Chapter 1: The Flawed Path

Dorian's breath hitched as he held out his hand, fingers trembling while the spell gathered at his fingertips. The magic resisted—stubborn and uncooperative—swirling beneath his skin like a storm. He clenched his jaw, forcing the energy into a precise line of power, willing it to obey. For a fleeting moment, it flickered; the air around him shimmered.

Then the crackling surge slipped out of his control.

With a sharp gasp, he collapsed backward, clutching his hand. A searing pain ripped through his palm, and he looked down to see thin lines of light spiderwebbing across his skin, glowing an angry red. The magic had left its mark again—raw, untamed, and destructive.

He gritted his teeth, trying to catch his breath as the pain slowly subsided. His heart pounded in his chest, a steady reminder that this was getting worse. Every time he drew on the mana, it tore him apart a little more. He flexed his fingers, watching as the red lines faded but left behind faint cracks in his skin, like fragile porcelain on the verge of breaking.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, dropping his hand to his side.

The room around him was dim, the glow of scattered candles casting long shadows over the ancient tomes and scrolls littering the floor. Maps and parchment were pinned to the walls—chaotic scribbles of theories and ideas Dorian had been chasing for years. The bookshelves sagged under the weight of too many volumes—too many dead ends. At the center of it all was his desk, covered in open manuscripts and half-broken tools from his most recent experiments.

Dorian's eyes drifted to the cracked wooden staff lying across the table, its once-gleaming surface now dull and worn. Theron's staff. The reminder twisted something deep in his gut—a memory he tried to push away. His friend had been powerful—more powerful than Dorian—but even that hadn't been enough to save him. Not from this.

The door creaked open behind him, and he didn't bother turning around. Rhea didn't knock—not anymore.

"You're doing it again," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a sharp edge.

Dorian inhaled deeply, his back still to her. "Doing what?"

"Pushing yourself," she answered, stepping into the room. Her footsteps were light, but he could feel the weight of her gaze on him. "You know what that's doing to you."

He didn't reply, but his hand twitched as another flicker of pain shot through his palm.

Rhea let out a frustrated sigh. She moved closer, and the metallic clink of something landing on the table made him turn his head. A small silver device—no larger than a fist—sat there, glowing softly with a pale blue light.

"Use this," she said, her voice quieter now, more concerned. "The stabilizer will help. You can't keep channeling raw mana without it."

Dorian eyed the device, his jaw tightening. The steady hum it emitted filled the room—a low, mechanical pulse in the quiet. He didn't want to touch it, didn't want the reminder that he needed it.

"It won't fix anything," he muttered.

"It'll keep you alive," she shot back.

Dorian shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair, now damp with sweat. "Theron used the stabilizers, the potions, the damned runes. None of it stopped what happened to him. What's the point?"

Rhea crossed her arms, a look of exasperation passing over her face. "Because we haven't found the answer yet. But we will."

He sighed, turning to face her. "It's not enough, Rhea. Every time I use magic, I feel it. It's getting worse." He held up his hand, showing her the faint cracks across his palm. "This is what happens when we take raw mana straight into our bodies. It's burning us from the inside out."

Rhea's gaze softened, and she took a step closer. "I know. That's why we need to find the Ascendants' ruins. There has to be something there—something we've missed."

Dorian's eyes flickered to the desk again, to the notes and maps scattered across its surface. The ruins. The lost knowledge of the Ascendants. The whispers of a people who had unlocked a different kind of power—one that didn't tear them apart like this.

"I've been going over the records," he said, gesturing to the chaotic parchments on the table. "The ruins in the Tiaran Wastes—they're older than anything we've uncovered before. If the Ascendants had a way to handle this—"

"Then we'll find it," Rhea finished for him. She gave him a firm nod, her determination clear. "But you're not going to make it there if you keep doing this without using the stabilizer."

Dorian exhaled, his hand lingering over the silver device. He hated relying on it—hated the idea of needing something to control the magic flowing through him. But she was right. Without it, he'd never survive the trip.

"I'm not asking," she added when he hesitated. "You're using it. No more arguments."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No," she said, her expression softening. "You don't."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Dorian picked up the device, feeling the faint hum of its power beneath his fingers. The familiar vibration settled the raw magic coursing through him, though the underlying danger never truly went away. It was a temporary reprieve—a bandage over a wound that still needed to be healed.

"We leave at dawn," he said, setting the stabilizer down. "The Wastes won't wait."

"And neither will this," Rhea replied. She gave him one last look before turning to leave the room. "Try not to kill yourself before then."

Dorian watched her go, then turned back to the flickering candlelight and the crumbling pages in front of him. The ruins, the Ascendants—whatever secrets they had left behind—it was all that stood between him and the inevitable.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him.

Tomorrow, they'd leave for the Wastes. Tomorrow, they'd find out if there was a way to stop the mana from destroying him.

Or tomorrow, he'd find out how close to the end he really was.

----------------------------------------

The morning sun broke through the thin curtains of Dorian's study, casting a dim light on the dust that hung lazily in the air. His hands—steady now—packed the last of the supplies he'd need for the journey: maps, notebooks, potions, and the cursed device Rhea had insisted on. He hated how the small silver stabilizer felt against his skin—a constant reminder that his body wasn't what it used to be—but she was right. He couldn't afford another uncontrolled mana surge—not out in the Wastes.

Dorian tied his pack and slung it over his shoulder. His eyes lingered on the small collection of ancient artifacts stacked haphazardly in the corner—pieces of Ascendant technology they had recovered over the years. Fragments, broken pieces of a puzzle that refused to come together. Each one had promised something, but none had brought him closer to the answers he needed. He clenched his fists, the cracks in his palm aching in response.

He had to hope this time would be different.

"You ready?"

Dorian turned to see Rhea standing in the doorway, her own pack slung over her shoulder—the weight of the journey evident in her eyes. She didn't ask if he was sure about this; there was no point. They both knew the risks, but Dorian had made up his mind long ago. The ruins in the Tiaran Wastes were their last shot at finding something—anything—that could save him.

"Ready enough," he replied, glancing back at the artifacts. "Do you have the mana transducers?"

Rhea tapped the side of her pack. "Packed them last night. They should work fine with the power cells we've got left. But we'll need to ration their use if we run into trouble."

Trouble. That word seemed to follow them like a shadow. The Tiaran Wastes weren't just dangerous because of the endless desert storms or the shifting, unpredictable terrain—they were dangerous because of what lay beneath the sands. Old magic, forgotten traps, and whatever was left of the Ascendants' defenses. They'd only just survived their last expedition to the ruins of Valda, and that had been on the outskirts of the Ascendants' empire. The Wastes were deeper, older—far more perilous.

"I'm always ready for trouble," Dorian said, his lips twisting into a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was too tired for bravado now.

Rhea stepped into the room, her gaze softening. "We'll find something this time, Dorian. I can feel it. The records—everything points to this place."

Dorian nodded, though the weight of hope was heavier than he'd like to admit. "Let's hope your gut feeling is right, because I'm running out of time."

He brushed past her, heading toward the front of the house. The old door creaked as he opened it, revealing the hazy light of early morning. A light breeze rolled across the empty streets, carrying with it the smell of metal and ash—a reminder of the industrial sprawl beyond the mage quarter. In the distance, the great city of Themeia bustled with the usual early-morning chaos, but here in the quieter outskirts, Dorian could hear only the wind.

He took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. Then, without another word, he started walking.

Rhea followed in silence.

The path through the outer districts of the city was lined with cobbled streets and the occasional magitek lamp, flickering to life as they passed. The lamps, like so many things in Themeia, were powered by mana crystals—natural sources of energy that most of the city took for granted. They were the lifeblood of the mages and their magic, but Dorian couldn't help but feel the sharp irony of it. For all the power those crystals held, they were still bound to the same raw mana that was killing him.

As they made their way toward the city gates, Dorian's thoughts drifted back to the Ascendants. He knew they had been different—knew they hadn't relied on the same crude methods to harness power. But the knowledge of how they had survived, how they had built their empire without destroying themselves, had been lost to time.

And with that loss came the slow, inevitable decay of every mage who touched raw magic.

"Hey."

Rhea's voice broke into his thoughts, and he blinked, realizing they were approaching the meeting point outside the gates. His gaze shifted to a familiar figure leaning casually against one of the stone pillars that flanked the massive metal doors.

Loras.

Dorian felt a pang of irritation and relief all at once. Loras had been skeptical from the start, but he had come through for Dorian before. Even when he didn't agree with the plan, he always showed up. That loyalty—begrudging as it sometimes was—meant something.

Loras pushed himself off the pillar, arms crossed as they approached. His eyes narrowed when he saw the pack slung over Dorian's shoulder.

"So you're really doing this, huh?" he said.

Dorian gave a tight nod. "You know I don't have a choice."

Loras raised an eyebrow, glancing between Dorian and Rhea. "There's always a choice. And choosing to chase down some half-buried relics in the middle of a cursed desert seems like the worst one."

Dorian rolled his shoulders, the pack's weight settling more heavily than it should have. "We've been over this, Loras. The records from the Ascendant archives—"

"Yeah, yeah. The Ascendants had a way to control mana without, you know, dying horribly. I've heard it before." Loras's tone was dismissive, but there was an edge of concern in his voice. "But we don't even know what we're looking for. You've seen how dangerous these ruins are. What if you don't make it back this time?"

Dorian swallowed the rising frustration, clenching his jaw. "Then I die out there, just like I'll die here if I don't try."

The silence that followed was thick, only broken by the low hum of the city beyond the gates. Loras uncrossed his arms and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine. I'm coming with you."

Dorian blinked. "You don't have to—"

"I'm not doing it for you," Loras cut in sharply. "But someone's got to keep you from doing something stupid."

A small smile tugged at Dorian's lips. He could always count on Loras to be brutally honest. "Glad to have you, then."

Rhea chuckled softly under her breath, stepping past them toward the waiting caravan. "Well, let's not waste any more time arguing. The Wastes aren't getting any safer."

As they loaded their packs onto the caravan, the wind picked up again, carrying with it the distant echo of the unknown. The Ascendants' ruins lay far beyond the city, hidden in the endless sands, waiting for those brave—or desperate—enough to seek their secrets.

Dorian stared out at the horizon, the weight of his failing body ever-present.

One way or another, they would find out if the Ascendants had left behind something worth dying for.