1

Alden crashed into the marble steps that led up to the manor and felt them break beneath him. There was no time to focus on the force that sent him flying, that mysterious power that pushed him back like a powerful gust of wind and, at the same time, somehow not. There was only the pain he felt, a wracking pain all across his legs and back, and the sudden realization that he could not breathe. Forcing a gasp, he tried to hoist himself up, yet when his legs did not follow his commands panic set in.

The white-bearded mage in purple robes approached him with a caution that bordered on fear, giving Alden enough time to conjure his magic. From beneath him came a whirlwind that lifted his body high above the manor’s grounds and away from the bearded mage; simultaneously, a wave of light encompassed him, the details of his injuries made clear.

It was as he’d feared. Paralysis. His spine was a twisted mess, broken into a thousand tiny fragments of shrapnel that tore into his flesh, the pain so unbearable it was a wonder he could retain his consciousness.

Another wave of light flashed over his body and the pain was gone, the nerves of the injured area shut off entirely as he poured his magic into it. Despite the lack of pain, the procedure was uncomfortable to the extreme; beneath soft flesh was hard bone that twisted just beneath the surface of his skin as his spine was realigned and its fragments molded back into place. A hasty maneuver that he could not afford the care he elsewise would, but it would have to do.

He landed softly just outside the manor’s perimeter. Strength returned to his legs and back, allowing him to stand. He stepped, half expecting to fall, then took another when he did not.

“An interesting magic,” Alden said to the bearded mage.

“The same to you.” There was a pause as the two observed one another. “May I ask your name?” the bearded mage eventually asked.

“My name is Alden.”

The man nodded, some hidden realization dawning. “You were the one in Coalben?” he eventually asked. “Tell me, are you?”

“I’ll have your name first. It is only fair.”

The man’s chest swelled with indignation. “Fair? What do you know of fairness, Alden? You, who was only a short while ago a meaningless gnat buzzing around in the air like so many others, yet has risen to such a level that you can face me and not perish instantly? Me, a veteran Master Mage of Highharrow? Me, who trained under the direct tutelage of Custodian Bastien Bassot for forty years? You know nothing of fairness, boy.”

“That is true,” Alden replied. His life in this world was blessed, despite his best efforts, such that the mage’s credentials, impressive as they sound, fell on deaf ears. Alden did not know this Bastien Bassot, nor did he know how powerful a Master Mage of Highharrow was, veteran or otherwise. Nor did it matter. The only thing that mattered was that the blessings served him, let him do as he pleased, gave him what he wanted.

And he wanted to know who this mage was.

Lukas Merveillo

Age: 53

Health: 530/612

Mana: 1562/1562

Stats

Strength: 25

Intelligence: 221

Wisdom: 76

Dexterity: 20

Agility: 30

Endurance: 17

Luck: 39

Charisma: 25

“Lukas Merveillo. I see it now. You are powerful indeed, worthy of your blustering. Had I been any other foe I might have believed it when you said you’d kill me.”

The mage’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You know me?”

“I know your name, at the least, and your power. A sizable power, at that. Forty years of study, you said? It shows in your methods. I suppose you would not tell me the secret of the attack you used on me?”

“I would not,” the mage replied.

“Nor the invisibility?”

“Nor that.”

“Then I shall save us both from a meaningless battle,” Alden said, and lifted his hands.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A wave of magic flew out from him, invisible to the eye, and struck the mage. He listed forward, a hand clasping the side of his head as nausea took him, but just as he was about to fall he caught himself and stood.

“An interesting trick,” Lukas said, “but one easily beaten.”

“Not so easy, it seems to me,” Alden replied. The other mages that had arrived with Lukas lay upon the ground, all of them unconscious.

The mage sneered. “I do not need them.”

With a flick of the hand he conjured his magic. Seeing the movement, Alden moved to the side, the spot where he once was becoming a crater of broken stone. A thousand stone needles struck against his skin as he moved, too fast to see, too fast to dodge. He ignored them and moved toward Lukas with all the speed he could muster.

Even with his enhanced speed the mage had time to react, loosing off two more blasts of the strange magic, each transforming the marble stonework into rubble and dirt. Before the mage could unleash a third, Alden was upon him. Wrapping a mighty hand around the mage’s, Alden squeezed hard, feeling the brittle bones of the mage’s hand crack and crumble.

Lukas screamed and lashed out with his remaining hand, but Alden caught it and crushed it beneath his grip.

Releasing the mage, Alden watched as he stumbled backwards, trails of blood leaking from mangled hands. Groaning, Lukas flicked his bloody hands at the ground and the spot between them became an explosion.

Falling hard against the marble ground, Alden scrambled to his feet and checked himself. His head was in turmoil as a swirl of pain and dizziness struck him. His arms and legs throbbed with dull pain, and blood poured from some unseen wound, but elsewise as he could tell he was fine, until the spot to his right exploded in a thunderous boom.

He was launched a ways by the blast and struck dirt this time. Soft by comparison to the marble, he lay in the dirt as he collected himself.

The mage was putting up a far greater fight than anticipated. Almost worthwhile, Alden thought, if he’d had any intent to kill him. But he did not.

He cursed his own morals and stood.

He did not bother to heal himself. Instead he spotted the mage, who now rested neatly against the edge of a water fountain, bloody hands wrapped tight against his bleeding side.

The mage had been too close, Alden surmised, and must have taken some shrapnel to the side. In any case, the mage was weak and growing weaker by the second. He did not even notice Alden as he approached.

Hard, haggard breathes told Alden all he needed to know.

“A miscalculation,” Lukas said in a low, raspy, tired voice. He shifted his posture and groaned.

“I believe this fight is over,” Alden said. He watched the mage’s face, saw the resistance in it. For a moment Alden thought the mage would try to fight again. But he did not, and whatever resistance he had died away.

“I believe you are correct,” the mage admitted. “Am I to live?”

“If I’d wanted you dead I would have killed you already.”

Lukas nodded. “An unusual decision, I would say, considering your history. The knight in Coalben, Aethelwulf? You killed him, did you not?”

“I did,” Alden said.

“Just a boy. Yet you spare me. Why?”

He didn’t know what to say. That he could not have afforded him mercy? That the situation was different, now that he was stronger? Both true, yet, inside, he could not accept either as an answer.

“A method of discovery, I suppose. I do not quite know myself. What I want, what I need, my lot in life. All are mysteries to me, and I wander blindly seeking answers. It was pure, dumb misfortune that he crossed my path then, and you now.”

“The Oracle…”

“Will give me my answers, yes. That is the hope, at least, but I did not choose this path. I merely walk it in the hopes of finding a better one.”

Lukas observed him with curious eyes, his skin growing pale from blood loss. There was hate there, behind the curiosity. A hate that Alden couldn’t understand.

“Why do you not heal yourself?” Alden asked, trying to ignore the hate he saw.

“I have no magic left to me,” Lukas said. A lie. His Status window showed as much. Though what was left was a mere fragment of his full capacity, the mage had more than enough to stop the bleeding.

“I will not stop your bleeding for you,” Alden said. “The injury is of your own doing, not my own. If it kills you, I will consider myself blameless.”

Lukas grimaced, then relented and conjured his magic.

Alden turned to the manor.

“You will not find the answers you seek,” Lukas said. He was standing now, if barely, a hand still clutching his side. “The Oracle cannot, will not, provide answers to one such as you.”

“We shall see.”

2

Lukas watched the giant turn away from him and approach the manor, heedless to Lukas’s words. His blood boiled to watch him go. That Lukas could not defeat him angered him, and to know he could not stop him angered him even more.

He hated that man. Almost as much as he hated Baron Licestor, but not quite. There were redeeming qualities in this strange giant, at the least. His power as a mage, for one. Lukas could not help but respect a mage such as him.

But his respect had its limits. He could not afford to allow the giant to reach the Oracle, his senses screamed as much. If he did, the war would be over.

O Azphine, by thine divine might, grant this servant succor.

Warmth encompassed him as he prayed and divine energies intertwined with his own, miniscule magic. It swelled within him, filling him to the brim and then, when he’d thought it would cease, swelled further. The power overflowed from him and for the first time he saw it, the ethereal light of divine power. Like shattered glass turned to smoke, it hovered and glimmered about him, a wisp of foreign power bent to his will.

It was a sign, he knew, could be nothing other than a sign. Untold power, greater than he had ever held, and meant to be used. Here. Now.

With hands together Lukas molded the power into a ball of righteous fire, the flames dyed white by the mystical nature of their source, and with a holy scream unleashed it.