The next stage of my plan is simple: Midnight, when the other Chosen were told to come in after me, I will lead the group out toward the hunting lodge at the bottom of the mountain. If we run across the apostle, and the group he took out earlier that day, then we will hold on the path, and pincer him on either side; if not, I will leave the care of those freed to whoever came in after me, hurry back in Shadow’s form in order to sneak around the apostle, and destroy the outpost; so for the next 40 minutes, we get ready to head out.

Bags are made of torn leather scraps, and weapons are hoisted and swung for the first time in preparation. Tensions are high, yet so is everyone’s spirit. Freedom for them, was a night away. I heal as often as I can; sealing off old and fresh wounds alike from the former prisoners. I go back to the chapel and get the wand from the dead priest in there. With it in my hand, I can already feel the flow of mana much better. 11:30, I go to find Nyt, chatting with some of the other Efrans by the canal.

“Can I ask you a favor, Nyt?”

The Ir turns its head toward me.

“Sure thing.”

“It’s going to sound weird, but do you know any fire spells?”

“I do, why?”

I hand off my old wand.

“Can we go somewhere quiet, and can you fire off a couple toward me?”

Nyt tilts their head to the side.

“Why?”

“I want to practice countering spells, just in case we run across the apostle.”

“He wouldn’t be moving this late.” Nyt says, “The forests below are full of creatures that hunt in the dark. We should be safe as long as we’re out before sunrise.”

“Regardless.”

Nyt takes the wand and leads me to a place free of people. We stand about ten paces apart. Once we settle and have our wands out, pointed at one another, the Ir calls.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

A hot red streak arcs out of the wand. I breathe in deep, let the water mana flow up my leg, and push it out of the w— the weak firebolt strikes me on the shoulder. I pat out the flames and heal my fingers.

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“I thought you said you were ready.”

“Again.”

She shoots another one. Okay, Lawerence. Take a breath, draw in the water mana from the ground, and —

This flame strikes me in the chest, and quickly burns a small hole in my hoodie. I pat it out much like the other.

“Again.”

Another red streak hurls toward me.

Draw in the mana. Run it up my leg, out my wand annnd out. The firebolt scatters. We continue this practice for a couple of more minutes. On average, I was able to get every fourth one. I have Nyt shoot wind spells at me as well. For those, thanks to the fact that they’re harder to detect than the blaring orange of flame, I was able to counter 2 out of the 15 Nyt shots at me. Water was much the same. And earth? How the hell do you counter an earth spell? Out of the 20 earth spells she used — mainly spells that tangled with my feet, I’m not able to counter a single one.

“No no no! Let the wind mana flow out of your dominant leg.”

Nyt tries to correct me, but the path carved by the wind mana in my body led down my throat, through my lungs, around my heart, and out down my arm. It’ll take some time to carve the correct channels, I suppose. And time was something that we didn’t have much of at the moment. I’ll do it once home, back on Earth. Perhaps I’d even ask Nyt for help with that. Or Monica, or William. How would I go about countering a non-elemental spell for example? With the help of Aether, maybe? That sparks something in my mind, but we don’t have time to try it out here. Aether’s a difficult concept for me to grasp, after all, and I really don’t understand where the mana for its spells comes from.

It’s 11:45 by the time that we decide we have enough, and we walk back to the canal. As we do, I eye one of the limp sails.

“So, these sails won’t be needed anymore, right?” I ask just as Nyt begins to taper off toward the group she was talking to beforehand.

“I suppose so. Why?”

“Is it possible to form these sails into clothing? Like a cloak or something?”

“A cloak? I suppose it would be, why?”

I pull the kris out of my pocket and approach the boat. Nyt grabs hold of my arm.

“You’re going to use such a valuable artifact for something so menial?”

“Yeah.”

The Ir stares at me in disbelief, walks over to the group of Efrans, and tears a sword out of one of their hands.

“Use this. Please.”

I roll my eye, put the kris back into its sheathe and take the longsword, and cut the ropes holding the sail in place. The sail is long; about twice as long as my body, but its incredibly light and airy; something not befitting the size. I roll it up and carry it under my arm. 11:50. Ten more minutes.

“Commander Nyt!” A large deerman that we had watching the gate calls in an impossibly loud voice.

Nyt glances in the direction of the gate and runs off. I follow after the Ir, and the General after me. It isn’t long before the two of us are huffing and puffing as we chase after the impossibly fast creature. Nyt is already speaking to the deerman at the gate, along with another Ir, clutching a wounded arm. I approach the group, tap the head of the wounded Ir and recite the incantation for Medium Heal. The large gash across its bicep closes. Nyt turns to me.

“You said that the apostle only had about twenty when you saw him last?”

I nod.

The once-injured Ir turns to me, its cheeks quivering.

“Twenty? There’s at least a thousand of them coming up the path as we speak.”