Gorn,

I write this letter with trepidation of what Artists may, or already have, become. My friend, can you not see there is more to being an Artist than the ability to cast magic? These spellslingers wield power beyond their comprehension. What I find most worrying, however, Is the control your ritual of initiation may exert over the Guild’s members.

I do not impute you to abuse this control. I know you for the noble person that you are, but nobody lives forever—not even Artists as powerful as you and me. So I wonder, will your eventual successor hold the same values as you do? What if, someday, members need to take an oath on their Inner Landscape forcing them to obey the orders of a single person?

What kind of power would that person wield?

A letter from Elusco, bane of the Sadmora to Gornatius Siti, founder of the Guild of Mages. Dated 541 a.f. Location unknown.

Silas’ shoulder ached. He let go of the string as he exhaled, smiling as the arrow embedded itself in the tree with a heavy thud.

“I had a really weird dream the other day.”

Tom glanced at him. “Mmhmm.”

“I walked through this strange, somehow familiar forest with Gnarly and ended up pushing against a barrier of white mist. It just seemed so real, you know.”

“How did the barrier feel like?”

“It felt solid, which was even odder. I think something was waiting for me on the other side.”

“That may very well have been the barrier to your Inner Landscape. For many people, it takes shape as mist before it starts to transform.”

Silas looked up at his master. “What does it transform into?”

“Well, that depends entirely on your affinities, and how they manifest in your Landscape. But focus on breaking through first, no need to bother yourself with that yet.”

Another arrow was placed on the string, and Silas took aim at the tree. “Master, how do I break through the white mist?”

“Breaking through what you see as white mist is simply a matter of willpower and endurance. You need to keep trying to force your way through, no matter how impossible it may seem.”

The arrow hummed through the air as it sped towards its mark. A foot off. Silas tsked.

“The difficulty lies in maintaining the deep state of meditation necessary to envision your Inner Landscape while simultaneously using your every effort to break through. The balance necessary to become a User is a pretty precarious one, and it is at this step that most Seekers fail.”

“Do you understand, apprentice?” Tom asked from his right.

“I do, master.”

Tom lifted one bushy eyebrow, glancing sideways at his apprentice. “Good. Then I expect you to have access to your Landscape before the Harvest Festival.”

The Harvest Festival was celebrated in all of Ceraviehl. It marked the end of summer and the first half of the year. Food and drinks were plentiful, and the people gathered outside to sing and praise the goddess Herald. Farmers also made offerings to please the goddess and assure another bountiful harvest. The Festival was due in less than three moons, but Silas was sure he could become a User before that. After all, he was not alone in his efforts. Gnarly had seemed just as intent on breaking through as himself, if not more so.

“Creeaak!” his friend voiced from his shoulder.

With a start, Silas realized something. “Does Gnarly also need to get access to his Inner Landscape?”

“No. Most creatures are born with innate access to their Landscape, meaning they effectively start as Users. However, Gnarly will still have to train how to control its affinities.”

“Does that mean that he can already use magic?”

“Yes, and it most likely has already. As of now, its magical capacities will hardly be anything extraordinary, but as it continues to grow, so will its Inner Landscape.”

Silas nodded and put the next arrow on the string. Hitting the mark on the tree couldn’t possibly be that difficult.

***

Caught in its endless cycle, the sun fell down the sky only to repeat its climb the next day. A warm summer breeze blew through the woods, bringing with it the promise of fall. Little changed in the forest, and Silas quickly fell into a routine of training, hunting, and meditation.

Tend the gardens, shoot the bow. Accompany Tom hunting and train the Ranger’s Step. Remember all the herbs, or try to dodge Tom’s staff. The latter rarely worked. A moon cycle passed like that, with Silas being completely engrossed in his training.

Their spars became longer, their strikes faster. While he was not nearly as silent as Tom, Silas was at least good enough to not scare the animals away when they went hunting. Finding his Inner Landscape through meditation had proven to be relatively easy, although he still had not broken through. Gnarly continued to grow, now almost big enough to touch the top of his head if he stood on Silas’ shoulders.

Sitting under his usual tree, Silas relaxed his strained muscles. From his left blew a soft breeze that caressed his skin and cooled the hot sweat, sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine. A solitary leaf rode the currents of air above him, dancing to a tune only it could hear.

Closing his eyes, Silas once more entered a deep state of meditation and soon stood before the barrier of white fog. It looked the same as always, impenetrable and unrelenting. He laid his hands on it, by now accustomed to the unusual resistance the mist seemed to have. Gnarly stood on his shoulder, his gaze as determined as his own.

Silas began to push against the fog. It was an odd sensation, similar to watching yourself from above. Sitting under the tree, Silas did not move a single muscle. Yet here he was, standing before what he presumed to be the barrier to his Inner Landscape and feeling every part of his body. He pushed and pushed, but the barrier did not budge an inch. As if he tried to topple a house with his bare hands.

Frustration crept its way into Silas’ mind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Gnarly still focused on the barrier in front of them. Once more, he helped him without even being asked, without wanting anything in return.

When Silas had first met Gnarly, he had pulled him out of his nightmare on the night of his escape. Then, Gnarly had somehow led him directly to Tom’s cabin. Now his friend again stood by his side, helping him to become a User. And Silas had no way to repay the favor. He would not even be able to protect him if somebody tried to take his friend away from him.

He could not let that happen. Breaking through was more than a goal—it was a necessity.

Somewhere within him, a spark ignited, erupting into a torrent of fiery determination and filling him with strength. Silas pushed harder than he thought possible. For the first time, he noticed a change in the barrier. It seemed to give in slightly, bending as his hands continued to push. His arms shook as he tried to force his way through. But his strength soon started to wane, and Silas felt the mist pushing back against him.

No. He would not relent. He could not relent.

Images danced in front of his eyes, judging him. An ax, lodging themselves into the shoulder of a helpless woman. A man, pleading for his son to flee as he bled out on the ground. The disconcerting crunch the skull of the man made every time the barbarian’s boot stomped on it.

Two different kinds of emotions rose up, opposite yet similar. The one, a tender and life-giving caress. It was the smile that made you hold your breath, a fresh spring breeze that lifted you up when everything else had let you down.

Stolen novel; please report.

The other was a blazing force of destruction. It wanted nothing but to burn. Like a parasite, it fed on grief and self-loathing.

Together, they formed a volatile mix of raw power. Both emotions fought within him, each trying to overwhelm the other. Silas knew he could not contain them—his mind was already strained to its limits. Forcing the emotions out of him, they converged into a ball of ever-changing sparks and swirls between his hands. The sheer force coming off it threatened to break his meditation. Silas immediately focused on one spot of the barrier.

With every fiber of his being, he pushed the writhing ball against the mist.

The barrier first began to bend, then snapped entirely. Silas fell into the white mist with a startled cry. A crushing wave of freezing energy began to seep into his body. The cold made it impossible for him to breathe. His mind got overwhelmed by sensations, and he gradually felt it slip away.

Silas floated inside the fog. Something was approaching him. The fog cleared, revealing a heavy wooden carriage that stood abandoned. Towering trees reached to either side of the road, leaving only a small trail where the sky wasn’t covered.

The air stood still, and not a single leaf moved. Hannah stood in front of the barbarian with her arms raised, the ax suspended in mid-air. Her eyes didn’t hold a shred of fear. Silas looked at himself, sitting a few feet behind his mother on all fours. He could see the whites in his eyes and the wet spot in his crotch where he had pissed himself.

There were people like him, who, in the face of mortal danger, were too afraid to do anything. They would freeze up, quake in fear, and hope they would somehow come out alive.

They were weak.

And then there were people like his mother, who would look death right in the eye and spit in its face. They would do everything to protect those they cared for, no matter the cost.

They were strong.

Silas needed to stop being weak. He looked at himself and sneered as the smell of urine reached his nose.

“I hate you.”

Silas knew that if he had been stronger, had gotten a weapon from the carriage, or done something, anything, his parents wouldn’t be dead and he wouldn’t be as alone as he was now.

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you at least try?” he screamed.

Nobody responded. The shadows stood still, the scene seemingly frozen in time as it branded itself into his memory. Never again would he let fear take control of him.

A foreboding breeze grazed his cheeks. The flames of the small campfire tentatively resumed their dance, throwing flickering shadows across the dark earth. The ax, previously hanging in mid-air, now began to make its descent to his mother’s neck. The barbarian smiled at him.

Silas sprinted towards his mother. “No!”

“Creak!”

Eyes wide open, he took a look around. He was back in the cabin. Gnarly looked down on him from atop his chest, the silvery patterns in his eyes shining in the otherwise completely dark cabin. The wooden creature seemed concerned. “I’m alright, Gnarly. I’m alright.”

A three-fingered hand patted Silas’ nose. His gaze wandered towards Tom’s bed; it was empty. Silas did a double-take. He didn’t actually see the bed, as not even the moonlight illuminated the cabin. Yet, he still knew there was no one inside it. Closing his eyes, he became overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of sensations. Parts of his surroundings suddenly shone to his vision, with Gnarly being the brightest of them all. It was somewhere at his back, stretching its limbs. The door, the furniture around him, even the ceiling—he instinctively knew where and how large it was. How was this possible?

Silas stood up and immediately fell back down onto the bed. His whole vision swam, and his sense of balance was completely off. What was this?

“Creak creak creak.”

“You’re right, guess I should sit down for a moment.”

He eventually got at least partly accustomed to the sensory overload and tentatively made his way towards the door. The silent, cool breeze of the night greeted him. The full moon shone above, and the countless leaves of the proud oaks and beeches circling the clearing filled the air with longing whispers as they rustled in the wind. Darkness slithered between the trees, beckoning him to embrace it and make it his own. Silas caught himself as his body seemed to move of its own accord.

If not for the silver hair gently swaying in the wind, the figure of his master standing in the middle of the clearing might have as well been a statue. Silas stopped as he stared at the old man’s back.

“What are you doing, master?”

“Watching the forest.”

What? For how long had the old man been standing there already? Come to think of it, Silas had never actually seen the old man sleep, either.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I don’t need much sleep.”

A moment of silence passed. Silas let go of the doorframe, walking to stand beside his master. Tom’s eyes were staring at something in the forest, his gaze seemingly lost between the endless net of interweaving branches that made up the thick canopy.

“Congratulations on breaking through,” the old man commented.

“Does that mean that I’m a User now? And why do I see some things with my eyes closed, especially Gnarly?”

Tom sighed. “Yes, you’re a User now. I will answer the rest of your questions tomorrow. Now is not the time.”

Although Silas was dying to get an explanation for his many questions, he knew better than to argue with the old man.

“Are you having those nightmares every time you fall asleep?”

Silas stiffened. Although only isolated scenes remained from his dreams, they were so vivid they could have as well been real.

“My parents were merchants. One evening when we made camp on our way to Bryme, we were attacked by barbarians. My parents tried to fight back, but—”

“It’s alright.”

Silas scoffed. “No, it’s not. You want to know what I did while they fought and died, trying to protect me? Nothing. I just stood there, too afraid to do anything. Like a little child. If I had done something, or at least tried to save them, then maybe they’d still be here. I dream about them almost every night.”

Tom turned to look at him. “What do you think is the heaviest burden one can carry, Silas?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. He was really not in the mood for one of the old man’s lectures right now. Yet, when Tom spoke, the words had such an intensity behind them they made Silas once more think about the old man’s past.

“Regret. There are no burdens as heavy as those of guilt and regret. They will drag you so far down until all you can see are your own mistakes. Hate, self-loathing, and pain. This is all that blaming yourself for your parents’ death will get you. The path of vengeance is a lone one, and it will bring you neither relief nor satisfaction. It wasn’t your fault, Silas. There was nothing you could have done.”

Silas turned to look at the forest. He wanted to believe Tom’s words, he really did. But if it wasn’t his fault, then whose was it? The only person that could have possibly done anything to stop the barbarians in that situation was him, and he knew it.

“Did you get any other news about the barbarian invasion while we were in Heilmold?”

Tom sighed. “The Adjhin’tor took Bryme a couple of moons ago, and have by now conquered most of the east. They are holding the cities instead of moving further inland, which makes the people wonder. The Adjhin’tor also seem to have brought their children and elderly with them.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Do you know what their name means, apprentice?”

Silas frowned.

“Thought so,” Tom grunted. “Adjhin’tor” roughly translates to “the seeking people”. According to an ancient prophecy, the Adjhin’tor are always on the search for what they call the promised lands. These lands are described as lush, green farmland where food and life are abundant. It is a land where strife doesn’t exist, and where everyone has enough to feed their family and another. Many of them see Ceraviehl as these promised lands. There is also a newer prophecy, but very few people know about it.”

“Is this prophecy the reason why they are invading Ceraviehl?”

“Most likely, yes.”

“If Ceraviehl is their promised land, then why are they killing everything in their wake?”

Tom glanced up from his bowl. “Do you think the Council would cede territory for them to settle down?”

“Of course not, they’re barbarians.”

They would ravage all over Ceraviehl and butcher countless innocents. Now that Silas would have the power to do something about it, he couldn’t sit idle anymore.

“I want to join the Legion’s Invokers.” Silas had always liked the Invokers and their sleek, black leather uniforms, a pinned emblem of a descending falcon on their chests.

The spoon paused on its way to the old man’s mouth. A slow breath escaped his lungs. “Why?”

Silas bristled with anger. “What do you mean, why? Are you not going to help repel the barbarians?”

“No,” Tom answered immediately. “I have seen enough death for a lifetime.”

“Why should you care, as long as your stupid vegetables don’t get trampled over, right?”

Silas abruptly froze. The spoon was still in mid-air, the soup now slowly dripping onto the wooden table. For all he wanted, he could not move a muscle. His eyes darted at Tom. Feeling like an ant gazing up a mountain, he realized he might have gone too far.

Tom let out a deep sigh, the pressure vanishing as suddenly as it appeared. His master sounded tired. “Killing other Adjhin’tor will not bring your parents back, Silas.”

“No, but I will have taken my revenge.”

“Which will give you nothing, and leave you with less.”

“How could you know?” the boy asked his master, accusation dripping in his voice.

Tom’s voice was barely audible as he responded. “That is a story for another time.”

Why did an Artist as powerful as Tom live alone in some forest, and why did he decide to teach Silas without wanting anything in return? Why him?

“Who are you, Tom?”

The old man slowly shook his head. “Who I am does not matter anymore. What does matter is that you don’t waste your life on something that will bring you nothing but more suffering.”

“But it’s my fault they died. I can’t just let it go.”

Tom’s gray eyes were unfocused as he spoke, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

“I know.”

Silence wedged its way between the two, creating an unbridgeable gap neither could hope to cross. The moon’s light was almost blinding, laying bare what both tried to hide. Two souls, centuries between them, yet each one burdened by the same mistakes, the same pain. Never forgiven, and never forgotten.

It took a while before Tom spoke up again.

“You are barely fifteen summers, Silas. You are not ready to join the Legion.”

Anger bubbled in Silas’ chest. “But I can’t continue to sit here, doing nothing!”

“I’m not asking you to. When you reach the stage of Wielder, the Invokers will have to accept you into their ranks. Stay here for that long, at least.”

A Wielder. Concentrating on his new Artsight, Silas felt for the energy in his Inner Landscape. It swirled in white tendrils of dense mist, waiting to be used. Although Silas had just broken through to the stage of a User, he knew that becoming a Wielder would not be the end of his path as an Artist. Silas clenched his fist. Now that he had taken the first step as a real Artist, he would stop before nothing until he remedied his past mistakes. The barbarians had to be stopped.

The door of the cabin closed soon after, leaving the old man standing in the middle of the clearing, alone. Shadows lengthening, the moonlight vainly tried to triumph over the darkness that surrounded the tall, unmoving figure.