The chieftains call him Ilugei. He seems young, probably less than thirty summers, and is presumed to be a peak Aspect. The Hatagin is likely to be his original tribe, given his main weapon is a scimitar. Instead of pillaging, the barbarians are holding the cities they took.

The fields are also being preserved, and our analysts have yet to conclude as to why they let the non-combatants leave the cities. Each estimation of the barbarians’ numbers is seen as inconclusive, as still more stream through the tunnels. Their advance is likely to resume in spring. Previous efforts to infiltrate them have seen little to no fruition. Additional resources are requested.

A letter from Ala Malenor, Chief of Information to Piuga Stor, Head of Diplomacy

Somewhere in the Crystal River Forest, two figures faced each other. One radiating a sense of tranquility, the silver-haired bun that fell down his back softly swaying in the biting winter wind. The other looked wearily from left to right, a spear held firmly in both hands.

A wooden shield floated by his side. Round and only as long as his forearm, it was light enough to control with his Art. Silas had seen Tom carve it himself, using multiple layers of wood merged seamlessly on top of each other. Slightly bent from the centre point, it was excellent at deflecting attacks rather than simply block them.

Silas was long past not being able to control a piece of wood with his magic. That hadn’t stopped the old man from making it more difficult, obviously. Hence the shield. Commanding it solely with his mind while using his spear hadn’t been easy at first, but Silas slowly got the hang of it.

Both figures stood in a small clearing, unbothered by the crispy cold. The trees were bare, having long lost their leaves. The frost under his boots crunched every time the boy moved.

He was surrounded by numerous floating branches, every single one pointed at him. Although he could not see the branches behind him, he still perceived them with his Artsight. Moving slowly in a circle, Silas glanced at his master. The old man had his hands clasped behind his back, patiently observing him.

Suddenly, Silas glimpsed a piece of wood rushing at him. Despite only seeing it out of the corner of his eye, he was ready, immediately stepping to the side. A second branch rushed at him, now from his back. His shield rotated around him to steer the incoming branch off-course. Right before it hit, two more shot towards him, one of them almost as tall as he was. Silas lunged to the side, to dodge the heavy one while using his spear to strike the other one out of the air.

He felt the air pass by his head as he landed on the ground, scrambling to retrieve his spear. A sharp stick shot towards his head. He commanded his shield to block it, but he was too late. It slowed down in the last moment, hitting him on the back of his head.

Mouth tasting the cold snow, Silas got up. The branches had already reverted to their original position, each one floating in a circle around him.

“Again,” came Tom’s voice. Silas groaned, preparing himself for another barrage of branches.

A while later, he sat cross-legged on a bare patch of cold earth. His body hurt all over. “Honing his reflexes”, the old man called it. Abuse was what it was.

On the bright side, using the energy within his Inner Landscape to guide it into his body began to wield results, even if they were still barely noticeable. Silas had noticed his bones, especially those in his arms, beginning to feel more solid. It was a really weird sensation—just the other day, he had hit a tree with his fist, feeling only mild discomfort. However, as it turned out, hitting stone was still quite painful.

In the morning, when they had left the cabin, Tom had given him the task to survive a day in the woods. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue, but the depths of winter had the forest firm in its grasp, blanketing everything in a thick sheet of white. After successfully catching a hare, Silas searched for a good spot to pass the night in.

Regarding his work a while later, he felt rather pleased with his improvised shelter. While it might not have been anything fancy, it would stop the wind and snow. He turned around to look up at his master. The old man was regarding him stoically, one bushy eyebrow raised.

Behind Tom, everything suddenly began to shift. The branches formed perfect planks and the snow began to melt by itself. In the span of a few heartbeats, a man-sized shelter stood behind Tom. Not a single gap could be seen between the planks. It even had a few patterns on it, giving it an artistic flair.

Silas’ eyes darted between his crude and Tom’s admittedly elegant shelter. “Show-off,” he mumbled.

“What was that, apprentice?”

“Looks good, I said.”

Tom only grunted, already heading into his small palace. “Until dawn,” came from within. Sleep came easily.

Silas' body felt stiff as he was woke up. He groaned, the gaping hole in his stomach making itself known. Tom was already waiting outside, his dark, green cloak tight around him. Silas was startled to see that the old man’s shelter had completely disappeared already. The ground was even blanketed with snow once more. The boy looked at his master’s back incredulously.

“A hunter leaves no sign of his passing. He leaves no openings, no opportunities to become the hunted,” Tom said over his shoulder.

“I’ll check on the traps and get some firewood.”

“Mmmhh.”

The first trap was empty, but Silas was relieved to see the second one had caught a hare. Gnarly was eager to help, diving into the snow to present Silas with sticks he had found. However, the wooden creature did not seem to get that the wood needed to be dry to kindle a fire. Not that this mattered much to Gnarly. He just continued snow diving, presenting one wet stick after the other, not discouraged by Silas’ refusal to use them.

The fire was burning a while later, the skinned and gutted hare slowly roasting over the flames. Tom was completely silent as Silas worked, the old man’s gaze lost somewhere between the dense net of interlocking branches.

“Congratulations on not dying today.”

“Thank you?” Silas replied uncertainly. “May I ask you something, master?”

Tom snorted. “You just did.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Why is it that you hate the Guild of Mages so much?”

Silas flinched as Tom’s eyes bore into him. “Because while they may call themselves Mages, they have no understanding of the Arts they wield. These spellslingers are nothing but mindless puppets, putting power before knowledge. Ever since Gorn died, the Guild has devolved from an institution with questionable practices into a political, power-hungry and corrupt organization.”

Surely, the Guild couldn’t be that bad. And ever since who died? Gorn? Was his master perhaps talking about—

“Gorn? You mean the former Archmage Gornatius Siti? Did you know him?”

“Yes,” Tom stated. “But that was a long, long time ago.”

Silas glanced at the old man. He had always supposed his master was more powerful than he let on, but him having known the ex-Archmage himself was another thing entirely. How long could a Mage or an Artist live? He knew that Gornatius Siti had lived for almost 300 years, but then again, he had probably been the most powerful Mage in all of Ceraviehl.

“How old are you, master?”

Tom harrumphed. “Old enough to not have to answer your question, that’s for certain.”

Shaking his head, Silas let another log drop onto the fire. “Were you two close?”

For a while, his master said nothing. “Once, yes. But our different viewpoints on the Arts eventually separated us. He was a good Mage, though. One of the best.” The old man sighed. “But let’s not dwell on the past. Have you noticed any differences in your Inner Landscape recently?”

“It feels... stuffed, somehow?”

“Is that a question?”

“No?”

Tom’s right eye started twitching. “You either ask or you state something, but do not do both in the same sentence.”

The boy squirmed under his master’s glare. “My Inner Landscape feels stuffed like there’s not much space left for it to grow,” Silas said, this time with a bit more certainty.

“Good. That means you are nearing the end of your progress as a User.”

Silas opened his mouth to ask something, but Tom held up a finger. “Once your Inner Landscape is fully developed, it will feel similar to when your stomach is full. A weird analogy, but you will know what I mean when the time comes.”

“A weird Ana...” Silas began.

Tom waved his hand, interrupting him. “Not important,” the old man said. “The difference between a User and a Wielder is that a Wielder has managed to awaken at least one affinity and made it their Art, giving them greater control over it.

“How do I do that?” Silas blurted out.

“Patience, apprentice. In the same way you gained access to your Inner Landscape, you first need to enter a state of deep meditation. Then, try to become aware of your affinities, or at least your strongest one. The more each affinity resonates with you, the stronger it is. To pass from User to Wielder, you will need to establish a connection between your affinity and your Inner Landscape, so the former may become your Art. Do you follow?” the old man asked.

Silas frowned. “But how do I pull my affinity into my Landscape?”

“Unfortunately, there is no fool-proof formula for that, which is why you might have a hard time there. Your affinity will try to slip away each time, so you need to control your Landscape to latch onto it. Many Users fail at this step. Most of them, actually.”

Both Silas and Gnarly listened attentively, the latter half-submerged in the snow.

“I think I understand,” said Silas. “But how does it work for Gnarly? He didn’t need to gain access to his Inner Landscape, is his affinity already inside his Landscape?” he wondered.

“Spriggans are extremely rare creatures, and I have to admit that I don’t know for sure.”

Gnarly perked up upon hearing the old man mention it, letting out a short high-pitched creak. Almost completely covered with snow, the amber in his eyes starkly contrasted with the white surroundings.

One corner of Tom’s mouth twitched.

“As Gnarly continues to grow, so should your connection with it. This should not only affect both of your Arts, but the depth of your communication as well. While you two are obviously quite different from one another, your development in the Arts should be more or less similar. I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” he added.

Silas looked at his wooden friend. Once more, he was reminded of how little he knew about Gnarly. How big would he grow? How powerful would Gnarly become and which affinities did he even have? With a start, Silas realized something.

“Can I even join the Legion without the Guild or other Artists trying to take Gnarly away from me?”

“There is a law in place that is supposed to protect any Artist from forcibly being recruited into the Guild. If you join the Invokers as a Wielder, the Guild won’t dare lay a hand on you.”

Silas nodded, his resolution to join the Legion reaffirmed.

“Why do you want to join the Legion, Silas?”

The boy’s nostrils flared. How could he not want to join the Legion? The same people who had killed his parents now invaded his home, threatening to kill more families and ruin even more lives.

“How can you not understand it?” he asked his master disbelievingly.

Tom put another log onto the fire, the sparks that flew up evaporating in the cold and sharp air.

“Oh, I do understand why you would want to join the Legion. But beware, apprentice. The path of vengeance only goes one way, and once you have taken the first few steps, there will be no coming back from it. Hate is a poison that corrupts from within, and before you know it, you will be nothing but a husk of what you once were, an empty body which only knows how to hunt and kill.”

Eyes glued to the yellow embers of the fire, Silas’ throat became tight. It reminded him of the last day with his parents. How they had gathered around the fire, carefree and unsuspecting of the horror that was just about to happen.

“My father always loved to tell us stories, especially by the fire out in the open.” Silas took a shaky breath. “He also told us one on that night. It was the last story I ever heard from him.”

Upper lip quivering, Silas wiped the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

Tom’s voice was soft as he spoke. “What was the story about?”

Silas repeatedly poked the fire with a stick, throwing more orange sparks into the air. “Elusco. According to the story, his whole village had been killed by the Sadmora. Consumed by his hate, he then used his talent for the Arts to hunt the creatures to near extinction. Father told me he was later called “bane of the Sadmora”.

Tom’s body went stiff. “I know that story.”

“It’s just that I don’t want to end up like him, you know? But I can’t just let it go, either.”

“You definitely wouldn’t,” the old man replied, still not looking at Silas. “It’s alright to have bad thoughts from time to time, apprentice. Given your situation, I’d even say that it’s alright to want to take what was taken from you. Yet acting upon those feelings will not make them go away. It will only make them stronger and take more from you than it already has. Trust me on this, boy.”

Silas did not want to make the feelings go away—he wanted retribution. He wanted justice, and he would do everything in his power to get it. Gnarly suddenly stopped playing in the snow and started to climb Silas’ arm up. As if knocking on a door, he pulled twice on Silas’ earlobe.

“Creak, creak!”

Gnarly was angry. “What’s wrong?” Silas asked his friend.

“Creak! Creak, creak, creak!”

Although the emotions coming from Gnarly were a bit vague, Silas realized his friend was seriously bothered by something.

“I’m not sure I get what you’re trying to say.”

The wooden creature vehemently shook his large head. “Creak.” His eyes began to soften, the silver threads in Gnarly’s eyes forming multiple slowly rotating triangles. “Creak-creak, creak.”

A single tear fell down Silas' cheek as he finally understood his little friend. “Then what am I supposed to do? Just move on as if nothing happened?”

“Creak, creak. Creak.”

Silas took a shaky breath. “I will try.”

Gnarly nodded, its upbeat demeanor returning in an instant. Arms stretched out, he suddenly jumped from Silas’ shoulder, diving head-first into the snow. The boy’s heart skipped a beat as his friend momentarily disappeared. A wooden head popped out soon after, the twigs on them now bent to the side.

One three-fingered hand gingerly rubbed the bruised head. A light chuckle escaped Silas’ throat. He knew he didn’t deserve someone like Gnarly, but he would do his best to earn that right. Someday.