Before the first light, Isemberd left the house to explore the deepest parts of the groove. He walked for a good hour towards the heart of the woods until he found what he was looking for: an unsettling tree with white bark covered in giant red pustules that bulged from its wood.

It was growing in the middle of a few meters wide circle of dark and dry ground. Animal bones, dead leaves and chunks of other trees were half buried in the dirt. The circle seemed to slowly grow in front of the mage’s cold gaze. Occasionally, the pustules glowed with an evil red pulse of light, and Isemberd could see a few other sources of magical essence underground.

He spent a few minutes walking around the tree, examining the dirt, the other trees, the near pustules. He poked the ground with his staff and it was tough to pull it back. Isemberd took his glasses off and glared at the tree with a frustrated expression.

Something was wrong and the angry whisper near his ear was constant now, as if someone were nearby, cursing him all the time.

Isemberd focused, making a magic sign forming a small circle with his hands, and a purple and translucent cloak covered his head. Soon it melded magically into his clothes and disappeared. The invisible cloak kept him inside a mental fortress of silence and comfort. It would also protect him from any influence coming from the Spirit Realm.

The tree emitted a vibration before its roots started growing out of the ground like tentacles, moving in slow and unnatural spasms, feeling out the magic energy now emanating from the mage’s body like warmth from a bonfire.

Isemberd mumbled something that he himself couldn’t listen because of the magic cloak. His staff started glowing, covered in red marks and signs that soon were glowing and emanating warmth. His hands got cold, his vision was blurry for a moment, symptoms of having its own magical essence drained.

With Isemberd’s eyes covered in a golden light while he was looking for the tree's pustules. It was filled with magical essence, and that would soon fuel the mage’s powers, as soon as he stole them for himself.

He found one tentacle-root with a nearby pustule, he then plunged his staff in the ground. Isemberd raised one hand and formed his common magic sign, with his middle finger crossed over his pointer one, as he closed his eyes, letting himself dive into a deep state of focus. He achieved such strength of thought, concentrating his attention on the mysterious energy that made him euphoric every time he saw it followed by goosebumps as well as perceiving he was forgetting to breathe.

His fingers changed, and then the ring finger and pointer joined over his middle finger. The sign of the Matter Constellation, the magic school that worked with changing the physical of the elements and of things.

One root violently darted in his direction as he raised one arm to protect himself. The sound of his bones breaking were muffled by the magical cloak, he grimaced with pain, but kept silent.

Silent and focused.

Roots started creeping around his feet, trying to poke holes in his clothes and boots. One red and glowing pustule moved too close. Isemberd grunted, breathing in as he reached to the nearby source of magic with his hurt hand.

At his touch, his staff’s glow grew violent and powerful, illuminating the woods. The air moved away from him with a thunderous sound. Yellow and red light glowed where the young man stepped as Isemberd made his way walking towards the tree. He would need to be really close to properly destroy the monster.

The dry ground incinerated under his feet, as the closer branches and roots of the tree erupted in flames. The fire then started shaking and dancing around at one gesture of the mage, joining together in weird shapes. Soon, those shapes turned more complex and Isemberd was controlling a small pack of birds and dogs made entirely of fire, using the essence he took from the monster-tree. His fire puppets moved mechanically, but were fast enough to intercept the tentacle-like roots trying to reach Isemberd.

He walked up to the magical parasite that threatened the groove and touched its white bark. Around him, flames were fighting the tentacles in a furious battle that he couldn’t hear. Covered with his enchanted cloak, he was only able to feel the vibrations that carried the sound through the air.

The mage touched one more blood-colored pustule and drained the essence that poured out of it in a powerful burst of light that only he could see. More tentacles attacked him, but he stood unshaken, taking on hits of the whip-like motions of the roots that left marks and cuts on his skin.

He looked at the bark that started trembling under his hand. It wasn’t his first time killing that kind of monster. With all that essence scattering around him, Isemberd could solve everything easily: a single spell, for one decisive blow to kill the magical parasite.

The staff’s light started changing, glowing stronger and turning blue. In one instant, Isemberd was the epicenter of a powerful discharge of energy, extremely violent, but under his absolute control. Not even the sound of the lightning he caused escaped his mystical will. Light, vibration, heat, sound, electricity. The mage’s eyes saw each detail, carefully layered on top of each other to shape and form reality. His magic essence burnt like fuel to a roaring fire so that he could tame every aspect of reality into his will.

From the tip of his staff exploded one mighty lighting explosion that destroyed the tree. Fragments of wood were soon taken into the mage’s control and forced to change direction, moving away from him. The sound and everything that wasn’t necessary was pushed into the ground, making a powerful but short earthquake around the mage. Wood splinters flew around him, stabbing the surrounding ground, but not one of them got near Isemberd enough to be a threat.

The battle soon ended with the same silent serenity as it started.

Hurt and annoyed, Isemberd started levitating, with his staff floating next to him, as the fire puppets started incinerating the rests of the tree monster with its fire. Isemberd had to dig a few of the pustules to burst them, and had to take a few more roots from under the surface so they could burn.

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When he felt satisfied with his work, he started pulling out his cloak, dismantling the spell that muffled his senses. The first thing to come back was the angry whisper execrating him. With a painful grimace, the mage started looking for other fragments of the tree that needed to be destroyed.

When it was all done, he landed outside the circle and stretched himself, taking note of his wounds. A gentle breeze blew around him, and he almost could hear the forest’s lady’s voice, but he knew it was only his imagination.

Spirits couldn’t speak with mortals like that without special conditions. The mage stretched his sore neck and started walking into the woods again. It didn’t take long until he heard the sound of a branch cracking nearby.

“Oh no…!” he heard the familiar voice of his magical owlet. “Eh, well, master! Hey! I mean, know…”

Isemberd turned to where Gillibert was trying to hide behind a bush.

“I saw you there.” he said, locating the branch Gillibert broke by accident.

“You know master… I felt that itch again! The magical one, but very, very, very big and powerful and I came here to check what it was…”

Isemberd sighed and raised an arm, so the owlet could land on him.

“You saw, didn’t you?”

The bird hesitated, looking at him with widened eyes.

“Of coooourse I didn’t…” He flew towards Isemberd and dodged his arm, landing in a nearby branch. “I swear, master, I saw nothing!”

“You dodged my broken arm.”

They stared at each other for a very embarrassing moment until Gillibert opened his wings, extremely excited:

“Yes! Master! You were so amazing! With all of that fire and glowy magic and bum!” He hopped around, chirping in while talking, “Can I be a magic flamy bird too? You think I can?!”

Isemberd shook his head and leaned on his staff, keeping the wounded arm near his body. Before Gillibert started piercing him with a million questions, he said:

“I believe had asked you to take care of the house?”

“Master! I thought you were in danger! I never imagined you were the danger!”

Isemberd nodded.

“The forest’s spirit alerted me about a monster deep in the woods. She was right.” He started walking. “Come with me, I still have one more thing to take care off before going back.”

He walked while they talk:

“Master! Can you make a lot of lightnings and thunders?!”

Knowing the owlet wouldn’t leave him be unless he quenched a bit of its curiosity, he nodded.

“Is not easy, but I can.”

“And what was that thing? And all that fire? Oh, oh and how the explosion caused you no harm, master? And why it was so… silent!?” Gillibert hesitated for a little and goggled at Isemberd before flying a full circle around him, worried. “Master! You’re bleeding!”

The mage leaned on his staff again, coughing.

“Damn parasite” he angrily cursed, “I’m a little more roughed up than what I was expecting.”

“Master, rest up a little…”

“No.” the mage said, breathing in deep twice before straightening himself. “I want to quickly finish what I came here to do, go back home to get some tea and pretend I don’t exist for a few hours.”

Gillibert sounded really worried:

“Master! What am I going to do if you’re so hurt that you can’t walk?”

Isemberd grabbed the owl from the air and started floating.

“I told you before: you don’t have to worry about me. Now please, be quiet.” he said “My head aches.”

He hugged the bird while they flew around the woods, moving to the end of the grove on the other side, opposite of where Otterwesh was. When they got out of the woods near a very pretty hill, the sun was starting to rise, bathing the green land in its light.

“Pretty?” He asked.

Gillibert stood in silence and lightly pecked one of his master fingers.

“I really don’t like seeing Master being hurt.”

“I’ll be fine. That’s why I came here.”

He landed on the grass, sitting in a lotus position.

“I know how to make a thing no other living mage from Sorin or Neoria can do.” He sounded a little proud.

Gillibert looked at him.

“A secret spell?”

“Something like that.” He caressed the owl’s head and pointed to the sky.

The sun was rising. The first rays of light touched a tired mage’s wounds.

“Under the first light of dawn…” he said, almost as if reciting a thing from somewhere. “A desperate plea can be done.”

His staff, glowing with essence, could very well be a small sun in his eyes with so much power.

“All of my pain” he mumbled, closing his eyes, “in exchange for a gift of the same size…”

Gillibert felt something was very wrong and hopped back a few steps.

For a terrifying moment all the mage’s scars opened up, as if the wounds were new, but no blood came out of it. New and old cuts appeared on his skin, burning wounds covered his arms, bruises covered his face and a cracking sound started, apparently from his bones breaking. Even the big scar on his face showed the wound again, a horrible wound that almost carved his eye out.

In the very next moment, everything was normal and all of the damage disappeared. His staff fell on the grass, no more magical glow to be seen, and now the mage was emanating steam as if he just came out of a really warm bath in the winter.

Isemberd bent forward and puked, coughing violently and hitting the floor with his face. Crying out in pain, his body twitching horribly from the sudden suffering, he clawed the grass and stood there, breathing. It took a while before he could stop trembling while crying and grunting in pain, before finally going back to breathing normally.

He sat down, cleaning his face and hands in his mundane cloak. Gillibert was watching him, his beak half opened, completely out of words.

That lack of what to say disappeared fast:

“Magic is scary, master.” He said, with a very serious tone.

Isemberd offered his now healed arm. The owlet looked at it closely, visibly worried.

“I feel every single moment of pain I ever had” the mage explained “in exchange for that pain and a gigantic amount of essence, I can heal any wound.”

“But Master...” Gillibert flew to his arm, then to his shoulder. “If it hurts that much, you should never do that again.”

“The price is fair. Those wounds would be hard to explain.”

Gillibert kept thinking for a long moment.

“Master! Your eye almost fell off! That’s horrible!”

“Is not like that…”

“Horrible” Gillibert insisted. “Is because of those kinds of things you don’t want to talk about the war?”

Isemberd nodded, standing as if nothing special had happened.

“Now, do you believe in me when I say the battle at Nott wasn’t nice?”

“I do! I very much do!”

“Is not as simple as to lift rocks and throw them at the bad guys, or shoot lighting from our fingertips at monsters, but who am I to tell the bards how to do their thing?”

He looked at his own hands for a moment.

“Nobody involved in our battles is worthy of tavern songs.” He sounded dark and distant.

His staff flew to his hand.

“I dare to say your brothers were the least horrible monsters in those battlefields.” He sighed and started walking back to the woods. “Let’s move, I want to check out the whole groove before lunch.”

They spent all the rest of the morning walking around. When they’ve finished walking around it, the mage started making his way back home, with a calmer and excited Gillibert wanting to see its master make more salves and writings.

They approached the house from the backyard, after leaving the woods, Gillibert said:

“Master, I can hear someone nearby!”

The mage didn’t seem to care. He replied:

“I know. I was expecting them at some point today.”

He walked towards the entrance, glad for healing his own wounds, or he would have a lot of things to explain. His visitor was an important man, one who arrived with a small group of knights. The knights were clad in steel armor, bearing a vivid orange coat of arms that displayed the symbol of a tower above a stream, the emblem of the noble House of Wells.