"Again?"

"I told you last time, there was something wrong."

"Whaleshit, you did not."

"Why would I lie now?"

"To look better, though I've no idea who exactly you think you're fooling."

"Ridiculous-"

"All of you, quiet. I see them coming this way."

For the thousands of residents that lived in and around Sanbieta, there were a mere 12 Elders left. The role held some of the highest respect culturally, but this was due to the incredible personal cost each of the Elders had to pay to act as leaders and protectors of their village.

Amarah had been the one sent to go grab the stranger, not only because of Den'il having come to her first, but due to her being the healthiest and youngest of the Elders. The other eleven had been practicing far longer than her, and were much weaker in physicality, but stronger in magical ability. They stood with a foot or two between each other, those with good enough eyesight fixed on the group of four that were heading their way in the distance. It was not often that they were seen outside of the Drey's winding halls, but due to the circumstances, they had all rallied outside in the sunlight.

The group of eleven was twenty or so paces from the door of the Drey; there was not a chance in any realm of inviting such strangers into their sanctum, with some Elders even being uncomfortable of bringing him this close. Others, however, were not in the physical shape to go much further on such short notice.

Zekal, a blind Elder with a hung head and open palms gave a mirthless chuckle. "Our doom, walking to meet us. Hmph." With an ever there tremor in his hands, legs and jaw, he'd opted to sit while the rest stood. "Our ancestors would laugh at our foolishness."

"Our ancestors helped how they could in protecting us as long as they have," Palco shot back, a short and chubby woman with long white curls. "It is insolence to expect a gift to last forever. If the island is in need of help, we should be honored that we were the generation of Elders who have been chosen to do so."

"Ha!" It was a short laugh from the Elder named Kaluk, and with no humor. "Less mages that there ever has been, and all of us are almost used up. An honor indeed, to be the ones unable to stop the inevitable fall of our people."

"Rhetoric like that is worse than any curse we could face, Kaluk," Palco chided.

"Agreed," Elder Anaka started, "In times like this, the last thing we need is a lack of faith-"

"And would you prefer me to pretend that this is anything other than the beginning of our demise?" Kaluk spit back, the bald and severe looking man throwing up his hands angrily, "Pray tell, who can fix this? Not I. Or you. Or you. Any of us!"

"We don't even know what needs fixing yet," Anaka snapped, their tall and wiry frame having a slight sway from the breeze.

"Whatever is is, it will end at least one of our lives to find out."

This final statement was said by the oldest of the Elders, a stout but still bulky man named Cyrus. The gentle whistle of the crisp coastal wind was the only returning argument for the moment.

In the last fifty years, something had gone wrong. Famine, drought, pestilence, issues that didn't marr Moltev'ji's rich history in centuries started afflicting the villages one after another. The succession of these problems bred mistrust, and between the other two villages, all out war. Sanbieta was neutral in the fighting, but had closed off her walls to anyone other than residents for several decades now.

The work to keep so many people healthy and fed was immense, leading to multiple Elders to overextending themselves for the greater good, causing their already meager numbers to be at what they were now.

Magic wasn't free, nor was it a craft just anyone could learn. All souls were made of energy, but a finite amount. To be magic sensitive was to not only be able to perceive energy within ones self, but to manipulate it with proper training, strengthen it even.

To become a mage then was to essentially practice accessing universal energy and harness it outside of its original application. To do so, however, was like a supercharge to the soul, far too strong for a mortal body to experience with no repercussions. The use of magic, especially the more powerful or difficult, caused the body to begin a slow deterioration any time it had to conduct that energy flow. The housing of such foreign and intense energy was too hard on the mortal form; like boiling water being poured into cupped hands, it was not easy to ignore how damaging it was to the caster.

Each spell, each charm, each summoning degraded the body of the mage themselves like the passage of time would, from days to years taken with each ritual. It was why they societally refused to let children practice the craft, for they know not the actual price.

It was another reason why it was exceedingly difficult to find those with magical ability who wanted to use it proficiently; to do so meant to accept that their physical body would age and wither with each use, far faster than the timeline of their peers. The Elders also all lived in the Drey, usually having little focus or care on personal lives and connections, meaning little focus and time for loved ones or relationships. No matter how incredible the power it brought, the price was upfront and total. In times of the past, it was one of the highest honors someone could be given, and in turn give to their community.

Magic users were born increasingly rarely too, and the ones that had come of age in the last fifty years nearly all decided against the Path. The spells that made up so many of the island's protections were so powerful, the current generation of Elders had no idea even how to replicate them without multiple mages to bear the weight, and their dwindling numbers meant they were exhausting their physical forms just with what was considered to be upkeep for their civilization.

There was a time long ago when the Drey was filled to the brim with practitioners, and people would have to earn a spot to be an Elder, not just be handed the title. It was different circumstances than they found themselves in now.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Elders were the only magical practitioners around, but not all magic-sensitive people became Elders. If someone magic-sensitive did not become an Elder, they faced a different reality.

The bodies of magical folk were an interesting kind of durable, perhaps by design. If someone was magic-sensitive, it usually lead to an unnaturally long lifetime if they didn't practice, with some oral history even dictating up to three hundred years if someone stayed away from The Path. This meant that those who didn't choose to pursue the path of magic use were destined to live longer than all of their peers and loved ones, and would usually end up leaving the village for the wilderness when their life partner or relatives passed on and they were left alone. This system may have been a reason for the dwindle of suitable replacements, since it was unclear if magic ability was passed more commonly genetically than not. Many who did not pursue the Path held off from having children, the pain of outliving them too probable to bear.

For those born magic-sensitive, it was either a life longer than average where you would watch everyone around you eventually perish, or a normal length to shorter life with unparalleled power but no physical fortitude, aging to be elderly before you finished being a young adult.

By the time most of the Elders were in their twenties, they had far withered, though their minds and souls better matched their appearance with the wisdom they had been imbued with. Many considered becoming a mage to be robbed of the years that make life full, ones youth and adulthood, and as the social concept morphed over time it only furthered the divide sweeping over the island.

Cyrus was the oldest living Elder, having been the last to learn from the previous generation directly before they had perished attempting to fix the issues of famine that hit five decades prior. They had done what they could, to teach him as much as possible, but there has been a greater good at risk then. Much of the gathered knowledge that had been carefully preserved for centuries was swept away as Elder after Elder pushed the physical body too far, trying to stave off chaos.

There was only so much that Cyrus could really practice himself before he'd had to stop doing rituals all together, to stay on this plane long enough to teach his peers what had been taught to him. He was still the Head Elder, and still held vitality, but not for much longer.

To consult with long dead Elders, referred to as the Ancients, was far too costly once to do often. Summoning their audience cost decades, and had only been done in times of intense peril and when there was a young enough member.

The last time it had been done had been after Vega was found.

This was because, for magic having such a cost, there was a form of magic that did not cause damage to the caster's physical form. This was dark magic, and instead used the life of others, weather they be animals or humans. It didn't deteriorate the body, but did deteriorate the soul, though its rate was far less easy to distinguished than magics visual toll was. If someone looked young and unsuspecting but was obviously dealing in magic, the dark arts was the only known way.

When Vega had been found by patrol, his eye had been missing, he looked to be youthful and his name had been in tact. All of these occurrences, so many Elders gone, and now this? It caused an uproar, since it had never been heard of for a foreigner to retain any memory after reaching Moltev'ji's shores. A powerful dark mage? A curse, then? Or the cause of the attacks against their land?

The discussion on if the memory retention was due to ties to dark magic or due to a weakening of the islands protections ensued, and it seemed to cause fracture amongst the people of Sanbieta itself. It had been decades since there had been free and peaceful travel between the other two villages, so the information was limited to locally about how uncommon the occurrence was.

Amarah had been the one to attempt to reach the Ancients, having joined the Elders at age eighteen, showing great energetic prowess. The Elders were begging for conference from the Ancients, for an explanation as to what was happening to their island, and what this intruders intentions and background were. Why had the faith they rested in the natural flow of the islands whims betrayed them? How do they protect their shores with such dwindled magical ability? When she went into the bowels of the Drey that day with the questions, she was young and hopeful.

Upon leaving, she was aged two decades, angered and somewhat jaded.

The Ancients has only informed her to keep Vega alive. That was it. They had cared little for her other questions, only answering a detail of a more important question and ignoring the things that could bring their people peace of mind. The fact of receiving just this information and aging nearly twenty years to be told nothing was difficult to swallow for her. When she brought this news back to the Elders, Cyrus seemed perturbed, and Amarah's frustration at her supposed ancestors indifference to their descendants suffering caused her great strife.

So Vega had stayed. He was polite, if not a touch aloof, and trusted by hardly a single soul in Sanbieta. The only one seemed to be Den'il, who had been placed as Vegas watchman back when he had been brought in from the coast line since she was well trained and Amarah's most trusted patrol.

It felt exactly as it had 8 years ago, and Cyrus took a deep breath.

The new man was approaching was a youthful adult, broad shouldered and chested but missing his right arm. He painted the near exact opposite picture of Vega, dwarfing the archer, and it made Cyrus's pulse quicken. A team?

None of the Elders had wanted Vega, and now there was another.

"He's a behemoth!"

"Looks weak to me," Zekal said, glassy eyes closed.

"Missing an arm too. A sacrifice of dark magic, just like the eye on the other."

"Doomed, we are d-"

"Enough!" Cyrus boomed, and his compatriots began to mumble instead of exclaim. Amarah was approaching, and there seemed to be some sort of tension between her and Den'il. Clearing his throat, he stood a little taller, "Greetings Amarah and Den'il." Den'il nodded, and Amarah did as well. Vega bowed his head nearly immediately and staying silent, not being addressed and not seeming to mind. It left Samson looking between the eleven Elders in front of him, with all of them inspecting him right back. A muscle twitched in Cyrus's temple, the Elder clearing his throat. "Your name?"

"Samson." His accent was unlike any Cyrus recognized, and he didn't sound as blunt and sure as Vega had all that time ago. For what should be an imposing form, Samson seemed to have slumped shoulders, fingers picking at one another while he tried to make eye contact with each person he was facing. Unsure and anxious, Cyrus noted.

"How do you know that?" Cyrus asked, and Samson seemed the smallest bit surprised at the question.

"I... Was called it."

Behind Cyrus, the murmuring ceased. "Oh?" Cyrus said. "By whom?"

"I'm not... Hm. I am unsure," Samson said, a furrow in his brow indicating his combing of his memory. He looked frustrated. "I also heard chimes."

He remembered not just his name, but being called it. And remembered sounds along with it, at that. Was the magic that had been in place to protect their land just that much weaker, or was whatever movement these two may have come from just that much stronger? Cyrus took the few steps of distance between him and Samson, looking him in the eye. As he got closer, it was apparent the young man loomed over even him, and Cyrus was hardly a small person. He reached out and put a hand behind Samson's injured arm, lifting it ever so slightly. The mistrust on Samson was evident, but he seemed to be biting his tongue, allowing the inspection. A man of once great physical strength, so meek and missing his dominant arm. A walking contradiction.

"Anaka," Cyrus called, and behind him the tall and lanky Elder began to pad over. They had a long and thin face, with eyes of mistrust trained on Samson. Anaka was the resident healer of the Elders, and usually was the one to revive memory in a found stranger. For having been an Elder for nearly thirty years, they only appeared only somewhat older in age to Amarah. Without much warning, Anaka lifted a hand and pressed the pad of their thumb just above the space between Samson's eyebrows.

Their thumb was freezing, and after a moment Samson felt the ground pitch sideways under his feet, eyes rolling back.