The Adhin’tor consist of six tribes, each one controlling a different part of the Steppes. While the Hatagin specialize in direct combat, the Tujid and the Naija seem to be more similar to our approach to the Arts. The Ramajan, a tribe of crafters and merchants, are especially interesting.

Almost every member has somehow managed to split their Inner Landscape, allowing them to have both pure and affinity-influenced energy, resulting in a fascinating application of enchanting. I wonder, how do they keep their Landscapes from fusing into one another?

Excerpt from Of righteous Evil, chapter 2: The Adjhin’tor. Written by Elusco, Bane of the Sadmora. Published in 540 a.f, banned throughout Ceraviehl in the same year. No known copies exist.

A cool spring breeze wafted through the forest, bringing with it a scent of wet earth that emerged from the deep blanket of winter. Countless songbirds chirped in the trees and weeds sprouted from the soil, each one slowly winding its way towards the sun.

Tall gray beeches and wide oaks stood proud, their thick branches still bare of leaves. Bright sunlight shot through the canopy and fell on the thick drops of water that collected on the blades of grass, reflecting the light in a shimmering display of color.

Deep green cloak held tightly around him, Silas stalked through the woods. His passing made no sound, apart from the occasional creak from atop his shoulder. Gnarly had grown a lot these last few moons. He opted to sit on Silas’ neck now, both hands clutching the boy’s hair.

“I won’t be able to carry you forever like this, you know.”

Gnarly disagreed, pulling on a few of Silas’ thick brown strands for emphasis. “Creak.”

Ever since he had broken through, communicating with Gnarly had become much easier. If he concentrated, Silas could speak with him without saying a word, relying entirely on their bond. Silas thought that was pretty neat. Gnarly agreed.

Although leaving Tom felt like the right choice to make, Silas knew that he would come to miss the old man. Probably. Despite having spent a long time in his cabin, the boy realized he barely knew anything about his master. All of the powerful Mages and Artists in Ceraviehl were known at least by name, even those not affiliated with the guild.

Yet not one fit Tom’s description. Strange. Someone must know of him, especially if he had once been friends with the ex-Archmage, Gornatius Siti. So why had Silas never heard of Tom before?

Whatever the case, Silas was very grateful for everything the grumpy old man had done for him. One hand patted his chest where the small booklet lay inside a pocket of his new cloak. Silas couldn’t wait to see what Tom had written in it. An explanation for the weird body-enhancing technique that the old man had been so insistent about would certainly be helpful. Even if his bones did become a bit sturdier, it still felt like a huge waste of energy and time to him.

Maybe he’d come to see eye to eye with his former master if Silas returned one day. But before that, he would join the Legion’s Invokers and earn the right to don their uniform. Silas knew that many young Artists and Hedgewitches wanted to join their ranks, with most of them failing. However, not many came to the Legion, already having awakened their first affinity and reaching the stage of a Wielder. Silas would be surprised if they rejected him.

Alíd was only a few days away. If he made good time, he would reach the road before the evening and make camp in a cave along the way. However, he knew he had to be careful. The barbarians effectively controlled this territory, and although he wasn’t helpless anymore, fighting against a whole patrol wouldn’t end well for him, either.

Silas abruptly stopped as a single scream echoed through the forest. The birds fled from their perches and his eyes darted from one side to the other. Should he investigate? The smartest thing to do would be to give it a wide berth and leave the potential threat behind. No. What if the scream came from a family that got attacked by the barbarians? He couldn’t let them die, as well.

His strides lengthened. Gnarly had stopped creaking, his eyes concentrated on the path ahead of them. A second scream reached Silas’ ears, this one higher, more desperate. Bow clutched in his right hand, he crouched low as the trees ahead of him thinned.

The screams were coming from just ahead of him, some in a language Silas knew had to belong to the barbarians. He pressed his back against a wide oak as he peered around the tree, laying eyes on the road. His breath got stuck in his lungs. Two people were facing each other, with more bodies lying around them.

Silas knew this scene.

He knew it from that day, he knew it because he had seen it countless times in his nightmares. It looked the exact same.

A man stood in front of a woman, a heavy-looking ax in his left hand. The woman had nothing to defend herself with, yet she didn’t flinch as the weapon was raised above her head. The ax promised death. Behind the woman, a child sat on its bottom, the whites in its eyes visible as it stared at the woman. Another man lay lifeless behind the woman, his hands shaking feebly as he tried to stand up again.

Silas’ vision shifted, and images began to dance in front of his eyes. His father, his skull getting crushed by the barbarian’s boot. “You have to flee, Silas!” His mother, sacrificing herself as she stepped right into the descending ax. Himself, sitting behind his mother, useless.

No. Not again.

Back then, he had been a weak and helpless child. But now was different—he was different. He had the power to stop the barbarian and prevent it all from repeating itself. Everything around him faded away as his eyes zoned in on the warrior.

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He had to die.

Hands moving of their own accord, an arrow was placed on the string. Reaching deep into his Inner Landscape, Silas infused every part of the projectile with his Art as he drew the bow. The weapon hummed with energy, yet his hands stayed steady. He didn’t care how much energy he put into the arrow.

All he needed was one shot.

A heartbeat before he released, the barbarian turned to look at him. “What—” The arrow exploded forward with such force that Silas momentarily staggered. The man frantically moved his shield to block the incoming arrow.

A resounding boom reverberated through the woods as Silas’ shot collided with the shield, the following shockwave blasting the thick branches lying beside the road away like leaves caught in the wind. The man stumbled. Silas’ arrow had completely shattered, with parts of the projectile sticking out of the barbarian’s legs.

“Boy, what are you doing, can’t you see they are ba—"

Silas’ cloak fluttered behind him as he bolted forward, his hand reaching behind his back. The spear was light in his grip, his small shield already floating by his side. A noise came from his shoulder, but he didn’t hear it. He was upon the warrior in an instant, his spear a flurry of attacks.

The man barely managed to deflect the strikes and sidestepped to get a bit of distance between himself and Silas. The noise from his shoulder increased in volume, but Silas was entirely focused on the barbarian.

Four arrows moved out of the quiver on his hip to encircle the warrior as Silas kept his eyes on his enemy. The man stared at him in disbelief. “Who are you?”

Silas didn’t hear him.

All of the arrows shot simultaneously at the warrior as Silas lunged forward. The man swung his weapon in a wide circle, trying to block Silas’ spear and deflect the arrows. A deep grunt of pain came from the warrior as two of the arrows hit him in his leg and lower back.

“I don’t know why you’re attacking me, boy, but that was your last mistake.”

The man held his ax in front of him, one tip pointing at Silas. All around him, the air suddenly began to shimmer. Silas took a cautious step back. However, he could hardly move; his body felt like wading through mud. The man leaped. Infusing the wooden shield with power, Silas frantically tried to block the descending ax.

A loud creak came from his shoulder. Vines sprouted forth, multiplying and growing rapidly as they enforced the shield in front of him. Silas felt the drain on his Inner Landscape as the heavy ax impacted with his shield. The pressure vanished with the attack, but the barbarian didn’t let up. Strike after strike rained down on Silas, and he could feel the grip on his spear getting weaker with each attack. His hand slipped. The weapon got knocked away, cluttering onto the rough cobblestones of the road.

The barbarian smiled.

With a heavy overhand swing, the ax descended once more. Silas scrambled away and tripped over his feet. The ax passed just over his head as he fell onto the cobblestones. Gnarly raised both of his arms. Two wooden vines latched onto the ax and pulled it out of the warrior’s grasp in a sudden tug. The barbarian twisted the weapon in the last moment, blade cutting deep into Gnarly’s arm.

A wave of hot pain flowed across the bond. Scorching rage pulsed through him. How dared the barbarian hurt Gnarly? A guttural scream escaped from Silas’ lungs as he jumped at the warrior, one fist raised. Channeling every ounce of power from his Inner Landscape into his right hand, he struck out.

The man smirked, moving his shield to block the strike. While it may have gotten a bit damaged from the earlier Powershot, there was no way it wouldn’t be able to hold its ground against a simple punch.

Or so the barbarian thought.

Silas’ fist met the shield. The wood first cracked, then shattered. The warrior’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief as he stumbled back from the impact. Countless wooden pieces clattered onto the road. Voices came from his left, probably belonging to the family the barbarian had tried to murder. The warrior let go of what remained from the shield, his hand a mangled mess.

“What are you?”

Locking eyes with his enemy, Silas held one arm out to the side. His spear flew into his open hand.

“Wait, wait, wait,” the warrior retreated.

He had hurt Gnarly—there was nothing that would stop Silas now. Crouching low, he aimed straight at the man’s heart. His legs catapulting him forward as he thrust out. With the shield shattered into a hundred pieces and the ax lying far away, the warrior had nothing to defend himself with.

The spear went deep into the forearm of the warrior, splitting the bone. A nerve-racking scream echoed across the road. The man fell, blood pouring on his uniform. Silas walked up to the barbarian. This could only end one way.

“Mercy!” the man pleaded.

Silas’ nostrils flared. There hadn’t been any mercy when the barbarians had slaughtered his family, and neither had there been mercy for the mother the warrior was about to kill. The man’s eyes met Silas’s in a final plea. The spear struck down. A single gurgling gasp escaped the warrior’s throat as his eyes dimmed. The fight was over. The barbarian wouldn’t hurt anybody, not anymore.

Silas took a deep breath as he looked down on his enemy. It took a while for him register his surroundings. Blood covered the stony road and crept into the gaps between the cobblestones, and another corpse lay a few feet away, this one ridden with small holes that appeared to come from stones that had shot into it.

Something knocked on the back of Silas’ mind. Dread began to rise in his stomach, working its way up to his lungs where it got stuck. The man looked odd. Silas had taken him for a barbarian, yet barbarians weren’t known to have blue eyes and light hair.

No, no, no. Silas fell to his knees. The dead warrior wore a sleek, black uniform, now soaked with blood. A trembling thumb wiped over the man’s chest, revealing a silver falcon that was stitched into the leather. Silas knew the emblem, he knew what it stood for. This was not a barbarian—it was a member of the Legion, an Invokers. Silas had killed one of his own.

“What have I done?” he mumbled, scrambling back on all fours, eyes fixated on the dead body.

“Creak!” A current of compassion flowed through the bond, meeting upon a void of darkness that swallowed everything it came in touch with. Silas was drowning in its midst, trapped. His whole body started shaking, various sticks and branches moving to levitate around him.

This couldn’t be. How would he join the Invokers if he had killed one of their members? There was no place for him in the Legion. There was no place for him anywhere, not after what he’d done. He had become an enemy to his own people. Just like the barbarians.

Silas hugged his knees. He had wanted to do good, to be a hero. Instead, he became a butcher. Despair crept through his body, settling deep in his bones and tainting his mind. Nails dug into the skin of his hands. His fist met the stone in front of him. A flurry of punches rained down, the biting pain a welcome distraction.

Like a lightning bolt tearing a tree in two, his fists shattered the stone. With every strike, his Landscape became a bit more insubstantial, sweet pain soon overwhelming everything else and giving him relief from his despondent thoughts. Skin long gone, Silas’s fists smashed the pieces of rock until they were nothing but smithereens.

His breath came in short, uneven pants. Silas let his eyes focus. Bloodied, but undamaged bone greeted his sight. Pulling his knees to his chest, he lay down on the rough cobblestones and let his mind wander. He needed to sleep, to forget. Gnarly creaked softly in his ear. Closing his eyes, Silas let himself succumb to the exhaustion.