Pirin tapped his foot inside his boot. His leg trembled, and his fingers tingled. He clenched his hands to stop them from twitching. Chancellor Ivescent had a solution? A proposal?

And, cruelly, he had made Pirin wait an entire day. No amount of begging had loosened the chancellor’s lips—not last night, and this morning. Now it was evening, the council meeting was almost done, and it was almost time.

The chancellor sat across the table from Pirin, hands folded…he was right there. But instead, Pirin had to listen to the members of the Sirdian court bickering. On one side of the long table, the elven Countylords sat with their hands folded primly. On the other side sat the Representatives of the Common, elected elves in their clean but simple garb. Pirin sat at one head of the table, and Chancellor Ivescent at the opposite side.

“And not to mention, Marshal Velbor is reporting hundreds of casualties on the southern front,” said a Countylord, tapping his finger on a sheet of parchment. The sound of crinkling paper rattled around the small room. The council chamber was a repurposed dining room in the chancellor’s quarters—a room on the east wing of the palace complex. Candles and rushlights cast flickering shadows around, and there were no windows.

“Don’t forget the battle at Nârrel Gulf,” said another lord.

A Representative countered, “The Aerdians sank three ships, we sank five of theirs.”

“They have the numbers. We don’t.”

The list of losses and bickering went on for another half-hour. Pirin twitched in his seat. Every so often, one of them would insert a placating, “What say you, your majesty?” or “What does the Embercore think?” and Pirin provided as much of an answer as he could. He tried to bring himself to care about every loss.

“I should be there, on the front, helping,” Pirin finally said. He’d be more useful there. At least he could swing a sword. If he was lucky, he might put an Aerdian elf or two to sleep.

“And you would be killed in the first week,” another Countylord replied. “It is too dangerous for you. With all due respect.”

Pirin grimaced. With all due respect. The lord spoke with no respect; none was due.

And so Pirin sat in silence, for the most part, until Chancellor Ivescent raised a hand and dismissed the meeting. As soon as the Countylords and Representatives had all marched out of the room, Pirin and Ivesecent stood up.

Pirin beamed. Now, he could hear what the chancellor had to say.

“Follow,” the chancellor instructed. “There is something you must see.”

And so Pirin did. They left the small dining room, walked through the short hallways of his chamber, then stepped out onto a sandstone footbridge that led from the meeting room back across to the main structure of the palace. Pirin expected Ivescent to keep walking, to lead him inside again and out of the frigid winds, but he stopped halfway across the bridge. He leaned against the railing, staring down at the sunset-lit plaza far below.

Tugging up his collar, Pirin shivered. “Is there no better place?”

“Look, Pirin,” said the chancellor. He pointed down at the plaza. “Today is a very special day for many of your subjects.”

Hesitantly, Pirin stepped up to the Chancellor’s side and leaned on one of the merlons. Far below, in the center of the sandstone plaza, a line of elves stood behind an altar. They were all young, about two years younger than him. When they reached the altar, an elf passed them a cup filled with glowing gold liquid, and they drank it all.

Ichor, the lifeblood of the world, and the first step in forming a Reyad bond. The first step for most wizards. It finished their early Essence accumulation process by linking them with a Familiar, and then their climb truly began—they became Kindling-stage wizards. At the Kindling stage, they were supposed to simply gather Essence and integrate it into their larger spiritual system, preparing themselves for higher stages.

“Everyone is tested,” said the chancellor, speaking dryly. “Out of the thousands—millions, even—who are tested, we might find one wizard every year.” With annoyance, as if he’d given the lecture a hundred times, he added, “In the past few decades, we’ve had a string of bad luck. Still, we watch and we wait. Maybe one day, golden fire will burn in one of their eyes, lightning will shoot through their veins, and we will have a true wizard.”

Wizards were a rare commodity. Only one in a million had enough spiritual potential to cultivate Essence and form a Reyad bond. An Embercore had high spiritual potential, but a faulty core and channel system.

Pirin couldn’t recall how many wizards Sirdia had, exactly, and trying to only hurt his head. However, from what the chancellor said, Pirin assumed that he was the only wizard (if he could be called that) in Sirdia.

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He vaguely recalled his own test, sipping the golden liquid and feeling it trickle powerlessly down his throat. Nothing had happened to him, certainly not like what Ivescent had described.

Pirin opened his eyes and scowled. “But I need a solution, Ivescent.” Nothing had worked to help him form a Reyad bond—even after drinking Ichor every month and testing countless elixirs. He sighed, then said, “All the kings of Sirdia before me walked the Path of the…of—” He cut himself off as he tried (and failed) to recall the details of a history lesson. He raised a hand to his head and squinted.

“The Path of the Reaching Leopard?” Ivescent provided.

“Yeah, that.” Snow leopards were their Familiars. The Path combined their Bloodline Talent—their memory magic—with the arcane techniques and aspect-bend their Familiar afforded them.

“But you are not of that line,” said Ivescent. He stopped and faced Pirin. “Their noble line has ended, and with your new blood, you must build another one. You were chosen.”

“Chancellor, I—”

“I could give you the Reaching Leopard Path manual, but you would not get far. Your future isn’t laid out like your forebears’ were, but you still hold immense power beneath that Embercore. You just need to…tap it. To earn it. You need to find your own Path.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Ivescent looked over his shoulder, then back along the bridge. Pirin followed his gaze. There was nobody around except for the distant guards, who wouldn’t hear anything. “There has to be a way to form a bond with a Familiar, stabilize your magic, then set yourself on the throne—properly.” After a short pause, he added, “Sirdia needs a saviour.”

“But—”

“You wish to aid the nation?”

“Of course!” Pirin scowled. He leaned back against the merlons behind him and sighed. His breath steamed up in the air, but he looked past the haze. The moons, two magenta crescents, climbed over the horizon, casting the city in an eerie pink light.

Just the word adventure stirred something inside his heart—a longing to see far off lands, a desire to learn new magical techniques. A chance. He whispered, “What do I have to do?”

“I don’t know. Your future—and your doom—is uncertain. But there are no shortcuts to power. You must form a Reyad bond with a Familiar, or you will not progress past the Kindling stage.” Ivescent folded his hands. “Travel south to Aerdia, and head to the library of Tallas-Brannul. Last summer, they received a shipment of copied manuscripts from overseas, and you may find a lead there. Do whatever you have to.”

Pirin opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “And what about Sirdia? What about the throne?” What if the chancellor was just trying to get rid of him and seize absolute power?

But it wasn’t as if Chancellor Ivescent didn’t already have that.

Besides the mortal, non-wizard chancellor wouldn’t matter if Pirin succeeded. If Pirin made it to Flare, he’d have ten times the physical strength of an average elf. If he learned a powerful arcane technique, he could retake the palace himself if he had to.

“Sirdia is surrounded by enemies. Aerdia, the Dominion…they’d give anything to crush us, and with time, they will. We need the Wizard-King of the Elves, and you can’t protect us if you can barely survive an encounter with a karebain.”

“But what about my duties here?” Pirin asked.

“We can survive a few months without you, so long as you leave the signet ring.” Ivescent smiled warmly, but a glimmer of sadness filled his eyes. “Tonight, Pirin. Slip out of the palace. Take a gnatsnapper from the stables and fly.” He crossed his arms. “The Countylords and Representatives don’t think you can do it. What do you think?”

Pirin knew what he had to do. He pushed away from the wall and nodded. Everything lined up. Aerdia, the land of the Autumn Elves, was not a friendly land. He couldn’t walk in with an army and hope that they let him read some books. He had to sneak in alone.

And if Ivescent tried to backstab him, he would return strong enough to make the chancellor pay.

“I’ll do it,” Pirin said.

“Good.” Ivescent let out a long breath. “Have you started processing the manabulbs?”

“I haven’t.” Pirin reached into his pocket and ran his fingers across the bulbs’ delicate surface. It would take weeks to integrate all their Essence into his spirit, but he had to start at some point.

“Do you remember how to cycle Essence?” Ivescent asked.

Pirin narrowed his eyes. Of course he did. He plucked two of the glowing blue, cherry-sized orbs out of his pocket and dropped them in his mouth. As soon as they touched his tongue, they began to dissolve like some sort of fancy dessert. This coating, however, tasted like nothing. The Essence spilled out of the shell.

After a few seconds, he swallowed. He wasn’t sure if it worked, but another moment passed, and the Essence trickled down his throat, crawling towards his stomach. It was cold, like ice dribbling into his body. He shivered.

He shut his eyes. As soon as the Essence reached his stomach, it neared his core, and his body absorbed it. It flowed into invisible channels, channels that ran parallel to his blood vessels.

First, the foreign Essence wrapped around his core, shooting in pale blue lines around the ball of embers. When he inhaled, his lungs served as a bellow, pumping the Essence. When he exhaled, he pushed the Essence outward, driving it through his body.

It would take a few days (or maybe even a week) to fully integrate their power into his own, but it would be worth it.

If he, as an Embercore, tried to intake energy from the natural aura fields of the world, he’d fail—his channels weren’t strong enough yet. They’d get stronger if he advanced, but it was a vicious cycle. He couldn’t intake energy yet, so he’d never be able to.

But the manabulbs changed that. A direct infusion of Essence wouldn’t strain his channels nearly as much.

Pirin said, “You have my word: I’ll fix this. I will not be an embarrassment for any longer.”

“Then you have my gratitude. The best wishes of Sirdia go with you. Stick to the small cities, keep your head down, and make it to the library. When you know what you need, return to me.”

Without hesitation, Pirin began to walk down the bridge, away from the chancellor. He doubted it would ever be as simple as visiting a library, and he’d venture a lot further, but he didn’t need to tell the chancellor that.

He made it barely one step before the chancellor clamped a hand onto his shoulder. “And Pirin,” he said, “our enemies will not make this easy for you. Watch your back, and act decisively. This quest is in your hands, and yours alone.”