The barbarians started to invade Ceraviehl presumably three days ago. Reports conclude they dug various tunnels through the mountain range and then stormed the fort from within the kingdom.

So far, there have been three different tunnels spotted, each spread along the mountain range. The majority of their forces are infantry, estimated to be around 24,000 strong, with more still coming. Bryme is believed to fall within the coming fortnight.

Letter from a messenger to The Council, dated 22th day, 2nd moon 866 a.f.

Master and apprentice sat on their usual spot before the cabin, eating in a comfortable silence. The cool evening wind blew across Silas' face, playing with his thick and wooly brown hair that by now already covered his ears. The sun started to set, and the whole forest seemed to prepare itself for the night.

Pulling on his hair, Gnarly stepped on Silas’ ear to heave himself on his head. Silas held a hand up to help his companion. After a bit of a struggle, he finally reached the top of his head.

Gnarly then stood up and threw both of his arms into the air. “Creak, creak, creak!”

Tom’s mouth twitched ever-so slightly.

“Be careful up there buddy, I don’t want you to fall as soon as I turn my head,” Silas said with worry.

Gnarly only responded by patting his head reassuringly.

“What does it mean to be a Artist, Silas?” his master suddenly asked him.

“It means to wield the magical Arts,” Silas responded without having to think.

“Is that all?”

Silas frowned. “It’s about being something more. It’s about having the power to punish those who deserve it,” he said with conviction.

“Who deserves to be punished, then?” Tom asked in a calm tone.

Although the old man was sitting right in front of him, Silas’ mind had gone elsewhere already. Tom, the fireplace, the clearing, all of it faded away, giving space to a scene so horrific Silas would never be able to forget it.

Cries of pain and horror pierced his ears, one of them his own. The pungent taste of blood hung in the air, and the earth felt cold and unusually wet under his hands. A boot stomped on his father’s head. Crunch. Silas’ stomach churned. “Why did you let her die, Silas?” Edgar’s mutilated face asked him. Silas knew the answer—because he had been afraid, and weak. The barbarian’s boot came down again. Crunch.

The scene shifted. An ax hung suspended in mid-air, its serrated edge right above his mother’s neck. Of all the things she could have done, Hannah chose to step forward to sacrifice herself.

For him.

Even after the ax tore through her body, she continued to claw the barbarian’s eyes out. His mother had never been a person of violence, but neither had she been one to let herself be ruled by fear.

Then there was him. Knees shaking, arse on the ground, he watched as his parents got butchered. Pathetic. Clutching his mother’s robe and running away to save his own hide, like a child would. A helpless and useless child. His bubbling rage brought him back to the present, his eyes hard as he looked at Tom.

“The barbarians,” Silas spat out.

“How would you punish the barbarians?”

“I would kill them. Just as they killed my parents.”

“What if you came across a few barbarians, and they have a son who is watching you kill his parents?”

“They are barbarians, so what does it matter,” the boy retorted in his anger.

“Then what is the difference between you and them?” Tom demanded of Silas.

The boy’s eyes went wide, his face red with fury.

“I am nothing like them,” he spat out. “The barbarians are the ones who killed my family, I’m only avenging their death!”

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“So you are using their death to justify more killing.”

“How dare you, old man! What do you know about death?”

“Trust me, I know enough to—”

“I have seen my own parents die right in front of me, just because I wasn’t strong enough to save them!” Silas wailed. “I should have at least tried to protect them, then maybe they would still be—” Burying his head in his hands, Silas began to sob uncontrollably.

All the emotions he had tried to suppress during the last few days came crashing down on him. This couldn’t be real, it had to be a dream. He would wake up back in his bed in Bildsfell and realize all of this hadn’t happened.

If only. His parents were dead, and Silas knew it. Brutally killed for no reason. Never had they hurt a soul, ever. They didn’t deserve it. They were all he had known his entire life, and now he was left with nothing but memories.

His father, telling one of his stories while Silas his mother listened attentively. His mother, her clear voice sounding through their shop as she sang.

All of it, gone. Forever.

An arm embraced him, pulling him close. Silas heard the sound of Tom’s voice, although he couldn’t make out the words. Gnarly creaked soothingly into Silas’ ear.

Head buried in the old man’s chest, Silas let go of all pretense of being strong. He wanted to be like the heroes in one of his father’s stories, but he was just a boy. A helpless boy who couldn’t protect anyone, not even himself. Just the thought of losing Gnarly made his chest constrict. He wouldn’t let that happen.

His new friend was everything he had, now.

There was only one way out of this. If he was to protect those around him and avenge his parents, he needed power. He needed to become an Artist. With nothing left, Silas wouldn’t let anything deter him from his path.

He eventually calmed down somewhat and pulled away from Tom’s embrace. The old man was looking out into the woods with a sorrowful expression. Wiping away the tears in his eyes, Silas took a deep breath.

All of a sudden, the twigs lying in front of him started to pull themselves together, forming a small wooden figure. It stood motionlessly, looking at Silas with nonexistent eyes.

“An Artist is a person like any other in this world,” Tom began. The figure waved its arms, and small sticks started to circle it.

“And you are right, the ability to wield the magical Arts is what differentiates Artists from most other people.”

A second figure, this one made out of soil, now stood opposite the other one.

“However, the humans are flawed by design.” The two figures walked toward each other, their arms raised. “They are prone to give in to feelings of hate and revenge.”

Twigs and clumps of earth started to fly back and forth as the two figures fought each other. The earthern figure soon won and the other crumpled to the ground. Yet, a new twig-like figure arose and pointed at its fallen predecessor. Clenching its fist, the new figure attacked the other one with abandon, wooden projectiles riddling its earthern opponent with holes.

Having avenged its predecessor’s death, the wooden figure stood victoriously.

But a new figure already began to form itself, gesticulating at the pile of soil beside it while looking at its adversary. This cycle repeated itself endlessly. One figure took revenge, only to be killed by the one on the opposite side afterward.

“Murder does not justify more killing, Silas. Being an Artist is not about having the power to judge, but the wisdom when not to. Beware that gaining control over the Arts won’t make you immune to things like guilt, vengeance, and hate. It’ll just make your more susceptible to those feelings and give you the ability to act upon them.”

“The Arts can be used for violence,” Tom explained, a couple of figures rising and fighting each other instantly. “But it can also be so much more. The Arts are a tool to use, not a weapon to wield. Beware that as you progress on the thousand Arts, you do not not stray too far from what it means to be an Artist.”

Now two different figures were walking side by side, using their different Arts to create a small house. Above it, another figure flew through the air, a leaf under its feet.

“I know words are like the wind, but trust an old man when he tells you to lay down your hate.” Tom gazed into the forest, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Heavy shadows blanketed his eyes.

“Hate and revenge will take everything from you,” he said bitterly. “It will leave you with nothing until you are but a husk of your former self. One day, you will wake up and realize you wasted your life, wishing you could turn back time.”

The sheer emotion in the old man’s words surprised Silas. Who was Tom really, and why did he choose to live here, as powerful as he was?

“I don’t expect to change your mind overnight, but do both of us a favor and think on what I just said. Always consider the consequences of your actions. Because in the end, we’re all just living beings, afraid to die and trying to protect those we care for.”

Silas scoffed. The barbarians certainly didn’t want to protect anybody when they had decided to kill his parents. “But what am I supposed to do then? Simply ignore what happened?”

Tom shook his head. “No, but the path you are walking on will bring you neither happiness nor relief. The only thing you can do now is honor their memory. Try to think about what kind of Artist they would have wanted you to be.”

A few shaky sobs escaped Silas’ throat. Tom pulled him in for another hug.

Silence reigned for a time. Both master and apprentice were lost in their thoughts, watching the evening sun hide itself behind the dense forest. The spare rays of light fought a losing battle against the flickering shadows, the darkness blanketing the woods in a caring embrace.

“You know what, my apprentice? I think it’s time for your first lesson in the Arts,” the old man announced.

Silas’ eyes focused instantly.

“Alright!” he exclaimed in delight.

Smiling, Tom pointed at a spot a couple of feet away from him. “Stand over there, and pay attention.”

Silas could hardly contain his excitement. He was finally going to learn some real magic! His master was still smiling, which struck him as a bit odd. Tom rarely smiled. Come to think of it, the only time the old man had smiled was when he had hit Silas with a staff to either “correct his posture” or “test his stance”.

Oh no. This couldn’t be good. But the old man was unarmed, so—

A branch suddenly flew toward Silas’ face.