“Alyce, you mustn’t say that,” Jordan Feryah said to his Princess lying on the king-sized and lavishly adorned deathbed. His tone was calm. Nothing in the world could have brought anger out of him when faced with her.

“But it’s true,” Alyce said. “Mages haven’t found a cure in ten thousand years. What makes you—” She wheezed a cough. “—believe you can suddenly fix me?”

“Ancient mages have not tried what we are,” Jordan said. They’d had the conversation before. Her memory was on a toll. “Please, Alyce. Stay strong. Live for a week more. I promise the pain will subside.” He smiled as best he could. “I love you. Please remember that.”

Alyce Xastur. A phenomenal mage and the kindest of saints. Jordan’s student and lover. Also, the fourth to the throne Princess of Kroses Sol. Her long silvery hair remained thick despite death’s door creeping her way. Her skin was silk smooth. Limbs a little thin but still healthy. If only she could laugh and smile, she would appear like the same woman whose beauty brought Jordan to exile.

The Princess’s eyes stared somewhere in Jordan’s direction. She struggled to find words, head hard at work, up until her breath suddenly ceased. Jordan’s heart dropped. He stood from his chair, snapping his look to Alyce’s doctor.

The old man employed by Azetoth, wearing a white robe, rushed to the contraption by Alyce’s thigh. A needle pierced through her leg, into her mana chords. It appeared much the same as Azetoth’s mage enslaver, but the needle by Alyce’s leg was not controlled by a heart.

The doctor, with his own prowess as a mage, pulled magic through the needle, funneling magic out of Alyce’s chords. The uncontrolled magic dissipated and pressurized the air in the room. The surge wasn’t potent enough to shake furniture, but enough to lock one’s ears.

Jordan knew he couldn’t do much to help. He hugged Alyce’s head. Maybe she could feel his touch. Maybe she could find the strength to live longer, to buy some time for Azetoth’s research.

With enough magic removed from her body, light returned to Alyce’s eyes. She took a breath.

She offered Jord a weak smile, as if unaware that her own magic nearly killed her just now. “It would help,” she said, “if you revealed what you’re trying.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Jordan said, stroking her hair. “Focus on strength. Promise me, you’ll live on. And I promise I will find the cure. The solution is right on our palms.”

Alyce stared at him. Each response took her seconds, if not minutes to process. “You’re not onto something bad, are you?”

“No,” Jordan said. “Of course not.”

“You were never a good liar, Jord.”

“Maybe a little bit of bad,” Jordan admitted. “No more than necessary. Have the doctors treated you well?”

She took a deep breath. “It hurts, Love. It hurts. It’s like my mana chords are filled with slime.” Her eyes lost focus, staring somewhere at the ceiling. Her consciousness wavered.

Alyce closed her eyes and didn’t open them. Her breath was stable for now. She fell asleep. No need for alarm. Not that Jordan could have done anything regardless.

He felt at her chords, as if testing the extent of an awakener’s Corruption. Alyce’s chords were long and active as ever. Too active. Her body filled unhealthy amounts of mana, chords clogged to the point of paralysis. Her heart only pumped more magic. She was way past the first symptoms of mana sickness.

“Her right leg is about to clog,” the doctor said. “That was the last I can dispel from this location. The needle is to be relocated closer to the heart.”

“What of her limbs?” Jordan asked.

“I’m afraid her legs will die,” the doctor said. “Amputation will be required, lest the dead limb kills her before mana will.”

“That’s fine,” Jordan whispered. “Anything for her to live.”

The doctor hesitated. He looked away, then turned back to Jord and said, “She’s got a month at best.”

Jordan felt a part of him die at the words. A month? In a month they were supposed to achieve absolute control of mana?

He’d journeyed so long to achieve a future with Alyce. From the moment they met at the Xastur’s courthouse to the day Alyce insisted Jord become her teacher—for five years, they had found every excuse to spend time together, manipulating every intention of the King simply to meet at the wrong hours of the day—to the moment they were caught in the act, and then to their calculated escape.

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Alyce was all he ever asked for. Why couldn’t he just have her?

“Moving the needle’s location closer to the heart can only prolong this so long,” the doctor continued. “More clogs will form. Her pain will increase. Soon enough, there will be nothing more to amputate.”

Jordan bit the inside of his cheek to stop emotions from escaping. He sat on the visitor’s stool and leaned his face on both palms. Akona, dear Goddess. I prayed every night. I stayed devoted. I followed every principle. And this is how you reward me!

Mana fucking sickness. The disease was so rare that most generations wouldn’t even consider a solution. There was nobody to cure; why would they work on a fix? And if one of their peers happened to be the unlucky, the really unlucky, mage who caught the disease, friends mourned, and the mage was killed off.

The disease hijacked one’s mana chords. Even the best of mages were helpless to the Corruption’s effects when their mana chords clogged up through a deformation in their own mana. Alyce was unable to release her magic despite her flawless understanding of mana control. It was only a matter of time before her mana chords would totally give up, when she’d run out of will to keep mana from destroying her head.

Pregnant women catching the disease were said to have had it even worse. Thank the Moons Alyce hadn’t caught his seed. She would be dead already.

With absolute control of mana… Jordan thought. If Azetoth’s promise is true. We could free her chords of mana. Stop her core from producing. Take her powers away. Maybe, if just—

A knock came on the door. Jordan lifted his head, and the doctor opened the door. A servant of the cult stepped in. “The boss is back. He asks for Jordan Feryah.”

***

Azetoth came home wounded. In a state Jordan had never seen before.

Blood ran down to his robes from a slice through the left side of his face. Nothing magic couldn’t fix, but utter mana exhaustion was visible from his step alone. The monster that was Azetoth had been wounded to this state.

“The Queen Pope proved quite the workout,” Azetoth said with a grin as he sat down on the nearest seat—a cushioned blackwood rocking chair left behind by the mansion’s old owners. Blood dripped from a soaked part of his sleeve, onto the armrest of the chair.

The parlor and the estate around it were—contrary to the cult’s usual tendencies—in full ownership of Azetoth’s false identity. The cult had paid honest money for a slightly more permanent home base amongst the aristocracy of the capital city, Vulusen. Azetoth kept a full team of false servants and officials to cast the image of a real noble family over the cultist base.

As a result, the mansion was treated like a true living space, kept clean and adorned. Chandelier lit, the furniture of the parlor followed the latest Krose trends. Lacquered blackwood was used wherever possible, from tables to picture frames. The wood was black as night, color instead provided with silver web embedded into carving patterns. And to make sure the parlor wasn’t too simplistic in its lavishness, thick and reflective silver curtains loomed over the tall windows.

“Turns out,” Azetoth continued, “The Pope is not only an expert in the art of magic, but she’s a blademaster as well. I underestimated her.”

“You failed, then?” Jordan asked.

“I did,” Azetoth said. “I thought I sneaked past every sentry unspotted, all the way to the Queen Pope’s chambers. I thought I had her surprised. But it was me who walked into a trap. I could not have subdued the situation without killing her, not after the initial attempt failed.”

Jordan struggled to find words. He wasn’t sure if he felt bad for Azetoth, or if he was happy for the Pope. She was one lucky woman, surviving an attack from this monster. If only she had managed to cut slightly deeper into Azetoth’s face. The world wouldn’t have cried.

Yet, Jordan was already pressed for time. A month was all they had, and they were far from the final steps of the plan. They could not afford this failure.

“The plan’s ruined now, is it?” Jordan asked. “Your attack blew what remained of the cult’s hidden presence. Won’t be long before every follower of the Pope comes after us. The royals will hear of the attack.”

“You presume I shouted my name and the location of my home during my attempt?” Azetoth grinned. “No, Jord, the Pope can guess the cult was behind this, but not much more. Her guards will receive a scolding and a few nightmares, and that’s that. The pope wouldn’t dare let an infiltration of her temple go public. Her prided defenses would be shamed out of order.”

“We failed in capturing Hallowed chords,” Jordan said. “Alyce runs out of time.”

“We’ve got more time than you think,” Azetoth said. “If we are to achieve Godhood, Alyce’s pumping heart is all we require to restore her body.”

Jordan frowned. “Not one of your promises has been kept.” After a pause, he added, “Master.”

Azetoth grinned. “I will attempt the Pope again before tomorrow. Nobody expects a wounded assassin to come back the same night. If that fails, I’ll have to snatch Cindra from the Dragon Wall.”

And how will Hallowed chords restore Alyce? Jordan thought. You create another weapon. A “proof of concept?” Another crime committed on our names?

“I have orders for you, too,” Azetoth said. “Rigrith has offered a report of unusual business in the city of Volés. Apparently, a new wielder of Hallowed chords has awakened.”

Jordan lifted his head.

“A dangerous wielder,” Azetoth said. “Just the type we need. The man single-handedly burned down every operation I created in Volés.”

“A man with Hallowed chords has awakened?” Jordan asked.

“Indeed,” Azetoth said. “And in fact, the man is currently searching for a teacher. I figured I know just the man for the job.”