Eying the mage through a gap among the cluttered shelves, Marek answered, “I don’t nap as often as you think, old man! My Skill works best when I close my eyes!”
Rauld’s chuckle was as muted as his voice, the crowded cellar absorbing much of the sound. “Oh, yes! I’m the same. In fact, my powers grow significantly if I close my eyes many times a day. That’s the secret of the mages of this world. Many think battle and arcane knowledge allows us to progress. Fools! Napping, though—that’s real power leveling.”
Marek sat up and scoffed, but the broad smile on Rauld’s face reflected his own. Rather than continue the banter, the young man hopped down from his perch and landed on cold stone. His ribs ached, and standing to his full height triggered a fit of coughing.
“The damp down here isn’t good for you,” Rauld said for the thousandth time. “Regardless of the enchantments I placed on the tower, it’s still a pile of moldering stone. You shouldn’t stay down here so long.”
Marek rolled his eyes. “My own house sits below the falls. Principalities, Rauld, half of it is coated in moss! Should I not spend much time there either?”
The mage shrugged, his thin shoulders jutting up through the faded fabric of his brown robe. “Anything juicy?” he asked, brows flashing.
Marek tidied the tomes he’d been reading and snuffed the lamp. The cellar was immediately lit by a tiny, conjured sphere that hovered above the top of Rauld’s staff. “Yes and no. Ran through a few queries of the Battle of Grass River. It was…”
“I can imagine,” Rauld picked up. “Amazing how much a single battle has been studied. Even in my short life, there’ve been encounters with Casteran cavalry that were more significant in political outcome.”
Marek snorted as they headed for the stairs. “Your short life? Aren’t you three hundred years old, Rauld?”
The wizard jagged him with a sharp elbow. “Watch it, boy. What if I was? Don’t be an ass.”
They giggled together and ascended the tower. After a few more pleasantries, Marek waved his friend goodbye and stepped outside, the tower door closing soon after with a hollow boom. Marek stared up at the stone structure and imagined Rauld tottering up the many stairs to his bedchamber.
It had been a long day of work and study, and he found his own bed was calling to him despite the early hour. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Marek turned up the street toward home. He headed west through the Southern District until he came to the last of four bridges. The smallest and least used, Baghem’s Bridge, was the only way to approach his uncle’s house.
The moon was bright. The wind carried the crisp chill down from the Shirgrim Mountains, but he delighted in the clarity of mind it gave him. Soon, he felt the cling of mist as he drew near the ever-flowing falls. Ahead, Marek spotted the dim sigil lamp his uncle kept lit at all times. It required Mirrin to invest a bit of mana each day, a cost which added up. The old Sigilist was adamant about the tradition, however, insisting that it was his duty to provide service to anyone in need, regardless of the hour. Without the lamp, few could find their way after dark.
Marek found the path ahead impeded. Leaning against the wooden fence nearby, a small and profoundly proud figure stood. Pitch black hair bound in a braid thick enough to haul an oxcart, her complexion pale as cream, his best friend Mags stared him down “I don’t get it, Elbows. You’re the sickly nephew of a prominent elder in town. Yet each day you work like it’s your last. So boring.”
“Shut up, Magpie,” Marek countered, using his pet name for his oldest friend. “Not everyone is fine with shucking ambition. Besides, it’s not like we have any coin tucked away.”
The young woman stood not a quarter-inch over five feet. The punch she landed on his shoulder was hard enough, though. “Hey! I’m the most ambitious person in Misthearth!” she protested. “Not my fault I can’t unlock a Class!”
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“Restraint save you!” Marek growled, rubbing his tingling arm. “Do you have to hit the nerve every time?”
Mags quirked an eyebrow. Her body shifted ever so slightly, giving her intention away. This time, when she threw a punch at him, Marek sidestepped the blow as well as the two others that followed. Marek wasn’t strong. He wasn’t tall, nor was he quick or skilled in combat. Yet it couldn’t be said he didn’t learn fast.
“Hold still so I can hit you!” she said, trying to fight the smile overtaking her features.
Marek swatted aside one final punch and dashed up the hillside. “If you wanted to beat me up, why’d you spend all that time trying to train me?” he shouted over his shoulder as he fled.
She followed on his heels, climbing the first of several flights of stone stairs. Like usual, she made it to the top before him, and he was forced to slow to a walk as his lungs protested.
Patient as ever, Mags waited for the fit to pass and said, “Sound worse than normal. That musty tower isn’t good for you, Marek. Maybe you should study somewhere else?”
He rolled his eyes and groaned. “I’ve been sick my entire life. Fevers and chills year-round, shoddy joints, and weak lungs.” He shrugged his annoyance. “I take my cursed medicine every day and let my uncle and Healer Tilda look me over every week. Nothing they do helps, Mags. I’m sickly. Nothing more to it.”
Thankfully, she backed off. Mags was a good friend like that. She respected his stubborn pride as much as he did hers. In fact, disparate as they were in so many ways, he and Marigold Strongtower had much in common.
They reached the second lamppost, this one brighter than the first, for the final flight of stairs were notoriously slippery given the film of mist that clung there most of the time. Marek paused to catch his breath, then laughed. His friend’s face was swollen on one side—namely her left eye and lip. “Who hit you this time? Or, let me guess: You were hard at work all day as usual, and when a stallion got out of hand, you saved the Ferrier from a grievous wound by catching the hoof with your face.”
Mags didn’t react in the slightest to his prodding. Her eyes lit up as she dove into a story. “This morning, a group of trappers were passing through, you see. They stopped for supplies before heading north. All were high Level, Marek, no doubt about it. And truth be told, too old and boring to be bothered. They had an apprentice with them, though. Let me tell you, this little worm thought he was a prodigy!”
Marek watched his friend’s face move as she spoke. Few in Misthearth were as animated as Mags. As the story progressed, he was reminded that fewer still were as quarrelsome.
“Found him tossing marbles with a few kids. There he was, a man grown, stealing coppers from grubby urchins. The nerve! So, I thought it would only be fair to challenge him.”
Marek nodded along and strode up the stairs, ignoring the twinge in his back and the burning in his legs. “Why do I have the feeling you didn’t challenge him to marbles? Or did you slip on one?”
Mags snorted. “He wished I would have. No! I threw against him, of course, several witnesses to prove I kept myself honest. And you believe it, I stole every bent copper he had in five rounds!”
“Made a friend, then?”
Cackling, Mags shook her head. “More like he challenged me to a bit of sparring.”
Marek shook his head, puffing as he ascended the last step. Standing with hands on hips near the entrance to his uncle’s home, he waited for the dramatic conclusion.
“Long story short, even though his wits were slow, his fists weren’t. Still, it was worth it. Should’ve seen his face when one of mine landed! I popped him right on the nose, and his eyes wept like twin rivers!”
“Then he punched back?”
“Yep!” Mags said proudly. “I might have taken the worst of it, but the jerk was six foot tall. Not much to do about it.”
“And the coin?” Marek asked. “You lost it all in the bet?”
Mags scowled like a thunderstorm. “Who said I made a bet?” She plucked out a handful of coppers and grinned, her lip splitting slightly, a drop of blood dripping onto her chin. “Like I said, I cleaned him out.”
Marek laughed at the irony his friend always managed to stir up. “Didn’t think to give it back to the urchins?”
“Hold, now! There are lessons need learning. I’m not the sort to deprive such instruction. Anyhow, I need it more than they do. The lot of them would’ve spent it on sweets.”
Marek opened the front door and stepped into the orange glow of his home. “Generous of you, Magpie. Offered them wisdom instead of fickle coin. Downright sagacious.”
“Don’t use big words, Bones,” Mags shot back, using another of the nicknames she’d assigned Marek over the years. “They make you look daft.”
A sudden cry split the air. It cut through their banter in an instant, causing a riot of goosebumps to march across Marek’s skin. The sound was nearly inhuman, haunted and desperate. Most would have imagined a banshee had invaded the old cabin, yet Marek knew precisely what they’d walked into.
“Uncle,” he whispered hoarsely, leaving his friend in the doorway as he dashed through the house.