forward like in a dream. He drew his sword and leveled it at the men on the ground. He couldn’t find Gerald, but he would find him and gut him like the pig that he was.

“Kill them all!” Wyatt roared, exhausted but still furious at the memory of Gerald’s taunts. He didn’t even have to look to know that Anton was beside him. He did look over when Anton didn’t draw his sword.

“I won’t kill them. They’re beaten,” Anton said loudly, grimacing as he held a hand up to his ear. There was a glint on his fingers as he drew back. Blood, Wyatt thought. I must have been too tired to protect us fully.

“Either kill them now or watch over your shoulders forever as they hunt you down and slaughter you in your sleep,” Wyatt snapped. He tried to keep his voice even, but by Anton’s flinch, it came out more harshly than he had intended. “Your choice.”

Anton’s answer was the familiar sound of a sword escaping sheath. Anton then nodded, stone-faced, dismounting and striding angrily toward the fallen men and animals.

Wyatt dismounted as well, turning back to the four horses that they had initially captured and had miraculously stayed. They were eating grass as if they lived through fiery explosions daily. He didn’t know how that was possible. His best guess was that his shields had been enough that they hadn’t been startled enough to gallop off into the night where they wouldn’t be able to pursue them.

“Stay,” he told them. One horse, a brown filly, raised her ears at him and cocked her head, whinnying gently before going back to her grazing.

Wyatt shook his head before turning his attention back to the group he had just destroyed. Anton was going to each horse that still lived, killing them. Wyatt went over to him, curious.

“You’re going to kill the horses first?” Wyatt asked, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had come. He blinked and swayed on his mount, catching himself before it became too noticeable. I’ll rest later when we aren’t running for our lives.

“They are innocent,” Anton said, raising his head and glaring at Wyatt. “The men are not.”

“The men,” Wyatt said, nodding to the few men that were still rolling on the ground and crying out in agony, “are suffering. I wouldn’t think you were one to leave a man to suffer.”

“They tried to kill us, and you just ordered me to kill them,” Anton said, scoffing as he thrust his sword through another horse, which died with a cut-off cry. “They can wait until I am ready.”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow as Anton turned his back on him and went to the next horse. Wyatt watched him while keeping an eye on the rest of the men. He doubted any would pose a threat, but he would not be felled by his own idiocy.

“Mage bastard,” a familiar voice gasped.

Wyatt turned to see Gerald twenty paces away. His legs were underneath his dead horse, most likely crushed by the heavy weight. Wyatt walked over to the man, stopping to kill one of Gerald’s soldiers with a sword through the man’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged, but he died quickly with a soft sigh as Wyatt yanked his sword back. He turned and flicked the blood on Gerald’s face.

“Bastard,” Gerald coughed, sputtering as the droplets of blood hit him.

“I may be a bastard, but I’m alive and you’re going to die,” Wyatt said quietly.

Wyatt watched as the fat man’s hands scrabbled on the grass, pulling out tufts as he strained for a dagger that was just out of his reach. Wyatt amused himself by watching the man struggle before he nudged the dagger away from him with his boot.

“Bastard,” Gerald repeated. Blood dribbled from his mouth and onto his chest, which rose and sank swiftly. “People will be looking for you,” he gasped. “You mages aren’t supposed to be able to do whatever they want. You’ll be found and suffer for what you’ve done.”

“Maybe,” Wyatt allowed. “But you won’t be around to care. You should never have opened your mouth and spoken about my family. Goodbye, Gerald.”

Wyatt raised his sword and began to slam it down but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait,” Anton said. He swallowed, looking hesitant, before he took a deep breath and nodded to his uncle. “Let me do it.”

“I thought you didn’t want to kill the last of your family,” Wyatt said, holding out an arm and stopping Anton from moving to his uncle.

Anton looked at him, and Wyatt felt a chill run down his back. Anton’s eyes—normally warm and full of joviality, were devoid of anything except a festering rage that Wyatt intimately understood.

“That was before he tried to kill us a second time,” Anton said through gritted teeth. He pushed past Wyatt and to his uncle, who was looking up at him fearfully.

“Boy,” Gerald began. His breathing was faster and shallower, and his voice was feverish. Even still, his voice was remarkably alert and clear. “Don’t.”

Anton didn’t answer, raising his sword and stabbing it through his uncle’s chest and out the other side. Gerald gasped and shook, dying moments later.

“What now?” Anton asked as he pulled his blade from his uncle’s corpse. His voice was subdued. “Where do we go, Wyatt?”

Wyatt breathed deeply, taking in the cool night grassland air. He was struggling to stay awake after all the magic he had used, and he needed to focus.

“We’ll take what we can, pile it onto our horses, and depart for Mesaa,” Wyatt said. He narrowed his eyes as Anton agreed and turned to begin looting the dead. “What about your inheritance, Anton? There may be a slip or something important back at the camp that you’ll need.”

“I don’t care,” Anton said, not bothering to turn around as he spoke. “I was told that it would be ready for me when I’m older, and right now, I don’t want to manage ships. I want to see the world without my uncle breathing down my neck.”

“All right,” Wyatt said, smiling despite himself. Anton had his back to him and wouldn’t see it regardless. “Let’s gather everything and go then.”