Remyer Ravilles quite liked her nickname. Remy. Cute and simple. It helped her forget that she was still, in fact, a pledged member of the nobility she despised.
What she didn’t like as much was her student’s inattentiveness.
The wagon had arrived in Hastmire half an hour ago, though the lessons continued inside. Cillian claimed he preferred the shade of the wagon. Darko and Shena had stepped out to examine the town outside, while Rakash remained in the wagon to rest.
The Gorthorn ostensibly kept her eyes closed, though Remy knew Rakash hadn’t been asleep for a second. Rakash listened to every word like a protective mother watching over their kids from the sidelines. She paid far more attention to lessons than the student Remy was actually trying to teach. Still, Remy had no time for getting uncomfortable.
If Cillian put this little effort into every lesson, Remy knew her student would fall to the Corruption within a week.
“Recite the last part for me,” Remy ordered. “What did you take away from this passage?”
“Um,” Cillian said. “Mana and magic are not synonyms?”
“That is correct,” Remy said. “Mana is the fuel of any spell. It’s the power that our hearts bear the burden of pumping. Magic, in turn, is the result of a mana reaction. When a mage performs a spell, all we’re really doing is transferring mana into its physical form: magic.
“That all sounds fun until you learn that a mage’s idle mana desperately wishes to turn into magic. The fuel in our body can only stay dormant for so long. If we don’t weave mana into magic, mana will find its own solution. It will turn into something, looking for places to react with. And unlucky for us, a mage’s head is just the place where mana loves to set home. That’s the Corruption.
“Your job as a recent awakener is to direct the destructive force of your mana into anything that is not your head. To turn mana into magic.”
“How do I weave magic, then?” Cillian asked weakly.
“We will get to that,” Remy said. “First, you will learn to prevent as many possible hazards as you can. Weaving mana is not as simple as trying whatever you please. If mana transforms into magic in the wrong places, you might just accidentally blow yourself up.”
“Mhm,” Cillian said. He barely faced his teacher at all, eyes drifting to some dark corner of the wagon.
Watching him, pressure welled in Remy’s throat. Cillian looked so… dejected, as if he wasn’t truly living in the world around him but was stuck in some deep abyss. Had he truly paid attention to anything she’d taught?
Remy wished she could help but was afraid to bring up the topic. Cillian had already dismissed her earlier attempts at comfort. It was as if he didn’t want to be helped. How was she supposed to help, let alone teach, someone who was barely willing to talk to her?
“Cill,” Remy said. She wished to sound commanding, but the words came out as concerned. “You will have to pay more attention. At this pace, the Corruption will eat you while I’m repeating the basics. I am serious when I say we don’t have much time. If there’s something troubling your mind, you have to say it. I am your teacher. I will help in any way I can.”
“I’m sorry,” Cillian said. “I just… Does Darko really plan on involving me in all this? Hunting cultists...”
“We are all members of his team,” Remy said. “As regretful as it is.”
Cillian glanced up at her, baffled by the response. “He said I’ll be breaking the law. What did he mean?”
“Now you’re asking for too much,” Remy said. “By the time you learn what our maniac leader is up to, he has already included you in several crimes, and you’ll be known in town as a mysterious ‘legend.’”
“You mean… Even you don’t know what he’s up to?” Cillian asked. “You don’t know what he wants of me?”
“Darko has his plans,” Remy said. “He’s reluctant to reveal what they are. He claims we don’t need to worry about what doesn’t concern us. Shena and I suspect he simply does not have plans beyond our immediate hurdles.”
Cillian looked confused. “Why do you work under him, if this is how he operates?”
Why indeed? Remy thought, letting a smile escape. She’d pondered on the same question many times. Was she stupid to defy the proposed marriage assigned by her family? Was there any reason to live like a mole as an adventurer, when a far more lavish life awaited her should she choose to accept her future? She had no noble reasons for hunting the cultists like Shena, and she wasn’t hungry for glory like the leader. She just…
“I’m selfish,” she said. “That’s why. I don’t like the way life is supposed to be lived. So, I chose my own stupid path. Why Darko’s team specifically? I’m not sure. I like it here. Now, let’s get back on topic. We’ve got a lot to learn.”
Cillian watched her for a moment before his eyes, along with his attention, pointed towards the floor. His expression proved he did not like it here in the slightest. His thoughts were stuck brooding elsewhere.
With his gloominess, Remy’s smile wandered off like a declined lover. She couldn’t smile, not while her student wore a look of pure sadness.
“Cill?” Remy asked. “Are you really fine? Is your head already being clouded?”
He perked up. “I slept poorly. I’m tired, that’s all. It’s hard to think. I’ll pay attention.”
Remy studied him. He raised his head, ostensibly ready to pay attention, yet something about his figure pinched at Remy’s chest. Was it his slumped posture? His colorless eyes? His odd nationality and mannerisms? Looking at him hurt. Was he really just tired?
“On second thought.” Remy stood up. “I think we could use a break. Why don’t you and Rakash step out for a walk? Some light will help get our thoughts sorted out. I’ll be back soon.”
On the way out, Remy glanced at Rakash, whose orange eyes acknowledged the look. The Gorthorn was odd, almost as foreign as Cillian. Remy couldn’t believe Shena spoke the same language as this oddity. Still, Rakash was a clear friend. The Gorthorn wished the best for Cillian, too. They had to do something to help his condition.
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If only Remy knew what. Even Shena couldn’t heal Cillian’s exhaustion, and she was one of the best support mages Remy knew.
A foggy landscape welcomed Remy to the village of Hastmire by the western side of the main road. Old log huts were spread cutely across the mossy vegetation of yellowy wetlands. The village wasn’t quite a puddle, but the ground was deceptive enough that houses were connected with wooden float bridges. Most construction was overdue for repair.
A sorry sight from a glance, but so was every city and town these days. On the inside, secluded villages were often the most warm and welcoming, always ready to greet adventurers and merchants in hopes of hearing tales from the outside world.
Something told Remy she wouldn’t be telling stories of her adventures to eager village folk tonight. With a gloomy look on her face, she headed after Darko and Shena, towards the Guild Post by the outskirts of the village.
She watched her footing by habit, hoping to keep her boots clean. An adventurer as she claimed to be, she’d been mocked for her obsession with cleanliness many times, but this was one aspect of her noble self that Remy refused to see bullied out. A clean outfit was a necessary hassle to uphold. This was especially true when teaching Cillian, who seemed to share the tendency.
The Guild Post was a two-storied log house with a tiled roof, as expensive as the rest of the village combined. Little teeth marks littered its lower facades, left behind by wood gremlins looking to have a taste of its logs. Lands so close to the wastes were often gremlin-infested, and thus, everything wooden had to be protected with a layer of ivy lacquer.
A short woman with reddened eyes stopped Remy on the porch. “Mage! Please, miss. You can’t all leave us. We need help!”
Remy was taken aback. The woman was around thirty with brown hair, wearing a common apron. She reached for Remy’s hand, practically begging for attention.
“What’s wrong?” Remy asked. She held the woman’s hand. “Did something happen?”
“It’s the mana mines,” the woman said. “Please. I have nothing. The village is dying!”
“The mines?” Remy asked. “What happened?”
The woman took a deep breath. “They took my family. My husband, my child. Moons, I must have explained this to a hundred different people. Nobody cares. Half of the village is holed up in the mines, locked behind guards. I don’t know if they’re even alive! We just need someone to bring sense into all this. The Guild won’t help.”
Remy bit her lip. A wave of guilt and sorrow washed over her, faced with the woman’s saddened face. How would she have felt if something so terrible happened to her that she had to beg outside a guild for someone to help?
Adventuring Guilds—despite advertising themselves as places of virtue, where the poorest of the poor could run for assistance—were not charities, nor virtuous as the stories claimed. Real Guilds operated more like mercenary agencies. Customers paid for a problem they wished to see fixed. In turn, the Guild assigned adventurers to solve the ‘mission.’ If a customer had no money to request a mission, the Guild sent no adventurers to help.
“Can I pay for your mission?” Remy asked, checking her pockets. She had a few silver marks of change. With Darko’s schedule, she rarely had time to help personally. Offering to pay for a mission was the next best thing she could offer. “How much is the Guild asking?”
“They said it will be a gold mark at minimum.” The woman covered her face with her hands. “I can’t afford it. The whole village combined can’t!”
Remy raised her eyebrows. A gold piece? She didn’t have so much. The guild never asked for more than a stack of copper, at most a silver mark, for ordinary missions. Something was seriously wrong.
“I’m sorry…” Remy said. “I’ll ask my team if we can help. I hope we have time.”
The woman nodded through her sniffles. Remy slid inside with a terrible taste in her mouth.
Common men in tunics sat by tables, drinking ale. Non-adventurers, who were allowed in to fill business. Outposts often acted as inns and alehouses alongside their main purpose of employing adventurers. Today, few customers were laughing or enjoying themselves. The Guild was as silent as the village outside.
Why was every place so depressing? The moons were bright as ever; why was everyone holed up in gloominess? Wasn’t strength and joy supposed to be a Krose virtue?
Remy found Darko and Shena at the receptionist’s desk. Darko leaned forward on the counter, facing the poor errand boy in charge. The boy was clearly uncomfortable with Darko’s presence.
“You’re saying…” Darko said. “The mana well is hijacked by its own workers, and the Guild isn’t offering a job to fix the situation, let alone offering pay?”
“The well is not of the Guild’s ownership, sir,” the boy said. “The village isn’t willing to pay for a mission of this tier. The matter is the royalty’s problem.”
“I see,” Darko said. “The villagers can’t pay for a job because their source of income has been stolen. And instead of helping recover their livelihoods, the Guild chooses to let them suffer since Hastmire does not have enough money to make money?”
The boy’s lips twitched. “I don’t choose how the Guild operates, sir. Please bring your complaints elsewhere…”
Darko sighed. He ordered a beer, to which the receptionist hastily complied. Darko took a large gulp. He ignored Shena’s judgeful eyes and turned to Remy.
“One hell of a town,” Darko said. “Is there a single place in the world not filled with problems?”
“Can we help them?” Remy asked.
“I’m afraid we might have to,” Darko said. “What about our other worries?”
Remy bit her lip before saying, “Your persuasion didn’t work. Cill is… It’s like he’s half-dead.”
A troubled frown appeared on Darko’s face. Not an angry or threatening expression, but a concerning one nonetheless. Remy hadn’t seen him this distraught for the last few cities.
“Let’s talk outside,” Darko said. With annoyed steps, he took his beer mug out through the front doors. They stepped past the woman, and onto the less crowded main road.
“I had hoped Cill’s condition was a simple moping fit,” Darko said. “I’m positive it is indeed a moping fit. Just a more serious case. Rakash told me what happened in the church.”
A moping fit. Remy didn’t like the expression. In her opinion, calling someone’s sadness a “moping fit” was degrading to the emotions involved. As if one wasn’t allowed to express emotions for a loss they received.
Yet, Cill’s case was different. He had to wake up and learn. The Corruption did not pause for a mage’s showcase of sadness.
“He’s barely listening,” Remy said. “It’s as if he doesn’t care.”
Darko continued walking as he sipped his beer. “I was afraid my words weren’t going to be enough. Cill is not going to bring himself up on his own. He’s going to need some persuasion.”
“What do you suggest?”
“From now on, I want you to teach him rough,” Darko said. “Like old Jord would have. Don’t allow him to wander off in his thoughts. He needs to learn that doing nothing simply is not allowed.”
“Will that be enough?” Remy asked. “Do we need another lesson about the Corruption’s effects?”
“I doubt it,” Darko said and sipped his beer. “Cill needs to be brought into action. Words alone won’t get his body moving. He needs to see that a world awaits him outside our wagon. The world needs him to move. Can I borrow him for the remainder of our stay in the village? I’ll wake him up by the time we depart for Arkber.”
“If you think you can help him…” Remy’s look wandered to the back of Darko’s feet. Troubles welled up within her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them out loud. Teaching an awakener, especially one of Cillian’s caliber, was usually considered a full-time occupation. Cillian didn’t have time for detours. Sooner than later, the Corruption would creep up.
Remy desperately wished to teach him. Cillian’s life would be hell if he went with the nobles. An awakener with Hallowed chords would never know a break.
Yet, the darker part of Remy’s head knew she was being naive. There was a reason why only licensed teachers could train awakeners. Why Remy’s crime of teaching Cillian shared punishments on par with murder.
Was she really good enough to teach Cill to cast magic in time?