Having experienced one level-up blackout less than an hour earlier, Daphne was much more prepared for her second.

It probably helped that she was already unconscious when it happened.

When she came to and found herself lying on her side at the edge of the lake, it seemed both natural and easy to sit up, reset with a couple deep breaths, and pull out her status book to see the progress.

What was neither easy nor natural was the progress itself — or the lack thereof.

“Level 3?” Mark must have been right by her side while she was out. He was reading over her shoulder, his voice squeaky with disbelief. “All that, and you still only leveled once?”

Daphne stared at the collection of words and numbers on the third page of her status book. They stared back at her cheerfully, as if refusing to acknowledge how offensive they were.

“At least I got a skill,” she heard herself say.

Mark actually snorted. “I got the same one. So did Runar. ‘Triunity Restored’ because it’s been so long since all three classes have fought together.”

“That’s great.” Daphne wasn’t sure where these calm, even responses were coming from, but considering the alternative was a rage-scream loud enough to rival the Devouring Wind’s death throes, she hoped they kept flowing. “I mean, really. Bringing the classes together again? That’s huge. Glad to be part of it.”

“But Runar and I each got individual skills too,” Mark argued. “I got ‘Rider of Wind’, and he got ‘Breath of Lore’. You were the one who made the damn weapon, Daphne. That should get you something!”

“I know,” she said evenly. “I guess —”

“And I leveled twice again,” Mark said, his voice rising with anger. She’d never seen someone so riled up on her behalf as Mark was now. It would have been touching if she weren’t so miserable. “I’m Level 6. Over halfway to where Amelia is at the end of the first book. And you’ve already defeated a Devouring Wind! How can you just be Level 3?”

“Level 3?” Runar looked so shocked, Daphne nearly giggled. A flummoxed griffin was an amusing sight. With an effort, she kept her face straight as the Lorist continued, “Am I to understand that thou didst enter into conflict with the Devouring Wind… as a Level 2?”

“That’s right,” Daphne confirmed.

“And, therefore, in thy encounter with the Rabid Daydream…”

“Level 1.”

“I was Level 2 then,” Mark broke in. “But I’ve leveled twice after each fight, and I’ve gotten a skill both times. Why would Euloban be holding Daphne back? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Runar didn’t seem to have heard him. He was staring at Daphne in wonder.

“Level 2,” the griffin murmured. “To forge a high Word of Truth at Level 2…”

“You helped a lot,” she told him. “Lorists and Wordsmiths acting together. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

Runar stared at her one moment longer, as if in a trance. Then his golden eyes blinked.

“Thy knowledge is remarkable for one with so little experience,” he said in a much clearer voice. “Thou saidst thou once lived in Euloban, I believe?”

“Sort of,” Daphne said. “I — I visited a lot.”

“And what was thy purpose in visiting?”

“Um…” Daphne looked to Mark. Thankfully, he had recovered enough from his vicarious angst-fest to cover for her.

“Daphne is a chronicler,” he said smoothly. “She travels around to different places and records their stories.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“I see.” Runar nodded as if this were the most natural thing in the world, and Daphne sighed in relief. “And in all thy prior sojourns, thou didst not receive a class?”

Daphne shook her head. “We were just observers, really.”

“Thou observed well, and gleaned much.”

“Sure, but there’s still a lot to learn.” Eager to change the subject, Daphne stood, stowing the insulting status book in her pocket. “Like, what happened to the Devouring Wind? Do we need to do the extraction thing again, like we did for the Rabid Daydream?”

“It is already done,” Runar assured her. “The creature dissolved into mist and sank into the Under Pool, which will purify any remnants of poison. The Windling was too young to have consumed anyone whole, thank the Sagas. What little treasure it had devoured on its rampage through the library was released when it perished, and was likewise received by the Under Pool.”

Daphne gazed at the sparkling water. The wonder of it all was nearly enough to soothe her ongoing level-up woes.

Nearly.

“It’s… so beautiful,” she said softly. “I never dreamed there was this whole other water system down here.”

“And yet thou drew letters from the soil above, though all the upper waters are dry,” Runar pointed out. “How didst thou think aught could survive in the wasteland?”

“Magic?”

Daphne was half-joking, but suddenly Runar’s face grew cold.

“Thou soundest like the Wordmaster.”

“What?” Daphne looked to Mark, but he shrugged, apparently as confused as she was. She turned back to Runar. “How?”

“Magic seeks to wield control over the natural order.” The griffin’s voice was hard, like he was carving each word out of stone. “This is the way of the Wordmaster. He was not content to follow the ancient way.”

“Ancient way?” Mark echoed.

“The power in Euloban flows from the communion of the three classes,” Runar explained, still in that stony voice. “Power is language, and language is listening. Learning to yield for the sake of the other. The Wordmaster refused to listen. He sought, and seeks still, to bend all words to his will, thinking true power is found in dominion. In mastery. He calls this mastery as magic.”

“But that’s not what I meant,” Daphne stammered. “In my home, when we can’t explain something, sometimes we call it magic. It’s just the first word that came to mind.”

The griffin was unyielding. “Thou art a Wordsmith. Thou shouldst know, better than all, the power of thy words, and wield them with care. It is the lack of such care that ensnared the Wordmages.”

Wordmages…

A chill began spreading up Daphne’s spine, starting in the pit of her stomach. She’d lost count of how many times she’d experienced this foreboding since arriving in Euloban, but this one seemed particularly ominous.

She tried to swallow it down, but it still made her voice tremble as she repeated: “Wordmages? What are those?”

“The servants of the Wordmaster.” Runar looked closely at Daphne, his expression softening. Apparently, her unease was both obvious and sufficient to absolve her from any recent verbal transgressions. In a much gentler tone, the griffin continued, “Remember, the Wordmaster is only a Wordsmith by class. He claims to have discovered the means of harnessing Lorist and Reader abilities, that he may speak alone.”

“It’s all bullshit,” Mark protested. “He just captures people and sucks them dry. He’s stealing the other class-abilities, not ‘harnessing’ them.”

“Even so,” Runar said gravely, “he hath gained some level of ‘mastery’, and it is this so-called magic he offered to all those careless enough to listen. Some hearkened to his claim, and bound themselves to his service, and now practice his magic. These are the Wordmages.”

“Humans?” Daphne asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Runar bowed his head. “And a few griffins.”

“But, but…” Mark looked as ill as Daphne felt. “I thought only monsters served the Wordmaster. Rabid Daydreams, Devouring Winds —”

“That is what we thought also.” Runar’s head bowed further. “My father, Hyddrun, refused to believe the rumors of our kin’s treachery. It cost him his life.”

“Hyddrun is dead?”

Daphne could feel Mark’s eyes turn to her, panicked, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t look away from the griffin.

“What happened?” she asked as gently as her dry throat could manage.

Runar’s head was so low, his beak nearly scraped the ground.

“My father was brave,” he said softly. “He thought triunity could banish the Wordmaster once and for all. Three years ago, he led a great assault, gathering the bravest of all three classes to his banner. They were prepared for all the Wordmaster’s monstrous servants… but not for Wordmages. My father was betrayed. His friend, the closest kin of his heart, turned upon him, and he was slain. His army was scattered, including most of our tribe. Only a few remain to resist the Wordmaster now.”

The chill had spread to Daphne’s heart, slowly transforming it to a block of ice. She put her right hand in her pocket to draw strength from the Prism, but the cold was in the pen as well.

She gripped it anyway.

“Runar.” The word came out as a croaking whisper. Swallowing hard, Daphne tried again. “Runar. You said your father was betrayed by his friend?”

Runar nodded. “By the closest kin of his heart.”

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ask.

She had to.

“Runar… did you ever know a Wordsmith named Amelia?”

For several long moments, the griffin did not move. When he finally raised his head, his eyes were weary, as though he had aged many years.

“We must away,” he said in an odd, strained voice. “We know not when another Wind might pass through. Gather thy provisions, and let us make haste.”

Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the stone chests, leaving Daphne frozen in horror beside the Under Pool.