Mist clung to the mountainside, and morning gold burned through it. Oliver stood on a rocky outlook high above a valley.

Beside him, Staharad stood on a stump, his silver hair catching the light as he surveyed their surroundings with a discerning gaze. "At level two, you should find an incremental increase in power," he said, unable to hide anticipation. "Your repertoire should also expand, depending on how your class gains spells. For instance, I have to dig through books for old incantations."

Oliver gripped the swordstaff firmly. "Where," he asked.

Staharad gestured toward a series of stone pillars across the valley. They jutted from the ground like the broken teeth of some ancient beast. "There. Let’s see what you’ve got."

Taking a deep breath, Oliver closed his eyes and felt the warmth within. It was very distinct now. The runes along his swordstaff shone when he opened his eyes and aimed. "Astral Lance!" he invoked.

A beam of radiant starlight erupted from the tip of his weapon, searing through the air. The lance impacted the stone pillar, obliterating it into a shower of dust and debris. The force of the blast sent a shockwave rippling outward, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

"Ugh." Staharad spun his arms to regain balance. "You left a damn crater." He jumped down and patted Oliver on the back. “Out of curiosity, let’s try again without the swordsaff in your hands. You don’t want to do things the same way and become reliant. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be doing this while standing on your head.”

Oliver speared the swordstaff into a tree and turned. The crater was no longer a good target. A cliff face below it would suffice. He felt a surge of energy well up. Another spell formed on his lips unbidden. "Celestial Burst!" Yet it was different, uncontrollable.

A wave of cosmic energy exploded outward, the sheer magnitude far exceeding even the last display, but without direction. The surrounding rocks took flight, and several boulders dislodged at their feet.

“Stop,” Staharad said, struggling to remain standing.

But it was out of Oliver's hands. He’d unleashed the energy in all directions, and it rampaged like a wild beast. A tendril touched a bounder and exploded it. Shrapnel shot out.

"Look out!" Oliver threw himself prone, but it was too late for the wizard.

A piece of rock struck Staharad on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground in a spray of blood.

Pain etched across the wizard's face as he clutched his arm. When the magic settled, he grimaced, struggling to sit up. “On second thought, keep the swordstaff. It seems to focus your abilities.”

Oliver rushed to his side, panic rising in his chest. "I'm so sorry. Are you badly hurt? Let me see the wound."

Staharad took a shaky breath, his eyes reflecting both pain and concern. "Get me back to the tower."

All the running up and down to the spring helped prepare Oliver for this. He picked up the wizard and hiked down through the trees. He barged into the tower, struggled up the stairs and lay the man on the couch.

Staharad told him to boil water, to get this and that, and when he lay bandaged and in pain, he said. "Go into the city and find an elixir of health. It's not a healing potion; they’re snake oil. This will mend injuries my medicine cannot."

"Where can I find it?" Oliver pressed.

Staharad winced as he adjusted his position. "Lord Heron should be able to help."

"Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Staharad groaned and turned on his side. “If I’m dead when you return, don’t blame yourself or feel sad. I’m even older than I appear. The last time I saw my true self, I was wasting away well over a hundred, and I’m thousands of years beyond that in mind. I think monoliths are testing us—all of us. So fight for your right to exist.”

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Oliver stood, casting one last worried glance at the wizard before sprinting down the mountain. He found a ride with a farmer at the lower peaks where broadleaved trees grew. He’d have to find a faster way back up if he ever hoped to save the wizard.

The bustling streets of Credola held the wagon up, and Oliver leaped out and thanked the driver. as he emerged from the mountain trail. Hours passed before he found the market and spelled the spices mingled with the sea's scent. Dodging through the crowd, he approached the Crimson Pike Guild, its familiar crimson banners snapping in the breeze.

Pushing open the wooden doors, Oliver strode inside, his gaze sweeping the room until he spotted Lord Heron conversing with a group of guild members. Approaching swiftly, he interrupted. "Lord Heron, I need your assistance."

The guild owner turned, and a split second showed annoyance. "Oliver, what brings you back already?"

"He's been injured. Needs an elixir of healing."

Lord Heron pushed his chair out and stood. "Who? Slow down and speak properly."

Oliver gave a brief account of how Staharad took shrapnel.

The surrounding guild members exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves.

A man stepped forward who looked like an elf but didn’t seem to have the otherworldly quality to him. "The elves have such potions. The problem would be getting them to give it to you."

“Could you,” Lord Heron said, “Help Oliver convince them to?”

The elf-man pointed to himself as if surprised. “Me? I can try, but they don’t consider me pure.”

Lord Heron waved a hand. “Perhaps one of them thinks differently.”

"Thank you," Oliver said and left with the half-elf Delin.

They navigated the maze of streets toward the gardens and knife-shaped tower. But upon arrival, the elves wouldn’t see them. Delin spoke of his mother, who the elves recognized but didn’t care that he was related to her.

Hours passed before they gave up and returned to the guild.

Lord Heron ran out of ideas. He questioned those in the hall, leaned nothing, and sent messengers to his contacts. “All we can do is wait. Here’s some silver, Oliver. Get some food, or whatever. You’ve earned your pay.”

Oliver’s stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since dawn. But he didn’t want to eat while a man lay dying. Yet he remembered he owed a meal to the former guild member in the alley and bought bread filled with roasting meats. The smell made his mouth water.

He made his way toward the alley where he had previously encountered the man in the blanket. The shadows tried to hide him, but the man was there, huddled against the cool stone.

"I brought you something to eat," Oliver offered, extending the food.

The man's weathered face broke into a grateful smile. "Much obliged," he said, accepting the meal with trembling hands. "I never expected to see you again.”

Oliver settled beside him, taking a bite of a chunk he ripped off. "I was hoping you might be able to help me with something."

The man raised an eyebrow. "And what might a budding adventurer need from an old failure? Yes, I see the pin."

Oliver touched the crimson pike on his chest. “I'm looking for an elixir of health."

The man chewed, gazing down the alley as if peering into distant memories. "Finding the real thing is the hard part."

"Do you know where?"

He nodded slowly. "The Tower of Leaves."

"Shit."

The man looked at him, jaw working on the bread and meat.

“I went there with a half-elf. They wouldn’t talk to us, much less hand over an elixir.”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The tower seems to have no windows, but they’re there. If you try around the perimeter, there are also unseen handholds. It’s all elf magic. It looks like a single blade of stone rising from the city, but it’s not.”

Oliver sat with the man and realized he’d never asked his name. Well, another time, he needed to hurry. His legs protested, but he said goodbye and ran.

He heard the man say, “Crazy kid,” before turning the corner.

With renewed purpose, Oliver navigated back to the gardens. Unfortunately, he’d failed the guild’s stealth test, so how would he pull this off?

He saw the knife-shaped tower and wondered how many rooms he would have to search. The elves would catch him, no doubt about it. But how many rooms? The thing was the size of a twenty-first-century skyscraper.

When he passed an elf surrounded by a gaggle of people asking questions, he felt he should hide, but there was no security. One could walk to the inner wall before anyone asked what business one had. Being open to the public must be a show of power. No one dared cause trouble. No vagrants slept in the gardens; only a few strolled in its maze, primarily couples.

“Will there be war with the Sea People?” one asked.

“No,” the elf said. “We are too strong for any nation or horde to challenge.”

Oliver quickened his step and approached the wall. It was smooth white stone, with seams too small to see from more than a few feet away. He could have brought rope, but his bet was that magic was involved here. Why else would they let people walk right up to it?

“This is nuts,” he said, spreading his arms, blade runes glowing.