To live is an act that requires courage. To endure as the spirit withers, the body erodes, and the mind falters into shadows. After all, what is there to live for when one no longer has a purpose?
Chapter 7: Arcanist
An unexpected sight awaited the ginger Disciple and Sparrow as they descended the staircase that led to the lobby of the Enchanted Hearth. The rough, raised voices of men that alternated between rage and fear bounced off the ash-gray walls decorated with murals of an enchanted forest. Mercedes hesitated as Raimund stopped on the bottom step and motioned for them to hang back while the tumultuous scene unfolded before them.
The albino was immediately fascinated by the towering mountain of flesh and muscle adorned by two large swollen ears that framed the creature’s bald head. Furrowed lumps of hairless skin where eyebrows should have been arched over two sunken orange eyes that glinted with restrained bestial rage peering down over a nose, uncommonly flat and wide, which flared in annoyance above a pair of dull brown lips from which two tusk-like teeth emerged.
“What is he?” Mercedes whispered aloud as she marveled at the creature's powerful build. Vortexus and their dark Master had long since inoculated the Sparrow's fear of the unknown, but she remained curious.
Raimund glanced back to confirm the direction of her gaze before responding, “That’s Tuggard. He’s a half-ogre. Not the most intelligent of creatures, but strong and fiercely protective of those who earn their loyalty and respect.”
The Sparrow let out a faint snort as she took in the two squirming men held captive over the half-ogre’s left shoulder. Tuggard dragged a third human by the collar with his right hand, which drew the albino's attention to the creature's bulbous knuckles and fingers, each tipped with thick, black, dog-like claws.
"This is discrimination!" The dragged man wheezed as he struggled against the collar pulled tightly around his throat.
The half-ogre carried all three over to the lobby's front desk, where a slender beauty with ash-blonde hair braided over her shoulder observed them with an expression of disapproval. Tuggard grunted softly in her direction before he dropped his squirming load into a pile on the floor.
“Now, see here!” The first of the men to recover protested as he scrambled to his feet. “I will not be treated in this fashion. As a registered Scholar, I demand to speak to the Proprietor at once.”
“Mr. Eckles,” the ash-blonde woman interjected as she stared down her spectacles at the moaning men. “You and your comrades owe this establishment twelve days’ worth of facility fees. You have already been granted two extensions. I’m afraid the Proprietor has made his final decision to evict and ban all three of you from the premises forthwith. Now, you can either walk out on your own two feet or be thrown out.”
The receptionist inflicted the final three words with the sharp tap of a perfectly manicured fingernail, to which Tuggard added his own breathy grunt that sounded like a wild boar issuing a challenge.
Mercedes eyed the spokesman of this ragged group of men inquisitively. His garments appeared finely made despite their tattered and dirty appearance that hung loosely against his bony frame as if the man had lost a great deal of weight. His comrades fared little better, though a few of them clutched ridiculously tall hats against their chests.
The trench coat the spokesman beggar wore was embroidered with golden threads, hinting at a past life of luxury, yet deprived of even a single button—as if they had been severed and possibly pawned to cover his loss of funds. The elegant cane he clung onto, his bony fingers like pale, withered worms peeking through ripped leather gloves, was heavily polished as if it were his last remaining treasure.
“My name is Lord Eckles,” the beggar hissed as he motioned for his comrades to rise. “And what would you have us do? Sleep on the streets?”
“I have no interest in your future accommodations, Mr. Eckles,” the receptionist said with a note of weary frustration. “Due to your unfortunate circumstances, our Proprietor has generously decided to forgive your past debt rather than report you to the Sentinel Corps.”
Lord Eckles bristled as if affronted by her comment but sucked in his resentment as he attempted to offer her a pitiful smile. “There must be some other way we can remedy this situation. To be thrown out at such a late hour is cruel and—”
“Well, I’m sure that if you hurry, the Welfare Office will still be open and able to answer any questions you have as far as shelters and earning a livable wage,” the receptionist interjected, her attention now focused on the guest register logbook before her. “However, from this point forward, the Enchanted Inn will no longer be shouldering the burden of your inadequacies. Now, leave the premises. I have other guests to attend to. Tuggard.”
The half-ogre placed a muscular arm equal in size to Eckle's shoulder width between the evicted men and the receptionist currently scribbling in her logbook. Lord Eckles and his two quibbling comrades continued their protest as they were herded toward the Inn’s front door beneath Tuggard’s menacing glare. The half-ogre’s thudding footsteps softened once he slammed the entrance doors behind them.
“Mundanes!” the receptionist hissed with obvious distaste. She returned her quill to its waiting ink well and then offered a welcoming smile in the direction of the Sparrow and ginger Mystic. “Disciple Raimund! How can I assist you?”
“Lilibet,” Raimund returned with a note of warm familiarity as he approached. “I was hoping you could help us with a Lodging Voucher for this future student of Arcanum Mystic Academy.”
“Oh?” Lilibet’s smile brightened as she turned her attention to Mercedes. “Cutting it rather close, aren't you?"
“Well, she only just arrived,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “Better she has the means to defend herself sooner rather than later, especially given the recent influx of riffraff mucking about the city these days.”
“True enough.” The receptionist sighed as she brushed the loose bangs of her ash-blonde hair behind a rather long, pointy, and delicate-looking ear. “I can’t believe I used to feel sorry for those entitled louts.”
“They’re Mundanes,” Raimund said before glancing in the albino’s direction. “The Initiate came from a Mundane world herself.”
“Why do you call them Mundanes?” Mercedes interjected, hoping to get a better grasp of the conversation as Lilibet busied herself filling out what the albino guessed to be a voucher.
“I dunno. Always have.”
“Mundane is a term we use for humans and other intelligent races who lack even the basic affinity or talent for magic,” Lilibet supplied, shooting the Apprentice a stern look. “And you call yourself a teacher?”
“Assistant teacher,” Raimund corrected with a faint smirk. “It’s the same reason we call places like your old world Mundane worlds. There’s little to no magic left in them, either because they were drained of magic long ago or never had any to begin with.”
‘How do you drain a world of magic?’
“There we go, one Lodging Voucher—I just need a name to put down for it,” Lilibet announced, her quill raised expectantly as her silver-green eyes focused on the albino.
“Mercedes,” the Sparrow replied.
The receptionist’s quill stilled, and her blonde brows furrowed with a curious expression before she scribbled the information down. “It’s a lovely name, Mercedes. Welcome to the Enchanted Hearth. Master Nicodemus has already covered your next two weeks in advance, so rest assured, we will see to your every comfort.”
‘How generous of him.’
The minimized green quest screen dinged quietly in the background as the albino accepted the voucher and then turned to the ginger Disciple beside her.
“Ah, Lilibet,” Raimund spoke up quickly. “Could we trouble you to ask the Proprietor if we can make use of the VIP teleportation portal? We’re in a bit of a rush to finish her registration in time for class tomorrow.”
“I’m—afraid that isn’t covered in the services Master Nicodemus paid for,” the receptionist answered hesitantly as she tidied her desk. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt to ask. One moment.”
“You’re a gem, Lilibet.”
Mercedes observed the pair as she tucked the voucher into her trouser pocket. She suspected Disciple Raimund was flirting with the receptionist, who appeared amused, if anything, by his efforts.
‘Those ears. I wonder if she has fairy or elf blood running in her veins?’
The Sparrow decided it would be rude to press for more information and turned her attention to the decorative vase of flowers on the corner of the lobby desk. The delicate, fragrant aroma they gave off confirmed they were real flowers and not the fake silk floral decorations Eldermoor brought out whenever they had important guests.
The albino's pale brows furrowed as her gaze returned to the ginger Mystic, who whistled absently beside her. “Disciple Raimund—why are there Mundanes in this world?”
The careless tune halted as he turned to face her. “Well, it’s—not a very common thing. They’ve only recently begun to appear far more often than they should.”
“But how do they get here?” Mercedes pressed, sensing he was trying to dodge her question. “Mundanes can’t use magic, so they would be unable to operate a teleportation circle.” She knew that much from her own hardships trying to get here.
Raimund ran a hand through his ginger locks and offered her a bemused smile before responding. “Most of them likely encountered a spellcaster in their original world. Travelers of the Realms who, either accidentally or intentionally, stumble upon a new world. The Primordials, who control the space between our realms, prevent Mystics from carrying magic items and weapons into these new worlds and vice versa. So, naturally, all these traveling spellcasters have to rely on is their knowledge and innate power.”
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‘Like the High Priestess and Lich King?’
“Depending on how little magic essence this world has, a Mystic’s innate powers can become quite limited, so they’re forced to rely on the support of nobles, like Lord Eckles, who are often tricked into handing over their entire wealth in exchange for passage to the Mystic Realm. Once the Mundanes end up here, the Sentinel Corps and Bureau of Arcane Transit and Nexus Registration do their best to return these unfortunate souls back to their original world. Unfortunately, they are often resistant, and—in some cases, they no longer have a world to go back to.”
“I see,” Mercedes said, a certain heaviness weighing down her chest as her gaze returned to the vase of vibrant flowers.
“An inquisitive mind is a good thing, Initiate,” Raimund responded as he patted her shoulder encouragingly, misinterpreting her expression once more. “But should you run into those Mundanes or others in the future, I would keep your distance. They might be weaker than us genetically, but they have fallen on hard times, and many of them resent us because they cannot have the magic we were born with.”
“Being without basic necessities is something every noble should experience at least once in their life,” Mercedes retorted with a faint scoff. ‘Judging by their attitude, I doubt those men were very generous or forgiving in their previous world.’
“Perhaps.” The ginger Disciple shrugged. Either way, they won’t starve if they use the Welfare System that Grandmaster Iskander put in place to help them survive here.” He returned his focus to the back door the receptionist had disappeared through before adding, “I wouldn’t pay them too much mind in either case. They aren’t much tolerated within the inner city, and no one gains access to the Citadel without an invitation from the Academy or the Grandmaster.”
Mercedes was spared from formulating a response by the return of Lilibet, who held open the back door as the inn’s Proprietor appeared. He was a middle-aged man with graying light brown hair down to his shoulders and an even paler beard and mustache that twitched with each breath as he hobbled his way towards the reception desk, leaning heavily on a sturdy wooden cane. His brown mantle and clothes were simple compared to the bright colors of the receptionist who trailed behind him and the Disciple’s flamboyant garb.
Perhaps that was why the albino’s gaze was drawn to the Proprietor's face, etched with lines and wrinkles that recorded a life of toil and suffering. But it was the man’s eyes that caused Mercedes to hold her breath. They were shrouded and sunken in and carried the fogged, weary gaze of someone who had witnessed a horror they could never quite be free of.
The Sparrow averted her gaze as the man's vacant grey eyes turned in her direction.
“Disciple Raimund,” the Proprietor stated, his voice low and whispery, lacking both strength and emotion. “Lilibet tells me you wish to use my teleportation system?”
“Yes, that is if we could trouble you, Arcanist Esmond,” Raimund said with an audible note of respect. “I shall be happy to cover whatever cost the service requires."
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Esmond responded firmly as he turned back in the direction he had arrived. “Come. Follow me then. Consider it my gratitude for all the Citadel does to keep our little corner of the realms safe.”
“You are too kind, Arcanist.”
Mercedes shot the Disciple an inquisitive look, to which he quietly shook his head and then motioned for them to follow the Proprietor.
image [https://www.royalroad.com/dist/img/ornaments/16.png]
A familiar-looking magic circle awaited them in a room at the back of the Inn, secured behind a magically enchanted door and lock. Esmond opened both with a single wave of his hand and hobbled inside, sighing as he moved towards what looked like a panel of runes along the wall.
“Your destination, Disciple?”
“The Mystic Bank to collect the Initiate’s second voucher,” Raimund replied, taking the Sparrow’s elbow and guiding her to the edge of the magic circle.
“You will have to find another means of returning, but I can get you there easily enough.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage just fine. Thank you, Arcanist.”
Mercedes observed Esmond as he ran his fingers along the metallic blocks etched with hieroglyphs arranged in three rows. He appeared to move some runes up or down until the original line between the two had changed. Once he was satisfied, the Proprietor snapped his fingers, and the hieroglyphs and teleportation circle lit up with a brilliant purple aura.
“It is ready. Safe travels,” Esmond announced, folding his hands over his cane as he turned to observe them. His sunken eyes settled for a moment on the albino before he lowered his gaze, turned, and left.
“What is an Arcanist?” Mercedes whispered the moment he was gone.
“It is what we call Mystics who have forsaken the path to mystical enlightenment,” Raimund replied somberly. “Retired Mystics, if you will. Most of them were forced to give up their studies after an injury or failing to reach the rank of Master, while others—chose to abandon their calling.”
“So then—” she mused. “He is a Disciple like you.”
“No,” Raimund said, his gaze turning toward the closing doors. “He was a Grandmaster. He still would be, but—” He tapped her back and nodded towards the waiting portal. “A story for another time, Initiate.”
‘What could make someone who rose to the rank of Grandmaster give up all that power?’ The Sparrow shivered as she recalled the expression lurking behind the Arcanist’s empty gaze and decided that she was better off not knowing.
image [https://www.royalroad.com/dist/img/ornaments/16.png]
The waning Blood Moon loomed over the smoldering remains of Eldermoor Keep. The shattered gates, corpse-filled mote, and crumbling walls were a testament to the might of Necrothorn’s legions. The army of undead shroom zombies now stood listless in the somber silence as the three necromancers who commanded them gathered before the keep gates. Their pale, shrouded faces were illuminated by the acidic green glow of their deathly gaze, which focused on the approaching figure of their ruler.
Despite his bowed back and disease-riddled limbs, Lich King Balor moved with unsettling grace over the broken mortar and stone. His single necrotic eye glowed as he turned in the direction of his Disciples, who hastily lowered their gaze in respect. The Lich King emitted a faint grunt of approval, his exposed pale jawbone shifting as yellow teeth presented a perpetual grin before what little remained of his nose sniffed the night breeze curiously.
His crowned shroud turned in the direction of the fallen fortress’s chapel as he uttered a guttural question in the otherworldly language of the dead, to which his necromancers bobbed their heads silently.
Curiosity turned to delight as the Lich King wandered through the wrecked remains of Serenitus’s temple and beheld the pale, unblemished corpse of the High Priestess Primula. Balor sniffed again, then turned his inquisitive gaze to the nether spikes that had transformed the temple walls into a realm of nightmares. He grazed a bony finger over one of the spikes and shivered at the malevolent darkness that lingered within them.
“It is impossible. He cannot be free. And yet, the magic of the Abyss is undeniably here. What then? An agent? What is their purpose?”
His single glowing eye returned to the pale, dead blonde as a slow, dry cackle rattled from the depths of his corrupted soul. “This was not how I anticipated our little dispute ending, High Priestess.” The Lich King approached this unexpected treasure cautiously, even reverently, unable to grasp how such a rare gem had been so carelessly mislaid.
“You poor forsaken soul,” Balor crooned, his voice a storm of voices from the undying realm. “How disappointing that you should fall by a hand other than mine own? A pity. I did enjoy our fruitful battles. Your scathing words of reproach every time I forced you to retreat have filled my dreamless nights with sheer delight. There, there, now, my honeyed goddess. Do not fret.”
The Lich King lowered himself with some difficulty to kneel amongst the crushed porcelain crockery beside his fallen enemy. He then placed a bony finger against the Priestess’s temple. “Allow me to peer into your memories and see the face of he who struck you down.”
Primula’s clouded eyes shot open. Her soft blue iris brightened as they filled with the Lich King's necrotic magic.
The servant of Necrothorn let out a rattled sigh as he closed his single eye in concentration. A cold fog stretched out from beneath his robes, then his back straightened, his eye blinking rapidly in disbelief, before tilting his gaze down to the Priestess’s chest. “You—are untethered,” Balor whispered, his voice trembling with sinister delight. “But that is impossible.”
The Lich studied her body critically. His gaze focused for a moment on the void spear that impaled her to the ground before locating the killing wound along her left rib. The undead king traced the cut and exposed skin, then slid his bony finger through the incision as he focused the dead woman’s memories on the moment of her death.
A vision appeared before him. The faint, frail outline of a small figure with short white hair, more smoke than solid, her face unidentifiable as she leaned over the dying Priestess.
“This will not do,” Balor reproached as he forced two more fingers inside his captive. “You must show me—everything.”
The High Priestess’s body twitched and spasmed. Her glowing green eyes rolled into the back of her skull while her pale lips spread open beneath an agonized death rattle.
“Your will is strong.” Balor smiled as he forced more of Necrothorn’s magic inside his enemy’s unguarded corpse. “My Master is stronger.”
Primula stiffened and arched in torment as her soul was dragged through the veil of the abyss to reclaim her cold, dead corpse. Stiff, ice-cold fingers wrapped themselves around the Lich King’s bony wrist as she attempted to pry his filthy fingers and magic from her body.
Balor laughed at her futile efforts before leaning in to mockingly smooth her disheveled hair, tracing a hard white distal bone along the cut on her cheek as the undead Priestess glared up at him. “You, who once feared death, shall now fear the torture of living. Necrothorn’s will waits to embrace you. Accept your fate, High Priestess, and I shall transform you into my undead Queen. Now, tell me the name of the one who killed you.”
Primula's throat convulsed as she sputtered, torn between the will of the Lich King’s Titan Master, Necrothorn, and the terrifying grip that still clung to her soul from the horror trapped in the depths of the Abyss. Tears of blood spilled down her cheeks as she wept, unable to speak the name of her Titan Master, Serenitus, or the Primordial who had once protected her.
Agony spilled into resentment and churned into bitterness until it was transformed into the all-consuming blaze of unadulterated hatred that focused on the source of her misfortune.
“The—Sparrow!” Primula seethed in a strained, layered, husky voice as she stared back into the gaze of her new Master. “She did this to me! She and that accursed Primordial who sent her.”
“Her name, my Queen.”
“I—cannot speak it,” the undead Priestess wept bitterly. “He will not let me.”
Balor tilted his head at this unexpected hurdle and then sighed. “You are weaker than I understood you to be.”
“You know his name as well as I, Master,” she wept as he removed his bony fingers from her flesh. “You who have gazed into the darkness of the Abyss that has become His prison.”
The Lich King rose sharply, understanding rattling through his bones as he took in the nest of poisoned nether needles around them. Balor's single eye flickered with darkness as he forced the name through gritted teeth. “Nyxus.”
Beneath the folds of his relic robes, the undead Mystic’s heart trembled for the first time in eons as his sharp mind perceived the first glimmer of the coming apocalypse that was sure to send oceans of souls to his Primordial god, Thanaterus.
“So,” Balor murmured as his single eye returned to admire his newly acquired jewel. “She is a bribe to buy my silence.” He chuckled, relishing the undead Priestess’s continued futile efforts to preserve the sanctity of her soul. “Then I should make sure to enjoy your gift fully, nameless Harbinger.”
With a wave of his hand, the Lich King raised his undead bride, prying Primula free from the void spear and steadying her beside him as her severed spine fused back together. “Come, my Queen," Balor beckoned as he grasped her ice-cold hand with an unholy smile. "We have souls to reap and Temples to topple. Soon, all of Elysian will kneel in terror at the feet of their once beloved Savior and Necrothorn’s Champion.”