Excerpt From The Legion's Scholarly Manual On Casting—

With the foundation of a standardized level of determining skill, we can judge when people are able to move to the next tier in the disciplines, though there will always be exceptions.

When a child solidifies their psy into a tendril, they are acknowledged as being at the first tier of all disciplines. This is due to our inherent natures.

It takes little to no training for an individual to shift their psy to be a tendril of force or mind when they are forming it. Though a telepathic tendril can do little more than impart intent and emotions to others, while a telekinetic tendril can pick up and throw rocks. Children being what they are, you can imagine what most focus on.

While few, if any, can shift the aspect once it is extended, the initial choice when psy is exuded is instinctual. This is not to say that all have an equal aptitude in the disciplines, only that everyone is capable of the basic level of each domain.

Once the initial manifestation of one's psy has happened — at whatever age that is accomplished — one must practice extending and manipulating strands simultaneously in unique ways if they wish to progress.

Two tendrils is the level most achieved, as two is the legion's minimum standard. That is not to say the legion will kill you if you don't achieve it, but if you don't, the odds of your death increase significantly once combat starts.

The reason two strands will remain the minimum is simple. When in the legions, every legionary must join the Union while battle is joined. And an individual's ability to also enhance their shield, sword, or harness, as the occasion calls, is life-preserving.

Sadly, creating two strands is not a standard all can meet — either due to laziness or ineptitude — and they pay with their lives in the end.

**********

"Faster!" Markus shouted while he was crouched down, one hand pressing against a log, "We need a burst of speed!"

A large plunk sounded to his left, and he felt a slight rocking of the logs under him a moment later and felt a splattering of cold water on his body.

Movement catching his eye to the right, his head whipped in that direction, searching for danger.

A spray of water struck his face, blinding him for a moment. Used to it by now, his free hand quickly swiped over his eyes to clear his vision. All the while, the tips of his fingers never lifted from the log. He had learned better.

"Ahh!" Markus shouted, repositioning his psy shield in front of him before the droplets of water could hit the river.

The latest ball of deep amber fire broke against the shield. Stifling a grunt at the mental pang of having a tiny portion of his psy ripped away at the impact, he reinforced his shield. The cohesion of the fire might have been broken, but it still continued forward, rolling along the shield's invisible width until it reached the edges. Once it did, fingers of fire licked over the shield's sides, reaching toward Markus like a many-fingered hand. After a moment, Markus could feel his soaked clothes starting to steam as the heat beat against his body.

And that was the result of only a fraction of the fireball which made it around the shield.

If the ball actually hit him in the chest, it would burn through his flesh without even being phased... A shiver ran down Markus's spine at the thought. Pushing past the instinct to look away from the intense heat, Markus kept his face forward, eyes unblinking, despite the uncomfortable reminder of placing his head next to his father's forge as a child to see what was inside.

When the bloom of fire started dissipating, it formed a gray smoke. His body tensed as he strained his eyes harder than before, keeping the shield in place.

Markus glared into the smoke, willing it to dissipate faster, his resolve unwavering. Eyes widening in alarm, Markus moved the shield to his right, blocking a boulder.

Before the rock could rebound off his shield more than an inch, a frantic message pinged his mind. I'm gonna make it, Markus thought, his mind unwilling to accept the tiniest sliver of doubt as he forced his shield to the opposite side of the raft, angling the top away from him.

Still moving the shield into place, a second chest-sized rock clipped the bottom left corner of the shield. But with the shield angled, the projectile plowed into the water, throwing up a wave of water onto the raft's occupants and resoaking his partially dried leathers.

The wave rocked the raft, but Markus rode through it in his three-point stance, as did the others who were up off of their stomachs.

If Markus could get away with guarding the raft sitting on his ass, he would. But you didn't get the best view of the shoreline — and, more importantly, the beastkin working their spells on the shoreline — while sitting on and occasionally just under the surface of the icy river. And this way, he was marginally warmer than those poor soaked saps shivering while clinging to the logs.

All things considered, the raft was working great. It was mostly floating and had yet to be struck by a boulder, a feat not all the other rafts could boast of. Over the hours and hundreds of boulders the beastkin had thrown, two connected with separate rafts.

Luckily, one of the strikes resulted in a half dozen people being maimed and a few more falling into the river. The other raft broke up, throwing everyone into The Rush's cold embrace.

A few lived as they made it to another raft, but the rest were picked off by the beastkin while swimming to safety or succumbed to The Rush's cold embrace.

The latest rock-made wave was a little too close for comfort, as the raft gave off some concerning creeks and groans, but it should be fine… It will be fine. We are going to make it.

Their trip down the river was… lively, to say the least.

Markus quickly broke up their mental network into groups containing their individual rafts. It was only logical.

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Over the last couple of hours, the distance between the rafts stretched out over a mile. And stringing more than the tiniest of psy strands between all of them was impractical.

The loss of psy to transfer it along the strands between them would be too great to justify the act. Well, if I was the type of leader to suck all of my troops dry to save my own skin… Markus thought to himself, his face twisting into a sour look.

Markus hated to admit it, but he knew plenty of tribunes in the 15th Legion that would do such a thing. They weren't on the front lines, which would either have those types beaten into shape or positioned to have an accident.

Many would, but Markus wouldn't. Never.

He gave the information they had to relay, if any of them lived, then wished them all luck before cutting the connection.

Now it was up to the individuals that happened to be on each raft if they were going to survive.

Markus felt another jab of pain lodge in his heart as he looked back. It wasn't fair, but life never was. So often, fate and luck determine one's life.

Because Markus himself was on this raft, along with Celeste, Sathera, and Gruth, they would probably make it. Celeste and Gruth were some of the strongest scouts, and Sathera wasn't far behind, even if she wasn't well-trained.

The result was that if any of the rafts and the reserves of psy to make it, it was theirs.

As the most senior and those with the most experience and control, Gruth, Markus, and Celeste were using all of their psy. Gruth was pulling them forward while Markus and Celeste shielded the sides of the raft.

Silently, Markus stayed in his crouch even while the raft was undisturbed, his head never wavering or dipping. His eyes constantly slid along the shoreline, looking for any flashes of lights or spots of motion.

Being the first raft, by a large margin, one would think that they would be left alone.

After all, the beastkin had to run along the shoreline. The water might not appear to be moving all that fast, but being in the center of the river and Gruth giving them a constant pull forward with a psy strand, they were moving along at a fast run. And that wasn't even counting the occasional burst of speed from Gruth when they needed to dodge a particularly large boulder.

It wasn't all that great, but it was pretty good, considering what they were riding. Faster than Markus could manage running through an old-growth forest, at least.

"Boulder!" shouted a woman sending a mental picture through the link. Starting to move, Markus suddenly froze the shield.

"Fireball!" A male shouted a moment after the woman, also sending a mental pulse.

Markus went with his gut feeling, moving the shield towards the fireball, causing it to brake over his shield sending out a wave of heat.

As he was turned away, a deep plop sounded as the boulder fell into the river short of the raft. He could feel the sprinkling of water as droplets fell onto his shoulders and head.

While not all of the beastkin could cast their… spells, all of them could pick up large rocks and chuck them a startling distance. A stunning distance, really.

As of now, the river banks were hundreds of yards away, placing this in a particularly narrow section of the river. Because of that, the splash of rocks hitting the water all around them was constant. There were, after all, hundreds of beastkin lining the sides of the river. And a half dozen of the robed kind that could cast spells.

Which was unfortunate as it made the beastkin more accurate.

Slightly more accurate doesn't mean much at this distance, but if they threw enough boulders, eventually, they were bound to hit something. It was just a matter of attrition and who would last the longest.

Them throwing the rocks this far was impressive, to say the least. And it was astonishing the beastkin were attacking them so much and not the easier targets behind them, but at least Markus was helping the others in some small way…

“Spike—" Shouted someone in fear behind Markus before cutting off, "Ahhh! My fucking leg." The man screamed out a moment later.

"Kawrashit! Crows take these animals fucking bastard!" Celeste shouted in frustration and growing fatigue. Her words were followed by a thump of an impact.

Markus could feel it in her words, radiating off her and into the Union. She was tired. They all were.

"Suck it up," Markus said, "they can't be much better off! The pricks have to run after us while throwing attacks. All we have to do is sit on our asses and watch the forest go by, so stop complaining!"

"Sorry to ruin the pleasant trip with my screams and bad attitude," said the man with a foot-long inch-thick stone spike in his leg through his tight throat. "Pretty inconsiderate of me, I must say."

Markus nodded in agreement while sending out the feeling, blocking another rock with the shield, "I'd tell you to walk off such an injury, but I just don't feel like going to shore to drop you off at the moment. I'm in a rush and don't wanna waste time."

"That's what happens to everyone that becomes a centurion. Ya'll suddenly get a stick up the collective ass and never seem to want to spend the time to slow down and smell flowers while resting under a tree…" The man muttered to 'himself' but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Snickers sounded at his words, and Markus took a moment to look over his shoulder, giving the man a flat stare, "What did you say, scout?"

"Nothing, Centurion! I was just talking to the nail in my leg."

“Spike.” A woman corrected, "Already lost too much blood from that small booboo?"

"If I can't lift my leg because it is nailed to the log, I feel confident calling it a fucking nail." The man replied. "Not that you would know much about something nailing you."

"Ahh, fuck you!" Snapped back the woman.

"You wish."

Everyone — even the woman Tirre was talking to — chuckled at his words. Even Markus had to repress a smile. It wasn't that funny, but it was better to laugh at Tirre's joke than watch him bleed to death.

He might live. Someone was carefully trying to free his leg and ripping off a piece of clothing for a tourniquet. But an open wound and water weren't a good combination.

Settling his mind, Markus focused on his job, falling into a haze. All that mattered was blocking the next projectile. Searching the shoreline.

His screaming body and increasingly fuzzy mind were mere distractions. Inconsequential ones he ignored.

Hours passed, and the sun fell lower, getting closer and closer to the horizon. And with the passing time, exhaustion began to take its toll.

Try as they might, more attacks slipped through. Markus and Celeste just could not stop them all.

With the attacks came injuries. And deaths. While none of them were the strongest pay users, three people out of sixteen were significant when every drop of psy mattered. And thirteen is an unlucky number.

More than anything else, very injury and death increased the strain on the rest of them. But Markus would not give in. His will was unshakable, as he knew his goal, and he would make it.

He stayed in his crouch, bloodshot eyes on the shoreline, looking. Always looking.

His shield shrunk, becoming little more than a foot in diameter, but still, he blocked attack after attack.

It might have been gradual, but the frequency of the attacks slowed the beastkin were actually tiring. They never stopped, but it gave Markus some much-needed room to breathe.

That, and the river widening, making the distance to the shorelines more than half a mile. Even the beastkin had problems with that.

Finally, after the longest afternoon in his life, the sun sunk below the horizon, and Markus dropped onto the raft in exhaustion with the darkness.

"Stay low," Markus whispered, "They might be able to somewhat see in the dark, but not at this distance. Not without us making it… obvious~.”

Giving his last order, Markus fell into an exhausted sleep.