Trees whipped into a blur around Jace. Wherever he looked, leaves rushed past his face. He couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the repeller-bike’s thrusters or the gusting wind. They shot through the forest, winding between trees, then down through a steep gully.

The gully made faster, sharper turns. Jace leaned side-to-side to maneuver rather than relying solely on the handlebars. The bike let out a mechanical whoop at each turn, accompanied by the rapid fluttering of air and thrumming of something inside the machine. But Kinfild didn’t slow down, so neither did Jace—he wouldn’t be left behind. On the straight sections, he pressed his legs tighter against the bike’s saddle, and it flew faster.

The bike was much faster and lower to the ground than a horse, but it still responded to his commands well. Sometimes, better than he expected.

“Watch out!” Lessa yelled. She pointed over his shoulder.

The current gully merged with a much deeper and wider stone-walled canyon. A walkway wound along the upcoming canyon’s wall, but there was a sharp turn to get onto it. It had no railing, and he’d have to slow down. He released his grip on the bike’s flanks and clenched his teeth, preparing to test out how tight the bike could truly turn.

“It has brakes!” Lessa shouted. “Not like a horse!”

Jace tilted his head. “Brakes? Where?”

“The grips on the handlebar!” she yelled. “Use them!”

Jace wrapped his fingers around the extra grips at the front of the handlebars, then clenched them tight. The thruster screeched and a gust of wind shot out from under the bike. He lurched forward in the saddle.

By the time they reached the corner, he had halved his speed. He and Lessa shot past Kinfild, who had braked much harder. Jace tightened all of his muscles. “Lean!” he yelled.

Both he and Lessa leaned toward the canyon wall, shifting the bike’s balance and helping it turn. Jace put a foot down, and his boot scraped against the stone. They passed only inches from the edge of the carved walkway. In the dark depths of the canyon, the shadows writhed.

Of course there were darklings here. Of course.

This new trail was only wide enough for one repeller-bike at a time, but Jace didn’t need a guide. They had arrived.

Ahead in the canyon, a natural bridge of rock ran across the top of the canyon. A thick chain stretched down from it, suspending a house above the depths. Its walls were metal painted white, its windows were dark, and a stone chimney belched smoke. A single rope bridge led across from the canyon to the base of the cottage. A bundle of wires and tubes ran beneath the bridge.

Jace tightened his legs again and allowed the repeller-bike to pick up speed again.

“That’s the Hanging House!” Kinfild shouted from behind. Now that they weren’t flying so fast, Jace heard the man easily. “Doesn’t look like Elder Stenol has maintained it…”

The statement was awfully hypocritical—the Luna Wrath wasn’t in prime condition either—but Jace held his tongue.

Lessa asked, “So who is this guy? He’s your old teacher, but—”

“He was an Elder of the Crimson Table, and often a guest lecturer at the Roteac Academy of Arcane Mastery,” Kinfild replied. “For ‘The History of Arcane Matters’ and ‘General Galactic History’—courses I was required to take when I attended the academy at the Foundation Two stage. It was there that he scouted me for the Crimson Table. He is wise, though a little harsh. I need you two to be respectful to him.”

They arrived at the start of the bridge and halted their repeller-bikes, then dismounted. To keep the bikes from drifting, they tied them up to a ladder on the canyon wall.

Lessa motioned to the bridge and said, “You go first, Mr. Wizard. He’s your teacher.”

Kinfild took the lead. He set a foot on the rope bridge. As soon as Jace trusted the boards wouldn’t crack beneath Kinfild’s weight, he stepped onto it as well. Lessa followed close behind.

When they reached the cottage, the door didn’t open automatically. Kinfild banged on it with his staff. “Elder Stenol? It’s Kinfild! I come—”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The door hissed open, sliding upwards into the roof, revealing a middle-aged man in a plain white tunic. His black hair was only slightly gray, and he had olive-green skin. This was an elder?

Then he bowed to Kinfild. “Stenol isn’t home, currently,” he said.

Just for good measure, Jace looked intently at him. A tag appeared above his head. [Level 7 Researcher]. Weaker than Kinfild by all measures.

“Good afternoon, Ryn,” Kinfild said, resting his staff on the inside wall of the house. He turned back towards Jace and Lessa and whispered, “This is Elder Stenol’s current graduate student…” He looked up again and continued, louder, “...in the thirty-fourth year of his Doctorate?”

“Correct,” Ryn replied. He looked at Jace and Lessa. “Please, you two, wipe your boots before entering, or just take them off, or—” He cut himself off, and glanced back at the room. Paper and trinkets cluttered the desks, and empty crates filled every corner of the room. “Oh, what does it matter, anymore?” Ryn waved his hand through a dusty sunbeam. “Elder Stenol doesn’t keep this place clean.” He dipped his head towards Kinfild. “Apologies if that’s too harsh. I—”

“It’s alright, Ryn,” Kinfild stepped into the center of the room. “Where is Elder Stenol?”

Jace and Lessa stepped into the cottage, and the door shut behind them. The cramped vestibule made Jace’s heartbeat rise. He inched along the wall toward a window and unbuttoned his coat so he could reach his bayonet easily—or, if he had to, the Whistling Blade.

He stood next to a table. None of the papers made any sense to him, but there was more here than just the random musings of a Wielder. There were vials, filled with an entire rainbow’s worth of colours of dust, and a few plastic-y sheets with embedded metal wires. They were the base of technique cards, except no matter how long Jace looked at them, he couldn’t make a description appear above them.

Maybe they were blank. As casually as he could, he plucked up a few and pocketed them. They might be useful later.

“Stenol left two days ago,” Ryn said. “He said he was heading to Roteac Academy, for the Changing of the Seasons festival.”

“Roteac,” Lessa whispered to Jace, “is the capital planet of the Koedor-Terginian Empire. It’s autumn there.”

“Are Wielders…common there?” he whispered back.

“Across the galaxy, only one in a billion have enough spirit potential to cultivate Aes,” she said. “And only the worldjumpers have enough spirit potential to interact directly with the mechanics of the Split.”

Jace nodded. He didn’t know what to add to the conversation, so he continued to walk along the wall. He passed in front of the fireplace. Only a pilot flame burned in it right now, and some sort of sweet-smelling gas fuelled it.

“Stenol said he had an important meeting at the Academy, too. In…” Ryn looked down at his wrist, where a watch-like implant pierced out of his flesh. “...six hours, almost on the nose. The Archduke will be there, and at least a couple ambassadors from Phélae. It’ll be quite the party.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure.” Kinfild stroked his beard. He peered at a slip of paper hanging on the wall, then nudged a fallen textbook with his foot. “Is Elder Stenol doing alright?”

“He is nervous, as I’m sure most people are.” Ryn leaned closer to Kinfild, then whispered, “Something’s coming. Yesterday, I flew to Noarshead. The spacers from the Starrealm were saying that the dark nebulae beyond the Wall…well, they were seething.”

A gust of wind blasted past again, and the cottage shook. Something shifted in the corner of Jace’s vision—something outside the window. He turned around and peered outside again, but there was nothing above or below the house.

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Kinfild patted Ryn on the shoulder, and his smile reeked of false reassurance. “The spacers like to make up stories.”

“All of them were saying it, Kinfild,” Ryn replied. “Darklings are coming out of the forests at night, goblins are roaming through deepspace, and the hyperroutes beyond the Wall are destabilizing.”

And the worldjumpers are arriving, Jace thought. He didn’t say it aloud. Instead, he doubled his concentration on whatever was going on outside—because something was happening. A bush at the top of the canyon shook, but there was no wind. It didn’t shake again.

“That is why I need to speak with Elder Stenol,” Kinfild said. “Urgently.” He turned around, but Ryn grabbed his wrist.

“Now, wait a moment,” Ryn demanded. “No matter how friendly you two are, Elder Stenol is incredibly busy…and he told me not to let anyone bother him.”

Kinfild lifted a book off the desk, then blew the dust off it. Sarcastically, he muttered, “Yes, I’m sure.”

“But—”

“Like I said, it’s urgent.”

There was flash of silver steel at the top of the canyon. Jace didn’t spot what it belonged to, but it wasn’t native to the forest. He hissed, “Kinfild, there’s something—”

Before Jace could finish, a bright magenta flash seared his eyes. A sharp and loud whine accompanied it—plasmafire.

Jace froze. There was a glowing hole in the wall beside him. A trail of smoke ran through the air beside his shoulder. He traced it back up to the canyon wall, where the silver glint had taken on a humanoid form. It carried a plasma rifle, but Jace never got a good look. “Get down!” he shouted, then dropped to his stomach.

The walls imploded. Streaks of magenta plasma tore through the walls and shattered the windows. Their roar pressed against Jace’s eardrums and made his head sting.

Lessa tackled Ryn to the ground, and Kinfild pressed himself down against the floor as well.

They couldn’t stay in the Hanging House. It was exposed and open, and if it fell, they would all die. Jace rolled onto his back. Streaks of plasma (or, more accurately, plasma-aspect Aes) crossed through the air above him.

They wouldn’t make it out alive without a distraction.

Jace glanced at the fireplace. He had an idea.