The boy hauled himself up the step incline, trying in vain to keep up with the old man. The wind drove at them relentlessly, numbing him down to the bone. The only light he had to guide him was the silver nimbus of Petras’ hair.

Nothing was colder than the dread and resentment he held in his heart, a weight so heavy it sunk to depths of apathy. Petras had awoken him from a deep sleep, yanking the blankets off him. “Get dressed! We must go.” Not a word more was said. Clumsily the boy dressed, knowing better than to argue or ask questions. At worst his questions would be answered with a stony silence; at worst with a night or two spent down in the cellar. He didn’t feel like spending a night in the cellar.

Now he regretted thinking a night in the cellar was the worst thing. At least I’d have a roof over my head protecting me from the wind and the snow.

The boy watched his tutor wearily, willing himself to ascend the hill. Petras was not like most old people who became slow and brittle as they aged. If anything he seemed to grow stronger, more sly even as his eyes gleamed with madness. And madness, the boy knew, was catching and he feared its all-consuming touch more than the dark.

The ground became steeper yet, leading them deeper into the mountain. Leading him deeper into the woods than Bennett and he had ever ventured before. Unlike Petras, the boy did not have a staff to help him grapple up the hill. He slipped and slid and crawled like a creature unfamiliar with his own limbs. Eventually the murk was broken by the silver glow of the aether tree. Petras stopped, his silver hair whipping about in the wind. He looked up at the twisting network of tree branches; the rigid stoniness of his face made the boy feel uneasy.

Now Petras turned to look at him. For a long time he did not speak. So long the boy thought the chill of the wind had frozen him from the inside out. At last Petras held up his staff so that the white fire within the runes caught the moonlight. “All your life from the moment you were old enough to want such things you have wanted a staff of your own,” Petras said. Though he spoke barely louder than a whisper there was a deep resonance to his voice that carried over the wind. “To wield a staff takes great discipline. You’ve tasted for yourself how addicting it can be to use Monad’s fire. Many practitioners have given their souls over to the thirst for power, hence the start of the Age of Madness in the First Iteration. But that is a story you have heard many times.”

Petras paused long enough to rest a hand on the aether tree’s gnarled trunk. It was the first time the boy had seen something like affection on his face. “We are kindred to this tree. Monad’s light runs through its roots the same way it does in our veins. When we drink from its snap…or I’ve seen you smoke those joints with that boy…it not only calms us but opens our mind to the world around us. It is also the bark from which this staff was made. It is the only wood capable of channeling Monad’s holy light.”

The boy hugged himself, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He listened intently.

“In order to acquire a staff like the one I have, you must make your own,” his tutor continued. “Just the way I did. I climbed the tree and I cut a branch down. For days I fasted, not eating or drinking. During that time I prayed to Monad to guide my hand, to help me turn a tree branch into something that could turn mountains to sand. Tonight, to wield a staff of your own you must climb the tree and cut down a branch.”

It was the boy’s turn to look up at the tree; he did not do so with the same reverence Petras had. Not this time. Does he mean for me to fall and break my neck?

“Do not falter now, boy!” Petras snapped. His eyes burned with white fury in the gloom, the only sign anything had changed with him at all. “Drajen's wrath spreads across the land, spilling practitioner blood in every direction…what little left there is to spill. It won't be long before Elysia's fire engulfs us all, until our people are not but ash and memory. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded shakily. He approached the tree on shaking legs. He'd climbed trees before aplenty, but never one this tall. Monad's light burns in us all. Through him I can do anything.

With brittle fingers, he hauled himself up the tree, breath hissing through clenched teeth. He did not dare look below for fear looking would be the death of him; he tried not to think about Petras watching him coldly from the ground. He didn't stop. Stopping meant death.

Monad's flame must have burned in him for he managed to sling a leg over a branch and pull himself up until he straddled it between his thighs. Only then did he realize his tutor had not given him a tool to cut through the wood with. Not even a knife. Of course he didn't, the bastard. He glared down at his tutor's shadowy outline. He hoped the bastard could see him, even if he ended up spending a night in the cellar. It was worth it just for the sweet moment of defiance; even a small act was freeing. You madman. Sometimes I wonder if your only intent is to get me killed.

He was getting distracted, his thoughts sluggish. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand if he wanted to keep all his fingers and toes. He pushed his desperation and resentment for Petras up his arms and into his hands. Red fire sprouted from his palms, warming his hands - perhaps he was not completely helpless from the cold after all. He placed his burning hands over the branch. He felt it begin to buckle beneath his weight. He tried to grab a hold of the tree branch before it collapsed beneath him but it was too late. He plummeted towards the ground, the earth rising up to meet him.

He closed his eyes, preparing himself for death. Had he not landed in a thick bed of freshly fallen snow he would have, but alas his fall was cushioned. Not to say it didn’t knock the breath from his lungs. Panting, he rose into a sitting position with the smoking branch in his hands. He blew at it, shoveling snow onto it with hands gone blue from the cold.

Before he could allow himself to indulge in this small victory, he rose to his feet, remembering his tutor still watched. And his tutor had an unpredictable temper. Lately he’d taken to striking the boy whenever it pleased him, always parting with a disparaging insult that cut down to the bone. “If I ever needed proof this world is a mistake, I only need look at you” was one and it wasn’t the worst. Such insults, delivered without mercy, made the boy want to crawl deep inside himself where the old man’s words couldn’t touch him.

He searched for the old man.

The spot where the old man had been standing was empty. Only footprints, already being brushed away by winter’s uncaring hand, showed proof he’d been there at all.

The boy gaped at the spot, stunned. He shouldn’t have been. Petras was a cruel man and he only grew crueler as the plague of madness that afflicted all practitioners when they aged beyond their prime. He just left me! How am I going to find my way back? I don't know the way…

He rose to his feet, aching and shaking all over. Emotions boiled inside him, making his eyes glow white: fear, loneliness, an anger so great he felt he could combust on the spot. A voice in the back of his mind reminded him he had to breathe - pull the lungs into his air, push it back out; anger would not help him survive the cold.

He'd have to find his way back on his own and hope Monad would guide the way. He followed the directions of Petras' tracks, squinting, desperate to spot the next one before the wind blew it from existence. It was uncanny how quickly the man could move, as if he were made of air itself. A mile in there were no tracks left to guide him by. An animal's whimper broke through the trees, making his heart jerk and stall in his chest; it took a moment to realize the animal he heard was himself.

The boy pushed the fear down and forged ahead. He reminded himself he was not helpless, just exhausted. He knew of a cave where Bennett and he had camped on many stormy nights like this. Their own secret pocket away from the world.

A howl broke his concentration.p

Not the howl of the wind but the howl of a wolf. This time it wasn't coming from him or his imagination.

Another broke through the trees. Another and another.

He could see lupine shapes shooting through the dark, furry streaks of white, black, and grey against the snow. During the summer months they were harmless; occasionally they braved into Annesville, the village two miles West of the farm to feed on goats and chickens, but during the Winter months when wildlife was scarce they became desperate with hunger. Rabid.

Already one of them lunged at him now, claws extended, teeth peeling back from its fangs in a snarl. He threw his arm out, unleashing a ball of red flame that sent the creature flying. It struck the snow with a whimper of pain that made its pack howl in response. The boy readied himself for another attack but he needn't have bothered. Not willing to make the same mistake as their wounded mate, they scattered East, snarling and yipping. The boy waited until they were out of sight, his breath steaming the air. The adrenaline pumping through his veins turned his blood to boiling; a thousand needles stabbed into his frostbitten hands.

By the time he reached the cave, he was delirious from the cold and exhaustion. He stopped once more, gawking. A halo of dancing orange light filled the cave. “Bennett?” he whispered. Hope stirred in his heart. He staggered the rest of the way to the cave and did not stop until he stood in it's entrance.

There his best friend sat - sometimes he was something more, wasn't he? - before a roaring fire, his back turned. His blonde hair looked gold from this vantage point.

A bark made the boy jump back. A slim four-legged shot towards him. The boy's first thought was that he had not escaped the wolves after all. The feeling of a slobbery, warm tongue lapping affectionately against his hand snapped the boy out of the shock.

“Crowe?”

Bennett had risen to his feet and was now stepping towards him, his brow furrowed. “In the name of Monad, did you get stuck out in the storm, too?”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Crowe couldn't speak, his teeth were chattering so hard.

Bennett wrapped a wolf's pelt around his shoulders, ushering him towards the fire. Crowe was too desperate to feel warmth again to turn away from him in embarrassment. Cedric licked his face affectionately, extracting a laugh from the young practitioner. Bennett did not leave Crowe's side, shooing the massive dog aside. He hugged the younger boy - they were only two years apart, a divide that seemed greater with each passing day - trying to rub the sensation back into his shoulders. Crowe didn't mind the treatment; Bennett could be very sparing with his affection.

It pleased him that Bennett was pissed at his…master?...his tutor…?...his…his father? No, no, no Petras would knock him upside the head so hard it would turn his skull around if he so much as dared call him, “father.” For even the biggest brute of a father would show more affection for his son than Petras had ever shown Crowe.

“Did Petras do this to you? Did he?”

Bennett was in a genuine frenzy, his voice cracking, deepening with fury. It was rare too see him show such emotion beyond affability. Bennett was the sort of man who kept his deepest secrets and darkest thoughts close to his chest; he reminded Crowe of his tutor in that way.

Struggling to form words at first, the practitioner told his friend how he'd come to be at the cave on this night. How Petras had yanked the blankets off him, how he'd let Crowe into the dark of night without an explanation as to where they were going or why. He told Bennett how he'd almost died getting the stupid branch from the stupid aether tree and about the wolf attack.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bennett whispered, his voice tender; his brown eyes looked black against the fire. “You're with me. You're safe. We'll get through the storm together.”

Crowe allowed himself a moment to relish in these words; a taste of happiness he felt he'd more than earned. Was it selfish to think so?

“Are you hungry?” Bennett jumped to his feet again, white strong teeth flashing with pride. He was tall enough - taller than Crowe - he had to stoop to keep from bashing his head on the cave wall. He pointed to the sled he'd handcarved and bound together with strips of leather cord; a buck rested on the bed of the sled, a single beast black eye staring up lifelessly at the ceiling.

“I was going to cut it up and sell half of it to the village. I'd keep the other half for Pa and me. I'll give you some as well. I have something else for you as well.”

Crowe was too tired to look over his shoulder as Bennett rustled about at the sled. Within a minute the sturdy blacksmith's apprentice was at his side, presenting him with an all too familiar leather satchel. “Knowing you, I figured you were out. You smoke like a chimney.”

The practitioner tried to hide a guilty grin and failed. His hands had steadied enough he was able to pull a joint from the satchel and light the tip in the fire. He took a long, appreciative drag. He offered it to Bennett. Bennett shook his head. “You get to have that one all too to yourself. We’ll share the next one. My gift to you. Here’s some leftover jerky Pa gave me before I left.”

They sat in silence, smoking and sharing jerky. Crowe lost himself in thinking about what would happen when he returned home. He imagined Petras sitting in his favorite armchair before a fire much like this one, waiting for him the way a predator waits for its prey. Normally Bennett would attempt to shake him out of it, uncomfortable with long, awkward silences. Tonight, however, he stared into the flames with the same distant look as the practitioner, lost in his own thoughts.

“The time is close,” he said at last. The somber tone of his voice made Crowe look up. It was rare to hear him sound so grave.

“What are you talking about?” Only after he’d asked the question did Crowe realize he didn’t want to know.

“‘Til the day I turn eighteen. ‘Til the day I tell my father he can stuff his hot iron up his ass and you tell Petras he can stuff his staff up his and we leave Annesville behind.”

The young sorcerer could feel a familiar grin pulling at his lips. The grin of fantasy. The grin of someone who had spent many hours pining for a life that was far beyond his reach. He quickly tempered that grin. Already he could hear Petras’ cynical voice in his mind, calling out the pipe dream for what it was. “You don’t really think that’s going to happen, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Bennett eyed him with genuine surprise as if it simply couldn’t be possible that Crowe would doubt him in the slightest.

The practitioner bit back a bitter laugh. There were so many answers to that question, both big and small. All mattered. All presented evidence to the contrary. “Well there’s Delilah. I know you’re very fond of her.” He smiled to hide the acid that doused his tongue when he said the name.

Bennett rolled his eyes. “We’ve had fun a few times. It’s nothing special.”

She certainly thinks it’s something special, the practitioner thought. And you certainly don’t do anything to dissuade her of the notion. He raised the joint to his mouth to keep the words at bay.

“What of your father?” Crowe asked.

“What of him?”

“He thinks you’re going to marry her and you’re going to both have beautiful blonde haired children.” The practitioner cocked his head, watching the older boy from the corner of his eye.

Bennett shook his head with a rueful grin. “I’m not meant to get married and have children. I want to live abroad, getting into trouble with my best mate, getting into trouble and watching each other’s backs like we’ve always done.” He slung an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders, pulling him in; all at once he went very still. He watched the practitioner intently, his face frozen in time. Crowe felt his own heart stall in anticipation despite his internal attempt to ward it off. “The only road I care about is the one you walk on. The one you and I walk on together.”

The rugged tone of Bennett’s voice sent a shiver up Crowe’s spine. All at once the cave felt too small, Bennett too hot. Crowe shifted away from him, overwhelmed with emotion: fear, elation. Bennett was being affectionate now that they were alone, but as soon as the world intruded upon their little sanctuary - and it often did in one way or another - he would be back to pandering for the approval of the crowd.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Bennett asked after a long dreadful silence.

Crowe kept his gaze focused on the fire; it had mostly died to smoking embers by now. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“Why do you think I want to join the rebellion?” The practitioner couldn't see Bennett's face but he could hear the hurt in his voice. It tugged at his heart; a heart he wished would turn to ice so he didn't have to feel disappointment's sting any more. “Who is it you think I'm fighting for if not you?”

With a few words Bennett struck a nerve in Crowe the only way Bennett could. He shot to his feet. “Don't put your grand ideas and fantasies on me. You want to join the rebellion because you think it will be just like the games we used to play in the woods…to boost your own ego.”

Bennett had backed him into a corner and he meant to draw blood. Judging from the way the blood drained from Bennett's face, the practitioner had succeeded. Crowe watched the older boy's expression flicker from shock to hurt in the space of seconds. Bennett's lips trembled and the sorcerer wondered if he'd taken things too far. Just when he thought the floodgates would break open, releasing chaos, the corner of Bennett's lip upturned in a tremulous smirk. “I forget behind that quiet doe-eyed facade is a sharp mind…and an even sharper tongue.”

Crowe laughed in spite of himself. “When provoked.” Realizing Bennett was trying to diffuse the situation, he glared at the older boy; Cedric watched the two boys argue wearily from a safe corner of the cave. The snowstorm continued to rage outside the cave but the boys seemed to have forgotten its existence.

Bennett took a step towards the practitioner, full lips thinned down to an uncertain line. “It wasn't my intention to provoke you, Crowe. I mean it. All my father does is talk about how the Theocracy are rounding practitioner's up...those they don't burn at the stakes, they send to work on Tannhaus' railroad or to The Black Diamond for experimentation. He says it's only a matter of time before they come for you and Petras.”

Crowe tried not to let this bit of information - what he already knew - hurt him, but it did. It hurt worse because Jebediah's (Bennett's father, the only blacksmith for miles around) repudiation towards Petras and Crowe was not entirely misplaced. It came not from a place of malicion but love…however misguided…for his son. The practitioner was not so blind he couldn't see or respect this. It didn't stop it from stinging or him from thinking, Petras doesn't like you either. He thinks you're going to turn us into the torchcoats.

He was trying not to be petty. He tried not to hold things against Bennett that were outside his control; outside both their control. He told himself his emotions were high because he was exhausted…because of the night he had. All of these were thoughts he'd had before and they were nothing more than distractions from the truth. We're not just growing up, we're growing apart as much as we might not want to admit it. To ourselves or to each other. The antics aren't funny any more, nor are the games. Only one of us is still playing.

Bennett was closing the distance between them, taking advantage of the stall in conversation. “I don't give a rat's ass about Delilah or Jeb or Petras or anyone in Annesville. You know that.”

Crowe chuckled tentatively, taking a particularly long drag on his joint. He ground the rest against the cave floor so he didn't have to look at Bennett. “Do I?”

Bennett leaned in until his breath tickled the practitioner's ear. “No one can make me do or say the things I do unless I'm around you.”

“I don't want you to get blown up because of me.” The sorcerer admitted this reluctantly but it was the truth. Not that it mattered. Bennett thought he was invincible.

The ignorance of youth.

“If I got blown up it wouldn't be because of you.” A bottle sloshed about in Bennett's hand. Crowe couldn't remember him reaching for it. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. The whole night had taken on a strange, dream-like quality. “It would be because I chose to fight for you. Because you're my best mate.” The larger of the two boys popped the cork with the blade of a dirk. The smell of whiskey bloomed in the cave, reminding Crowe of the long Summer nights when they would watch the sunset while passing a bottle of Jebediah's homebrew whiskey back and forth. Now he offered the bottle to the practitioner as was the custom.

“You don't have to fight for me. Just…stay with me.”

“Stay?” Bennett said the word as if Crowe had offered the worst possible suggestion he could possibly make. “Here? In Annesville?”

The practitioner bit his lip, wishing he'd never said a thing. And you always wonder why I'm so quiet around you. Why I never tell you how I feel. “I'm not of age yet…”

“I guess you aren't…” Bennett's face furrowed in puzzlement. “How old is Petras?”

Crowe scowled. “Over a thousand, how should I know? So what?” He snatched the bottle back, taking a long pull of whiskey. He was beginning to wish he'd braved the rest of the way home, frostbite be damned.

“That means you're just a baby.”

“Which means you're an old man in comparison.”

“Right now we're exactly in the middle.” Bennett gave Crowe a long look the practitioner couldn't read. “I love you. You know that don't you?”

The young sorcerer turned away, trying to hide the shiver that raced up his spine. Bennett teased him with kisses to the cheek in an attempt to coax him out of resistance. Eventually it worked. High and drunk from the aether and whiskey, each brush of Bennett's lips made Crowe's skin tingle pleasantly. He turned back to the blacksmith's apprentice, their lips meeting in the middle. The kiss tasted of whiskey and aether.

Bennett's heavier body pressed Crowe against the floor, exciting the practitioner. Their hands explored each other with the familiarity of two souls who have known each other for a very long time. His fingers found his way under Bennett's shirt while Bennett's fingers wound possessively through his black locks. In moments like these Crowe wondered why they always danced around each other so long when their bodies always collided together so beautifully.

Sometime later they lay on a pallet together with a wolf pallet wound around their naked bodies. Bennett looked down at Crowe, his face softened by tenderness and love. “One day I'm going to take you away from here,” he whispered, “and we're going to be happy together.”

Crowe laughed bitterly. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.