“I wonder if simply doing what you are being ordered to is as complicated as you make it seem.”

A middle aged man of sharp shaped face and cerulean blue eyes spat his words as closer as possible to a yell that could still be considered discreet, his voice, already more than enough somber, turned even grimmer.

Johannes Baasch, leader of the 5th group of search and extermination was not happy, and he, for the love of all that could be considered sacred, couldn’t see a reason not to display it.

For either good or bad the free rein that he was allowing to his temperament was being confined to his office.  As it was simple and old-fashioned with only the basic needs tended for, a chair a desk and several bookcases, his voice was giving more life to the place than the decorations. Of course neither of the two individuals in minded the rather unsavory place.

Of course, not even the convoluted cocktail of madness, stress and danger that was his job had taken him far enough in the spiral descent of insanity, or ascent, at this point he couldn’t really differentiate, to talk alone mind you.

Only, since the start this had been a fairly one-sided conversation, as evidenced by the fact that the subject of his complaints still remained like a statue. As could be expected, understood and reasoned being ‘politely’ ignored just to hear his own voice projected soon enough turned tedious, never mind the fact his short fuse was a little bit close of being ignited.

Less than a meter away from himself was the other only witness of his soliloquy, thanks to the sound-proofing function that the office was equipped with, if not, despite his attempts to control his tone of voice it wouldn’t be weird if the content of the exchange reached a couple of people.

He was dressed in an elaborate but simple white military uniform marred with dirt, gashes and blood, over his heart, laid with golden trimmings was the insignia of a tree of which 6 thick twigs barely pierced a fruit each. The silent participant was a young man with chocolate brown hair that ended behind his head in a low ponytail. His eyes, red close to blood but even then more brilliant than the fluid, were empty and spoke volumes of many things. One, for example, the young man had killed. That much couldn’t be masqueraded or hidden behind some petty excuses. When staring to the empty pools that without doubt had seen their fair amount of tragedies one had to wonder how much took to break someone like this, no, Johannes suspected he was more bended than actually broken.

Nevertheless, pity was not one of the first reactions he garnered. In his taciturn standing said man’s red eyes continued their addressing towards his superior, never shying away from contact nor reacting. No, his tall, lean but sculpted figure irradiated a stern military aura that could not be faked, such a feeling was similar to the one Johannes, ignoring his rather short stature, caused himself, it was so alike that an ignorant bystander that could easily relate them as family. But no, the wordless recipient of the middle-aged man’s criticism only maintained a strict, if not taxing (for at least one of the parties involved), boss-subordinate relationship.

As Johannes’s latest question remained unaddressed, his brows tensed, the veins in his face bulged grotesquely and when he seemed just about to continue he heard for the first occasion since his ranting began a verbal answer.

“Mr. Baasch, I would like to retreat to my lodgings.”

Artyon remembered similar situations on his past. Reprimands, complaints and shouts, every one intended for his not so appreciated problem-resolution method. Artyon let them know what he thought of their opinions by repeating himself in his unchanged way of acting. It was clear the conflict would end if one of both parties capitulated, however, Artyon didn’t have in his mind yielding, and the other participant(s) seemed to share his disposition.

Although it was naïve of him he hoped for them to adapt to his way of doing things, disregarding how egotistic and conceited could appear, he had an excellent success record, and nobody got hurt, besides him, but he could afford his own medical expenses and was responsible for his own wellbeing.

According to some passing non-offensive commentaries he was told that his voice was particularly low, more as he was musing than talking. In spite of that, the previous utterly silent room projected his voice enough to reach Johannes. And he couldn’t even doubt it, seeing how red with anger his face became almost instantly.

The noiseless space was as getting as tense as it could get. The face of Johannes was doubtlessly feral, set in brilliant red snarl. Each prolonged second of stillness seemed a cheering demand for blood. The room was a powder keg just waiting to explode and the diligent tickling of the clock seemed the timer for the soon to be seen disaster.

For Artyon this was the first time the saw his boss so…upset? In the two months they have worked together the man demonstrated the calm and finesse of a very experienced person, he wasn’t a gossip, but even to his unconcerned ears had reached the rumors about Johannes’s reputation and his son, but he personally watched how not even the occasional and irritated grunt of ‘Soulless Bastard’ elicited that reaction, instead, the short man honed his eyes on the offender and let them know, no mind-communication magic needed, what it would be of the fool that kept going down that road before returning to his preceding activity. Sure, in some cases there were more unilateral pain and screams going instead of stabbing gazes, but as they were rumors he could only speculate.

Besides that the man was dedicated to his work as it was the sunshine of his life. In fact, in more than one occasion he had invited his subordinates to lunches, dinners and inconspicuous celebrations, including Artyon. He, as many, approached him amiably curious about his previous workplace if that was the correct terms to refer to it. Not that Artyon accepted, he personally preferred to politely decline before retiring to his personal lab.

Because of this, the image of Mr. Baasch showing him the greatest repertoire of expressions to the date, in the same day, it was nothing short of ‘startling’ for Artyon. His boss seemed almost ready to all but to ignore the almost comical height difference between them and strangle him. He blinked one, twice, thrice, before taking a deep breath and slowly start to improve his complexion.

Johannes’s features arranged themselves in a mask of disappointment, ire and resignation. Emotions that Artyon could barely recognize if not outright baselessly presume. His eyebrows fell down and his superior and inferior lips were strained against each other. If asked he couldn’t say why, but Artyon thought that if that face had a name, it was that of a betrayed man.

“Yes…certainly, you can return to your lodgings. Actually, you can stay there for a while,” Johannes scrutinized Artyon’s wounded and still bleeding body for the briefest of instants before focusing his blue eyes on his subordinate red ones “You are from this moment until further notice suspended and banned of all activities pertaining to the 5th group of search and extermination. You are to rest and recover from your injuries in your quarters. Dismissed” Said Johannes vomiting his last word coated with an odd feeling.

It was weird.

His blood felt more viscous and warm than usual, like dense boiling oil burning his veins from the inside out with each passing circulation. When it reunited in his chest it was as if the hot currents wished both to incinerate and strangle his heart. He could almost feel a foreign hand willing to rip apart his blood-pump from his torso.

His lungs weren’t supposed to breathe like this. Nor his heart was to beat like this. ‘Rational thinking’, ‘Consequences’ were cast off in order to discard the beast’s shackles. Pain for abstinence and lust for blood held each other and sang on his ear pervading his nerves. Such a thing could only be called torture.

dO It

The veins of the ma-his prey, palpitated vigorously and juicy like a ripe fruit swaying in front of his eyes, he would just have to-

Do iT. DoOooO IiiiIIT.

Just before he could do something that would earn him a bounty or a Hunting Lock Artyon succeeded regaining his bearings by a painful zap that shook his body. His safety measure acted just in time, overlooking the fact that he almost murdered and consequently ate Johannes its effectiveness had helped his disappointing self once again; of course, he would have to see what were the specifics behind this incident. However, his boss was still alive, and it was better for both concerned individuals that he stayed that way.

A suspension was grave, yes, but it didn’t spell the end of the world. He would talk to Frost, a couple of sold favors later he would be back in the business. Rather, he should take the unarranged vacations to process his latest gains.

“Understood.” almost mumbled Artyon, leaving Johannes’s office with a salute and a single word.

“Remove your top please.” the voice coming from a man on his right was dry and indicated how the speaker would prefer to be in another place, Artyon wasn’t precisely the most popular man on the place.

The wounded magician studied his sudden form for a second and recognizing the beer blond mane as part of the healing department assented, disrobing partially so the doctor could treat his wounds.

Yes, his new orders were to recover, so they probably prepared healing personal and adequate transport. A clear blue light emanating from the blond man gained his attention. Oh magic, such a familiar sight. Magic was what got him here in the first place. Artyon relaxed under the care that soothed his worn out body, allowing his treatment and the posterior escort while filtering the outer noise, keeping himself to his mind.

.....

He felt exhausted. His very body was screaming for rest as he kept walking, it wasn’t that he had forgotten his injuries previously in presence of Johannes. He just ignored them, he was accustomed to pain, needless to say, pain tolerance didn’t actually reduce the amount of hurt felt, just made it easier for one to keep going. Although he could say he was better now seeing how he was treated of his former injuries that amounted to a deep cut in his right bicep, fractured collarbone and half a dozen stabs scattered across his body, that was not to say he was completely cured as that kind of instant recovery would be a borderline forbidden-level spell, instead he would be fairly well in 3 or 4 days and back to full capacity in a week.

Even then, his mind wasn’t as fatigued as his body, working on his magic while resting didn’t sound like a bad idea to Artyon. It goes without saying that the dichotomy of working while resting eluded him.

While unwillingly received, his ‘vacations’ were in spite of everything time he could use to do what he wanted, hence he would take as many advantages as he could of them. Some peace and quietness whilst focusing on his research on his house and personal lab was acceptable.

Said house was more like a miniature brimstone castle with sturdy black gates, as any magician should have, the structure was protected by a Territory Matrix, a mystical barrier or so to speak. In the interior dark wood from the east conformed the floor combined with the grey and shady purple of most of the walls and allowing the place to give a solemn impression.

Artyon wasn’t someone who greatly esteemed luxury thus he presented some complaints to Lothar, one of the main responsible of the expensive housing, when he was given the property. His objections were met with denial, seeing how it was proper given his status as the 1st head of the Gartel House. Naturally, no one could really claim to be the first head of a house without a proper spouse, the reason behind how several personages, including the previously mentioned Lothar, tried to get him a proper partner, Artyon was thankful that he could at least delay the attempts with his constant participation in the field.

Several floors underground, as most of magicians constructed it too, it existed the core location for a magic user, his personal laboratory, the place where they kept their secrets and investigation.

Artyon was there, the room was packed to brim like he regretted not having more space but had to go along with the limited area, it was also as messed up as if a hurricane paid a visit on daily basis. In no way was overindulgently comfortable or nice-looking, far from it, the place was set more with practicality in mind than any aesthetical purposes. Other sorcerer would have arranged the place differently. No matter what this was where they perfected their craft and spent a significant amount of their lives, instead, what Artyon wished of his lab was just a single minded aim, efficiency.

‘Time to work’

He grabbed the black case next to a close table, moved a few meters before setting it on the ground in a circle of engravings and sat inside the ring of symbols as he rested the container on his leg. This too, not unlike the one surrounding his estate, was a Territory Matrix, a type of magic array focused on setting rules and effects over a designated area, the main difference between this formation and the bigger one being that the former was focused towards energy flow improvement and the easier enactment of magic, instead of the defensive and…additional purposes of the latter.

Opening the valise, he found the content unsurprising. Pinkish-red meat with several openings and a asymmetrical outline, although it had some differences respect in comparison to the human equivalent there was no doubt that the object was fairly easy to indentify, anyone who gazed at it could tell it was an organ, a heart to be specific. Maybe the horror was in the fact it wasn’t even human in the first place, a gelatinous film stuck at the stinking material like a layer of sweat, giving it the appearance of a polished albeit grotesque jewel.

Artyon took the red piece with both of his hands, like a murdering sacrifice of times of yore. Had anyone else been there the ghastly picture would have chilled them to bone. Artyon was smiling with too much glee while whispers or the hallucination of them chorused in the background alternating chaotically between silence and faint murmurs.

The temperature was low, but this was his house, such cold was something he was endeared to and reminded him of his childhood. The habitual smell of ink and mold and the scent of blood took each other hands and danced around his nose before invading his nostrils. Lulled to peace with the stimuli he closed his eyes and entered the recesses of his mind, sinking further in himself with iron will, not enough to enter his inner world, but to deep enough to enact magic.

In the mental abyss inside of him he could feel it. THUMP. Even now, it was hard to describe it. It was not his heart, as his inexperienced self thought before. Neither did exist in a physical place. It pulsed with life and power. It was unbearably hot yet the heat radiated from it was comfortable, gentle, dare he say…like an embrace.

Humans were weak. So much that it was a wonder they survived so much in this world of mighty creatures and devious gods. Magic was a power that was never meant to be wielded by human hands, in spite of that the impish fire that would accompany a Magician day until his latest day, the fire of torment and salvation, of fear and fascination, was born and baptized Blaze.

The Blaze, crudely depicted, processed the ambient’s energy called Karma it a more usable one named Ash that was stored in the soul.

A modest crackling followed Artyon’s efforts. He could already feel it coming, the spell in question was fairly easy to use the first time and it wasn’t particularly taxing, so despite his low serves he had barely enough Ash to actualize it.

Thankfully Magic was powered using mostly the surroundings’ energy, employing the Ash as a spark to the powderkeg-like Karma. If not, he doubted he could manifest this spell, full reserves or not.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“It raises a prayer of ruin for the tyrant’s fall.” Opening his eyes to inspect the heart Artyon muttered. “Rest is forgotten. Hope is forsaken.” He continued, his breathing steady as he felt his Ash spike up. “The voice is all but one.”   A plain and brief flash emerged from his hands just before lancing him out against the wall in a flicker of motion.

“Ghh” said wall was now caved in after the blast that left his hurt owner there. Had he bothered to notice he would have perceived his bleeding on eyes and ears, but right now, Artyon was too tired just trying to breathe normally. For a few seconds he stood mostly static excluding his gasping for air, pain saturating his nerves as Artyon regarded the latest addition to his recently growing list of failures. “I hate snakes.” fortunately, nobody could correct him on the difference between snakes and basilisks as his consciousness waned.

.....

Magic development was something that couldn’t be rushed or forced, not without nasty consequences at least, so much for shortcuts, instead it grew tediously slow with day to day insight and experience, as such, results were barely visible at after a few months work. Contrary to what could be believed being a Magician was closer to the learning of any mundane craft. Encountering setbacks was something completely normal. That was regarding magic, as for Artyon, self-motivational introspection seemed like the best thing to do as he awakened in a crater bleeding.

He wasn’t a supporter of licking one own wounds, but fell in it just to avoid tearing apart his hair out of sheer frustration. Since months ago his investigation advanced at a snail’s pace, the multiple fusion, redirection and amplification of thought aura through the simultaneous connection of several mediums was harder than he supposed.

“I need a bath.” And so he crawled. An hour later he stood against a mirror, reflected on it was the image of a young man with brown hair and red eyes, he touched his left arm tracing the black veins like tattoos that similarly extended on his limbs with full circles appearing every once in a while as if they were confining something in the appendages. His wounds had worsened some out after yesterday’s stunt, yes, he slept 12-something hours, which was extremely rare for him as he preferred a 4 hours rest, but he could move, he just would have to be more careful the following days.

Artyon dressed with black shoes, black pants, and a dark purple vest with the emblem of two knives besides the other piercing a broken fragment of a chain each etched in silver over his chest. He didn’t exactly valued luxury without a purpose so the suit felt a bit weird, the last time he put it on was in an official procedure he couldn’t escape.

The outfit wasn’t his idea of comfort, especially given his wounded state but it would have to do, he was also adequately bandaged to speed up the healing process so there should be no further problems. Now he would just have to set his foot down, a very big foot.

.....

The ‘Frozen Garden’ was the central institution of investigation and magic development of Bylmir. It had the appearance of a crystal dome enclosed by metallic tree-like branches. Although the city where it was located was not without its own beautiful structures it was obvious that this was the gem of the city, Atherweth. If the exterior was grand the inside was stunningly sumptuous, the opulent decorations, art pieces valued in fortunes and the ambiance was nothing short of perfect.

Yet contrary to what its beautiful appearance could lead to believe the place was a fortress of absurd durability with most of the core facilities underground and with further enhanced security. In here the personages intimately related with the institution or the government had offices and labs entitled to them, of course most of researches preferred the safe haven of their personal properties, as so several individuals were more along the lines of prisoners with silk shirts and pheasant.

It was on the corridors of such building that Artyon was walking with a firm pace, belying his injured condition.

At his sides dozens of magician focused on their business, each with their own destination in mind but most walking less hurriedly than the red-eyed magician.

“Art, what merits the fancy clothes?” An amused voice made him pause mid-stride.

“It’s my habit to always be properly dressed, Miss Gallegos” He replied. There was only one person who referred to him as ‘Art’.

“I find my memories a bit contradicting to your declaration.” She paused until Artyon looked at her, finding a elegantly crafted sapphire blue dress and the red mane contrasting against it. She put a finger on her chin while smiling knowingly “I think even the enemy was surprised with your look that time.”

His eyebrow twitched, he remembered the incident she was alluding to, it was battle where he arrived nude, a sad byproduct of extra exertion of his magic. Her voice and face all but told of her amusement, again, that was her personality so he wasn’t surprised.

The woman teasing him was Angela Gallegos, a magician who had accompanied him on many missions and one of the few he could he say he trusted. She wore a blue dress showing her generous figure while conserving modesty and in her hands long white gloves set in place amplified the feeling she had the getup for a party. Her features in full display were the cause behind continued courting and heart-break, and although her hip length scarlet red cascading down her back were part guilty her eyes shared the blame too. Her orbs were midnight black with tiny white-silver twinkles on it, like they were a piece of the night sky, which made her feel mysterious.

“Perhaps.” Relented Artyon, not willing to continue down that pointless train of thought. “Not that it matters.” He added as an afterthought.

“I always find adorable how your eyes crinkle when you are embarrassed.” Angela giggled. “I wonder what would others think about you and I in the same sentence lest one of us be… unclothed.” Said the smiling midnight-eyed woman.

Artyon sighed, letting out an exasperated grunt. ‘Not the crazy fanatics again’. Despite the old monster she had as a mother and consequent wide berth she should have been given the beautiful magic user wasn’t lacking in numbers of pursuers. Fool who deemed obvious, given her choice of company which was limited mostly to a certain brown-headed, to duel him for the set prize of Angela, He had to try hard not to scoff at the memories. ‘Like he owned her.’ After finding his name some backed down, he wasn’t precisely a great magician but he was overly good at just a couple things, but there always remained the wizards who where feeling lucky or powerful enough.

The look she was giving him told Artyon that she knew what he was remembering. Given how the starry sky of her eyes twinkled when she was amused and how they were doing that right now it wasn’t hard to guess her current emotion, orphic eyes or not. It was reminiscent of those moments when one of those brain-dead took him to the arena, she had the same eyes, Angela didn’t even need him to play bodyguard, she could bloody murder him without much trouble, but Artyon guessed he really enjoyed the fun at his expenses.

“What do you want?” He dropped subtlety, shifting a careful eye to the growing mass of witnesses, that was fine too, he preferred directness.

She closed the distance between them. “My place tomorrow, 11:00 am.” Angela whispered before winking, her hot breath brushing against his ear. “We also have to take a look at those injuries, don’t we?” Not even waiting for his agreement she separated and did a ladylike bow. “May you have a fine day Mr. Gartel.”

Annoyance dwindled down to gratitude. So she knew. It wasn’t entirely surprising that Angela detected his injuries given how experienced she was. Unrequested help could be hassle but in this case he felt the concern was appreciated. In this world finding suddenly someone you knew was dead wasn’t shocking, and although she was more than capable herself seeing Angela well filled him with a uncertain but welcome feeling. Artyon would figure it out later if he needed to, now he had just to advance towards Lothar’s, and so he did, ignoring the mutterings of ‘Midnight Witch’ and ‘Obsidian Wolf’ he heard on his passing.

If he had bothered to pay attention he would have noticed a blonde man dressed in the color of autumn leaves glaring daggers at him.

.....

Stepping into the room, Artyon was greeted with the sight of a middle-aged man with neck-length green hair and amber eyes, hadn’t he be acquaintanced with him being misled to believe he was of the opposite gender because of his delicate features would have been easy. “Lothar”.  Even with the immunity gained from years of contact, his young and rather feminine appearance always managed to strike him a little bit.

The green haired man’s thin frame was dressed with a silver suit and a blue tie. Lothar Frost vacated the seat he was previously occupying in front of a big crystal desk walking towards him with a big feral grin. “Artyon, care for a drink boy?”

Artyon moved his gaze to the right; a young man stood ramrod straight looking back at him. He had short silver hair and red eyes, while his attire consisted of silver form-fitting leather and golden armor above it.

“Ollivier.” He greeted the armored man without showing his surprise.

“Artyon.” In response he was acknowledged in the same way by the other red-eyed man.

Lothar inspected the doubting look Artyon was giving Ollivier. “Don’t mind him, he’s too stiff for his own good. Besides I am a heavy drinker, a couple glasses won’t make me bat an eyelid.”

Both Artyon and Ollivier frowned for a second before the first one nodded.

“Excellent, Olli, bring me some grass honey” The Frost said with almost childish glee.

‘I almost feel being used as an excuse for drinking.’ The silver-haired man reluctantly went to a deposit a few meters away. Artyon was taken aback by the presence of one of them, thankfully it was basically the most usual company of Lothar, if not the encounter could turn rather tedious.

“So…” Lothar said, receiving the bottle of emerald alcohol and serving a portion for him and handing the other cup to Artyon. Grass honey was an alcoholic beverage made mainly with the acids of an oversized frog, it was known for making the inexperienced tipsy just with the smell but that certainly didn’t seem to apply to the amber-eyed man as he downed his drink in a single gulp before resuming “You are here for nostalgia?”

His eyes narrowed. “You give yourself too much importance”. The sheer simplicity of the statement would have impressed others given the importance of the green-haired man.

Much like every piece of art had an artist behind it, one couldn’t forget magicians weren’t natural, as such they too had a maker of sorts. Each human had a Soul which was an energy body and functioned as the essence of life, separated from the body by uncountable dimensions and layers. Using a construct called Chains, the Soul was attracted and tied to this lower plane, the chains also served as the conduits for magical energy to enter or exit the body. Lothar Frost was a magician with 6 generations of history, a rare fact, given the massacre 142 years ago, nowadays in Bylmir most of magicians either had 3-4 generations supporting them, or were absolute behemoths with more than 10 rings, but it didn’t particularly merited respect. Instead, the fact that he was one the greatest Chainsmiths of the world, or one of the oldest wizards did the job.

“Maybe.” Frost took the jab in stride, calmly countering while shrugging.  The older man took a gulp of his beverage and sent an inviting gesture so Artyon did the same. The Gartel didn’t enjoy drinking, but he acknowledged it, if only for its social lubricant properties.

“I came to talk.” Artyon stated with firmness.

Lothar eyed Artyon and sighed.

“You know…It’s funny. You never liked influence, it seems like poetic justice that one of your first uses of it is on me.”

Even his political ignorance allowed him the knowledge of sending wordless messages. Today he wasn’t in his military garments going as a member of the forces, he was clothed as the 1st Head of the Gartel family.

“I heard about your suspension, this move is harsh, but not unexpected coming from you.” The Chainsmith mused. “The others didn’t come out like you.” Lothar added, as if it was a comment he forgot to include before sighing wearily. “Allow me to correct you. You didn’t came to talk, to ask as a soldier lenience in your punishment. You came to declare that you will keep hunting.”

He could almost feel guilty for his approach, not dissimilar from being teach how to fight with knife just to stab the same person who trained you with one. Artyon didn’t say anything. Lothar knew, so further words weren’t needed. The higher ups in the military wouldn’t like his solution that was akin to spitting on their pride, but the Chainsmith was more in the practical side of things so conserving Artyon in the field was on his best interest but if he acceded Artyon thought it would be probably more for his amusement than for the merits, that was the kind of man that the greenette was.

“The Garden can’t keep you in domiciliary arrest, and I value my words enough to not waste them in a futile attempt of control.” A barely twist on his lips was Artyon’s answer, and when he thought he could go back to his house and rest Lothar raised a hand to signal him he wasn’t over.

“In exchange, soon enough you will do me a favor.” Lothar added ominously, his amber eyes seeming to glow for an instant.

The green haired man certainly was a personage important enough to make his declaration happen, being one of the most powerful men in Bylmir and the creator of the Wizards Series that worked as pillar of the country allowed him the privilege, so Artyon didn’t doubted if he was capable of doing as told. Although giving blank checks felt bitter and dangerous, and he didn’t exactly consider what he had with the green-haired man as trust, it was a price he was willing to pay.

“It’s appropriate.” Artyon nodded, gulping the remaining contents of his vase in one swig before looking away from Lothar and in its place setting his gaze on the quiet individual. It was his mute way of saying goodbye.

“That boy is a bad drinker.” Lothar said once the brown-headed wizard was out. “You felt good seeing your older brother?” Lothar asked with a side look to Ollivier.

“Yes” The silver-headed magician confessed, with hints of doubt showing through his tone.

“Let’s hope the boy doesn’t gets himself killed.”

“With all due respect,” Ollivier all but growled, the strongest show of emotion from earlier. “He wouldn’t. Even if he doesn’t considers himself my, our brother, he is a Silver Wolf too.”

“That’s right, even if he’s considered a failure he is nonetheless a wolf, he has fangs too.”

“But?” Ollivier asked, sensing the unfinished line of thought of his master.

“The country doesn’t want an uncontrollable rabid beast. The only reason why others haven’t further pursued this point is only because the intimidation factor. After all, even if not monstrously big a mad dog is something everyone instinctly fears”

“I don’t know what fervent desire eldest brother is chasing, I ignore what could make him bear silently a stigma, endure torture he calls training, and even contracting that curse that ills him and keep moving forward in wanton abandon of his mind and body.” Ollivier kept quiet for moment before saying reluctantly, yet, the belief in his eyes spoke volumes of his feelings. “What I do know is that is not as he doesn’t acknowledge the risks, he willingly accepts them, is it with this conviction that I can say ‘this must be the shortest path to his wish’.”  

Suddenly, the glass filled with grass honey felt too small. The south was moving, soon enough the conflict could escalate, and in the chaos of war many things can happen.

“I do understand him. It’s the only thing he has.”

.....

She thought back of the encounter earlier. How he managed to limp and camouflage it as a slow, strong walk. How his body expressed what his mouth kept tight on his mind. Something was disturbing him. She felt like abusing when using her eyes but it was hard not to look or repress their powers. Sometimes she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to get Sealing Glasses, thinking to herself that after all, even if it undoubtedly sounded like a caprice of an unruly child, she didn’t ask for this, then she grimly remembered what she could have done in the past if she used her ‘Blessing’ as her grandmother called it. The Orphic Eyes of Hope, different from the other 7 types were a wildcard, not everyone would see the same with this rare set of vision, in her case she got the capability of seeing the emotions or feelings of the people.

Undoubtedly, Angela was worried. Each day she saw him again he seemed more tired, older, weaker, than the previous time, that had been the pattern since a year or so. The innate defenses of a wizard didn’t allow her to gaze on his Blaze, but if she could she was sure that his soul fire would have been as dispirited as him. Even then, with each passing moment an unyielding resolve within him grew stronger, stonier, and even more inflexible than before. How could she not wonder where all that zealous devotion would lead? What grim ending what he was walking towards to?

He…Didn’t want to die. She was sure, instead, he was willing to throw away his life in exchange for something.

“Mom, mom!”

Of course, the Witch had her own preoccupations and issues to attend. Like, for example, the little bundle of joy jumping up and down while raising her arms.

“Luci” Angela smiled down to regard the voice.

Lucia was a child of 6 years, dressed in a white with patterned roses sundress. She had a bluish violet morning glory in her apple red locks a few shades brighter than Angela’s.  Her eyes colored in darker red, gazed at her playfully.

In an instant the infant was raised in the arms of Angela, giggling like chime bells.

“Mom. I am taller. I am 113 now!” Lucia declared proudly.

“Oh.” Spurred by her enthusiasm, a sigh of amazement escaped Angela’s lips. “That means that soon enough I would have to retire of the kitchen.”

“Of course.” Her nose pointed to the sky as she smiled. “I am going to cook better than Mom.”

Angela paused and her demeanor dimmed. Lucia was set on the ground again as Angela sat with her knees in front of her chest.

“I guess than means I won’t enter the kitchen again” She took a moment to sniff and cover her eyes, without Lucia knowing playful eyes peered over at her as she bawled incoherently.

“No, wait!” The red eyed girl was at a loss to what to do, moving her arms confused. “Mom, wait!”

“Don’t cry, mom” Lucia unsuccessfully tried to separate her mom hands. “I-I, am sorry mom. I didn’t mean it.” She had to stop her mom cries, but how?

What did her mom do when she cried? She remained thoughtful for second before brightening “Shush, don’t cry mommy, I am here.”

Angela barely repressed the scoff and the laugh as her daughter shushed and consoled her, patting her head like a lost child. “I need a helper. That’s why we can both stay in the kitchen.”

“Do you mean it?” The amused magician asked like she physically needed the answer.

Not wanting to sadden her mom again the girl responded as fast as possible.

“Yes! Of course!”

It was her earnest voice that finally made her explode in laugh.

“F-Fooled you.” In a winding tone that she had to muster to achieve Angela confessed to Lucia.

The little girl took a few seconds to assemble the puzzle in her mind before pointing her finger at Angela. “Y-Y-You!” Having difficulty to find any words to say Lucia sputtered the first thing that came to her young mind. “Crying is cheathing!”