In the City of Andavar, known best as the City of Mages, there was a common refrain amongst the burgeoning apprentices. Mageorem seth eret- Magic is cast in Ink. Once a magic is performed, it becomes as fact. To try and retract it would be the devil's work. Practically speaking, one could cast another spell to mitigate or even reverse the consequences of the initial casting... but the fact will forever remain that it was cast. This made the City of Andavar a place of very careful rules, as ever action taken on its streets would be recorded in history, documented with excrutiating detail for only the most precise of automatons to delve through. In time, the City became a mecca of education and its core lay the College of Arcane Studies. It was here that a certain symposium was held, one that held a certain son of Verduryne captive.

The Formation of a Mage.

"The development of a proper mage requires several key things to align," the pen of Sandevarian proposed. "First is the innate ability to cast magic. For years Mages have attempted to determine the conditions that assure their continuity, but to date, they have at best increased their chances through lineage and the application of rare, mana-infused gems laden upon the mother's body during gestation. Even then, the innate capability of the resulting child cannot be assured through either of these methods- instead, the second element a mage must expand is their vein capacity. In order for magic to flow, a mage requires veins that allow magic to flow. This shall be the focus of our discussion today- the enhancement of one's capability, and the risks associated with it. But before we delve upon our focus, let us first establish the boundaries of where the concept of self-burnishment lie.

"For instance, one can introduce additional tinctures or even raw ingredients to their diet to improve the development of their flow. This could be considered an enhancement of the process of self-improvement, but by some definitions, ones we must acknowledge in the interest of academic pursuit, would define these as external influences. The concept of incorporating the environment in a Mage's process of self-development. For the sake of this argument, however, will consider these substances as a part of the individual's form, as diet has always been a crucial component in any human being's life, and provides the additional energy needs to better form these paths.

"Now, through this logic we can establish a few set rules for this process- the mage can consume food for the purposes of replenish calories, yet may also choose to abstain to keep their focus upon develop of their circuits. These circuits should be able to mitigate the build up of excess energy, but should the individual fail to account for, or simply lack the ability to regulate, the flow of mana through their body, they might experience a rupture in their veins.

"Now, for the sake of recording, I will briefly summarize the consequences of such a failure.

"First, the veins of the victim's body begin to boil. The mana in the victim's form will attempt to break free. This is usually the only chance a mage gets before something irreperable occurs.

"Next, the veins begin to rupture. Most mana that escapes from this damage will suffuse the skin, and convert to the next best source of energy- heat.

"This causes the third step- a broiling of the muscles and skin of the individual. Survival is rare, and recovere rarer still. To date, no victim of this process has successfully reclaimed whatever magical career they possessed before they chose this path... and even fewer still possess the ability to cast a spell.

"For future reference, we will refer to this event as a Mana Burn."

Touslaine already knew his chances of recovery were slim. He was even more aware that his ability to cast magic was all but gone for good. But the resentment sat upon his soul as if it were fresh. Before, he had only one git to blame- his own ambition to match a brother he rarely met blinded him to the risks of his attempts at self-embellishment. He had already spent one life drowning upon his regret. Imagine the lives he could have seved. The people who would have brayed for his attentions. A mage free of the Byrnvathon Order, yet loyal to the empire... such creatures were rare. His feelt his skin scretch and crawl over his knuckles, the itch intensifying as it drew his eyes away from the written word. His hand felt as though it were being bitten by a thousand tiny gnats, and yet all he could see was his own reddened skin. He set his book aside, as a knock echoed through the stately space he called his room.

Even now, he found it... uncomfortable. He understood, to some extent what had happened to him. He was caught in a mirrored section of his memory, perhaps, or perhaps this was purgatory, and this was a test. It was cruel to throw visions of her at him, but Touslaine could not help but feel like this was on purpose.

He did, however, need to consider what the gods would judge him on. The sheets his hands scraped upon were smooth and silken... his mattress tall and swallowing him. As he contemplated his situation, he turned to the door of his room, and marveled at just how... ornate a simple bedroom door could be made. It had truly been years since he allowed himself the privelage of living in the manor of his forefathers. As if responding to his thoughts, the door handle turned and the heavy wooden port swung open. A maid stepped, her apron a brazen white and dress an obsidian black. The ornate, ostentious collections of folds and embroidered lining communicated everything an outside party would need to know. She was a maid of the Verduryne house. There was even an emerald encrusted pin laid upon her bow to communicate with whose authority she acted.

"Young Master, it is time to change the sheets."

This was the hardest part of the illusion- it was hard for Touslaine to actually tell if this was a maid he knew in his past, or a fabrication of the gods' jest. Still, if they wished to judge him... then he would need to act more penitent. Besides...

Sleeping like this felt genuinely wrong.

"Thank you," he started to slide his leg out. He winced as felt the nerves of his leg communicated a torrent of pain up his thigh. He winced, curling instinctually at the sensation as the maid seemed to surge forward.

"Steady now, milord," her hands pressed against him, "You don't need to move."

"No," Touslaine resumed his moves, despite the maid's protests. Her fingers were rougher than he expected, her age more visible with her so close. Her touch was delicate, feeble, as if she were afraid to touch him.

In her defense, he did not make the most appealing vision.

The book did not describe the true horror of the affliction he had pushed himself into. The sensation of skin boiling, lungs filled with fair, the sensations of the tongue all firing madly. He forgot the eternal hell that was living with his body in this time. Was that the purpose of the gods? To test the strength of his character when he was at his lowest?

No, that could not be right- this was far from his lowest point.

"I need... gentler cloth," Touslaine attempted to communicate as his foot fell upon the floor. The pain shot up his leg once again. "Like... cotton. Both blanket and sheets," he began to hobble towards the window. There was a loveseat there he could occupy, dressed as he wa- "Ah. My clothing as well."

"Cotton?" the woman blinked. Yes, she did not... live through the same nights he had. She did not travel the world as he had, touched the same lives he had the misfortune of failing. How could she understand the thoughts he had, without even raising the topic of his looks.

"Has Madame Magdelyne given you instructions regarding my clothing?" I asked, looking over my pyjamas. It was all I could wear, but the smooth material dragged and gripped his maturing layer of flesh like a thousand hooks gnawed at him.

"No... my lord."

"Cotton then. Maybe even similar to the threads used for the servants," Touslaine racked his brain to recall what the servants of his father's manor were like. There was the cook, who he knew quite intimately. Yanns was the best at making savory foods, and on the coldest of nights, when Touslaine was at his most bored, Yanns' kitchen was something of a haven.

Would the dream include Yanns? Perhaps it was not that cruel a thing.

But alas, his tongue could not taste the treats that Yanns could produce. He imagined even the pea soup would have tasted divine, but his body was too... broken to possess that trait. "And... tell Yanns to prepare me something simpler going forward... did the Healer mention anything about my diet?"

The maid just stood there, his comforter bulging in her arms as she just found herself... staring, mouth agape.

"Is something the matter?" Touslaine asked the woman.

"No!" she rescinded her gaze, casting it to the floor as she shifted to move the bedding. "Just..." she paused. "You seem... better now." There was relief in the woman's voice. I could imagine that was not the most pleasant patient one could have in this household.

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But in all honesty... Touslaine could not recall much about his youth around this time.

Last he was like this, Lady Magdelyne had called upon her own magic to heal him. Sources both divine and arcane mingled within his body, aiming solely to save his life. He has always doubted the value of that investment, and the price his father paid in desperation was... less than pleasant. If he had simply been cast back just a week back, this whole disaster could have been avoid, and Magdelyne would never have come to the Verduryne estate.

And if she never came... then he would have never met her daughter.

Was that the preferable outcome? Touslaine could not help but think so. But this was the hand he was dealt. Perhaps he did throw upon the girl he would one day call queen. Perhaps he had made a sorry mess of himself.

It was simply too hard to tell what was new and what was-

"Young Lord?" the maid's voice echoed from the back of his mind. The boy snapped himself awake.

"Yes?"

"Did you have an special... request for Yanns? If you want, I could sneak you a pastry," the maid seemed... close. Close enough to offer him so childish a reward.

But alas, Touslaine was not so easily tempted. While his body was that of a ten year old, his mind was composed and resolved.

"Perhaps... in the future," the boy sighed. His tongue could not taste salt, what hope could he have for sugar. Perhaps save it for the day he properly recovered. "For now, perhaps a porridge of oats will suffice. Tell Yanns my tongue needs to heal, but once it does... I'll..."

Could he visit Yanns? He barely understood how he came to occupy this room. Could there truly be a manor beneath him? A look from the window seemed real enough, his denial allayed by the life of the garden beyond it.

"I'll come visit the kitchens... on my own two legs," he conveyed a simple promise. One he could achieve... right?

The most perturbing thing about this reversal of fate was the... fragility of his body. He had grown restless in his bed, and though his hands lacked the caluses for it, he internally longed just to swing a sword again. It was not as though he possessed particular talent- rather, the blade was pressed into his hand, and he adapted from there. Ironic, in a way, that he would desire the anguish of his muscles straining to this stagnation.

Perhaps this stemmed from the lack of stimulation. Aside from his time with the healer or the one maid brave enough to actually serve him, Touslaine was left to recover in the quiet and opulent room he was afforded by virtue of his noble birth.

Perhaps this drive to use his muscles for something originated from a need to test the limits of this... purgatory. How much of the world was he allowed to see? How much longer was he supposed to wait? Surely this was a period of judgment... but such judgment had to end for good or ill. The very least the gods could have done was allowed him to relive his memories as he recalled them- his father would have visited at some point, or his brothers. Perhaps his mother could have returned. He recalled a memory of her, looking harried, then horrified when she set her eyes upon him.

Well, perhaps it was better that woman never saw him like this.

The Queen- no, Healer was there, once a day. Her daughter stopped showing up- perhaps that discomforting meeting would set them upon seperate paths. Long, seperate paths. Ones that could cross again-

A sharp pain rocketed up Touslaine's thigh. His fingers squeezed the delicate flesh between them. It was a dream long since abandoned, he was telling himself. And his body's reaction was correct.

To covet something he could not have was the height of human folly.

He turned back to the book.

In another life, he would have spent hours, delving deep into what little records he had of mana burns. He would have sought any and all answers he could amongst their pages, sought the most maddened of healers, all in pursuit of a pittance of power that did little to assuage that meager desire within him to protect what little he could call his own. A tragic tale of a man moved entirely by a mistake of his past, who chose the blade in the end as his tool of protection. There was only one reason he chose to risk what scraps of magic he had access to in a maddened gamble.

And now it lingered- the creeping sensation that he was wasting away his life, slathered in cream and subjected to hours of boredom.

It was in that fugue, that mental stagnation that the thoughts began to creep in.

What if the gods were waiting for him to do something?

What if they had forgotten he existed?

What if... this was not merely a dream?

There was one to check the limits of the dream. He would have suck up what courage he had and abuse it for certain, but if he could at least try...

Touslaine Verduryne was by no means a brave child. He vastly prefered his wits to his brawn. He never matched the height of his eldest brother Talys, nor could he ever hope to match the magical ability of his second brother Thenvard. Perhaps if he had returned earlier...

And without any ability to channel the flow of mana, what else was he supposed to do? A book could only amuse him for so long- especially considering he knew every book his home's paltry library had to offer.

It was surprising how many miscellanious thoughts and facts came to his mind as he lingered in the sun, feeling its gaze rest upon his ski-

"You shouldn't spend too long in the sun," a now familiar voice cut through Touslaine's ruminations. "Your skin will-"

"Dry and peel, I know," the man stuck within the boy responded. He turned to face the healer, as his focus shifted from what he could do to burn away the time to the woman across the room. She held in her hand another bowl of medicine- the look of it was tainted by a miserable sludge-like texture, and though his tongue lacked the capacity to taste it, his nose more than accounted for its absense. In his youth, Touslaine had hurled upon forcing this foul concoction down his throat.

But he was no longer that child.

Touslaine stood from his seat and approached her, eyes flicking from her face to the muck.

Magdelyne Aureum- the future Empress of the Orem Empire. Her hair already possessed the correct glow one would expect from a member of that extended family. She had a wizened look to her face, though by Touslaine's ken, she was barely past the age of 30. He dared not voice that opinion though- the more he interacted with her, the more likely it was that her apprentice would enter.

"What has you so worried? It doesn't look that foul," the woman chuckled, a warm smile alighting her lips.

Shakily, Touslaine took the bowl in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut.

Touslaine knew how to take his medicine, he would have sworn by it. But feeling the lump that pump past his throat, he felt the revulsion strike back with a vengeance. He threw his bowl down and struggled to choke the foul slime down, its noxious fumes additionally contributing to the squeeze in the pit of his stomach. His whole body seized up, as if it were trying to discharge the contents of his stomach once again, but he placed a hand infront of his mouth and did his best to hold it in.

He won, but at the cost of his dignity. The healer patted his shoulder gently, as if trying to cajole him.

Touslaine had to fight his surging instinct to push her off. "See, not so bad right?" the woman insisted. Touslaine was thankful his tongue was too boiled to taste it at all.

Did his taste actually ever recover? How could he forget the sensation of taste upon his tongue? When did he stop caring about the flavor of his food?

"Touslaine?" Magdelyne's voice inbetween his thoughts once again. Touslaine shoook himself free of that thought-drowning fugue.

"My apologies... Madame Healer. I'm fine," he insisted. Magdelyne smiled and nodded as if she understood... but she simply took a seat beside his bed. "Come then, let us have a look at ye," she insisted.

Obediently, Touslaine did so. It was not that he was a particularly responsive yonung man- the idea of a check up provided a break from the mind numbing mundanity of his day locked up in this room. Settling himself upon the bed, the woman began to poke and prod at his skin, while attempting to document the results.

"So, Sir Touslaine... you seem to be a bit of a reader."

"Sorry, what?" he answered, before lamenting his decision to do so. Why had he engaged her, kept her rooted here in this room? He turned to his right and spotted the massive tome that he left there just moments prior. "Ah, yes, I suppose I am."

"Perhaps you ought to teach my duaghter- she simply refuses to learn her letters."

"A teacher can only teach a student willing to learn," the words bubbled up to the boy's tongue, Touslaine shocked that he even slipped the quote off his tongue. It had come so naturally, so quickly that he barely noticed.

The woman burst into laughter in response. She did not need to voice her agreement- it was clear she very much been the teacher in question many times. "What are you reading about?" she continued to push the boy for more... conversation. Now that she knew his tongue operated, she needed to see if there was any permanent damage.

Touslaine understood this. That did not mean he found the press of her hand against his chest comforting as he answered honestly. "I'm reading about... my condition."

"You could always ask me," she mocking huffed.

"No, not my health but... beyond that."

"... and what lies beyond your recovery, that has you so excited that even words would suffice?"

Touslaine could feel it. The urge to answer. To share. He did not bring his eyes up to meet her face. It was easier to talk to her like this. "Magic."

The man knew the expressions playing out upon the woman's face. Sympathy, Pity, maybe even painful Empathy. He had known those looks in the past.

"Not like that," he cut in, before she could say a word. He did not mean for his tongue to stab like that. Perhaps being a boy again brought it out within him. A bubbling mess of immature emotion. Logically, he could parse his emotions. But his delivery was stocattic, his tongue tripping over each word. He thought practicing with the maid could help... but she could relay his words easily enough to his father, or even his mother. "I meant more... its study. Methodology. Research."

He knew a lot from his past. How politics flowed, how prices rise and fell. But how magic was recorded, conveyed or performed? He had run from it once before, ignored it as often as he could.

Perhaps, if this truly was another chance then... perhaps...

"Do you anything about magic, Madame Magdelyne?" the boy turned to the woman. The woman stiffened. Her brow furrowed. The boy searched her features, attempting to make out the true reaction she could have conveyed to him, but instead he was met by a wall. The woman's lips twitched before she took a steadying breath, picking the bowl up. She stood and turned.

And like that Touslaine was left alone with his thoughts.

What was that? Had he asked broached a subject too personal to her? Had he trespassed where he did not deserve to? No, that would have indicated that she was indeed her own... individual. As if she were privy to knowledge that was her own. Thoughts, memories, philosophy, she would have had to be her own person.

But if that were the case, then it likely held true for the maid.

For Yanns.

If he met any of his family, perhaps that would only affirm the truth.

The sickening reality began to set into his stomach. No, this was not nausea- rather, it was a discomfort that ran into his very bones. If the gods were judging him, then his lack of action would have surely bored them. If he was suffering in a personally designed hell, then his every interaction with Magdelyne would have been based upon his own memory. The absurdest notion had always been there, lingering in the back of his mind, like a gnawing realization that he was not ready to accept.

Had he truly traveled back through time?