The dawn came slow and muted in the Northern Wastes, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise over the desolate land. The light that filtered through the gray clouds was pale and cold, casting long shadows over the snow-covered ground. Zarin stood at the edge of the hovel, his breath misting in the frosty air as he stared at the endless expanse before them.
The journey to the Frozen Spire had begun.
Behind him, Reya tightened the straps of her pack, her movements practiced and efficient. She had said little since they had woken, her focus entirely on preparing for what lay ahead. Zarin admired her discipline—she always seemed ready for whatever the world threw at her. But even Reya couldn’t hide the unease in her eyes as she glanced at the horizon, where the faint silhouette of the Spire loomed like a distant mirage, barely visible through the haze of snow and ice.
Maros emerged from the hovel last, his face drawn and lined with exhaustion. Though he had been the one to guide them to this point, there was something unsettling about the way he moved—slow, deliberate, as though each step took more effort than it should. Zarin had begun to wonder just how much of the ritual to break his chains had taken from the old mage.
As Maros joined them, Zarin couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes lingered on the Spire, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. It was the same expression he had worn when he spoke of the ancient place—a mix of reverence and fear.
“We’ll need to move quickly,” Maros said, his voice low. “The Wastes are treacherous, and the closer we get to the Spire, the more dangerous the journey will become.”
Zarin nodded, though a knot of uncertainty tightened in his chest. The Northern Wastes were a place of legends, a land where few dared to venture. It was said that long ago, before the Ascendants had claimed dominion over the world, the Wastes had been a thriving land, a place of beauty and life. But something had happened—something that had twisted the land into the frozen, lifeless expanse it was now. No one knew for certain what had caused it, though many whispered that it had something to do with the ancient magic that still lingered in the Spire.
For Zarin, the Wastes were more than just a harsh landscape—they were a symbol of everything that had been taken from him. The cold, the emptiness, the feeling of being forgotten—it mirrored his own life. But now, for the first time, he felt a flicker of something different. Hope, maybe. Or perhaps it was just the fire of his newly awakened power, burning in the pit of his stomach.
“We should go,” Reya said, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She glanced at the horizon again, her brow furrowed. “The Wastes don’t care about our plans. They’ll kill us just as easily if we linger.”
Zarin gave her a nod, and with that, they set off, leaving the small stone hovel behind.
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The wind was relentless.
It whipped at their cloaks, biting through their layers of clothing as they trudged across the frozen ground. The snow beneath their feet was hard-packed, making every step feel like a battle. Zarin could feel the cold seeping into his bones, despite the warmth of his newfound power humming just beneath his skin.
The land stretched out before them in all directions, barren and featureless. The sky above was a dull, oppressive gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of more snow. Occasionally, the wind would shift, carrying with it the distant sound of something unearthly—a low, mournful wail that seemed to echo across the plains. It was a sound that set Zarin’s teeth on edge, a reminder that the Wastes were not as empty as they appeared.
“What is that?” Zarin asked, breaking the silence that had settled over their group. He glanced at Maros, who was walking beside him, his staff tapping against the ground with each step.
Maros didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the horizon. After a moment, he spoke, his voice barely audible over the wind. “The Wastes are haunted by echoes of the past. The magic that still lingers here, the remnants of ancient power—it creates… disturbances. Sounds, visions. They’re not real, but they can be dangerous if you’re not careful.”
Zarin frowned, glancing around as the wind howled again. “Disturbances? Like what?”
“Like memories,” Maros said, his gaze distant. “Memories of a time when this land was alive. But those memories have twisted into something darker. The Wastes have a way of feeding on your fears, your doubts. They reflect back at you what you carry inside.”
Zarin shivered, though not from the cold. He had heard stories of travelers who had ventured too deep into the Wastes and never returned, their minds lost to the illusions that plagued this cursed land. He wondered if that was what had happened to the people who had once lived here—if they had been consumed by the very magic they had sought to control.
“How do we fight something like that?” Reya asked, her voice steady but with a hint of concern. She was always practical, always thinking ahead, but Zarin could tell that even she was unnerved by the idea of battling illusions.
“We don’t fight it,” Maros replied. “We endure it. The Wastes test those who dare to cross them. If you let the illusions take hold, if you let them feed on your fear, they will destroy you. But if you keep moving, if you hold on to your purpose, they cannot touch you.”
Reya shot him a skeptical look, but she said nothing more. Zarin, however, couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over him. The idea that the land itself could turn against them, could twist their own thoughts and emotions into weapons—it was terrifying. But there was no turning back now. The Frozen Spire lay ahead, and it was the key to everything.
They continued in silence, the wind their only companion as they trudged forward. The hours stretched on, and the landscape around them remained unchanged—bleak, empty, unforgiving. Zarin’s thoughts drifted as he walked, his mind wandering back to the stories his father had told him as a child, stories of the world before the Ascendants.
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His father had always spoken of the old days with a kind of reverence, as though they were something sacred. He had told Zarin of the great cities that had once stood in the southern lands, cities built by people who had mastered the elemental forces in ways that were now lost to time. The skies had been filled with airships, the seas teeming with life. The world had been alive, vibrant, full of wonder.
But then the Ascendants had come.
No one knew exactly where they had come from—whether they had been born of this world or something else entirely. But they had brought with them a power unlike anything the world had ever seen. They had claimed dominion over the elements, bending them to their will with a mastery that left even the most skilled mages in awe. And with that power, they had reshaped the world.
At first, the people had welcomed the Ascendants, seeing them as saviors, as gods who could bring about a new era of prosperity. But it hadn’t taken long for the truth to become clear. The Ascendants were not interested in the betterment of the world—they were interested in control.
They had razed entire cities, enslaved entire populations, using their power to subjugate anyone who dared resist. And in their quest for domination, they had twisted the elemental forces, warping the very fabric of the world.
The Northern Wastes had once been a thriving kingdom, his father had said, a place of beauty and peace. But the Ascendants had unleashed their power here, and in doing so, they had torn the land apart, leaving behind only the frozen, desolate wasteland that Zarin now walked.
The more Zarin thought about it, the more he realized just how much the world had lost. And it filled him with a deep, burning anger. The Ascendants had taken everything from him—his family, his home, his very sense of self. And they had done the same to countless others.
He wouldn’t let them continue. He couldn’t.
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“Look,” Reya said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.
Zarin blinked, glancing up to see what she was pointing at. In the distance, through the swirling snow, he could make out the faint outline of a structure—something large and imposing, its dark silhouette stark against the white landscape.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“What is that?” Zarin asked, his heart quickening.
Maros frowned, his gaze narrowing. “An outpost, I think. There used to be many of them in this region, before the Wastes swallowed them whole.”
As they drew closer, Zarin could see the details of the structure more clearly. It was a fortress, or at least what remained of one. The walls were crumbling, half-buried in snow, but there was a strange energy about the place, as though it still held some trace of its former strength.
“We should check it out,” Reya said, already moving toward the outpost.
Zarin followed, though a sense of unease prickled at the back of his mind. The Wastes were dangerous enough on their own, but a place like this—a remnant of the past—could hold all kinds of dangers.
They entered the outpost cautiously, the wind dying down slightly as they passed through the crumbling walls. The interior of the fortress was in ruins, the stone walls cracked and covered in frost, but there was an eerie stillness inside, a strange quiet that made Zarin’s skin crawl. Snow drifted through holes in the ceiling, piling up in corners and along the edges of the room, where shadows clung to the walls like creeping vines.
Reya moved ahead, her sword already drawn, her footsteps light and careful. She scanned the room with practiced precision, her eyes sharp as ever. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for years,” she said quietly.
Zarin, however, wasn’t so sure. There was something about the air here, something heavy, like the weight of old magic lingering in the stones themselves. He could feel it, almost hear it, like a distant hum at the edge of his mind.
“Places like this,” Maros said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “they remember what happened to them. The Wastes may have claimed this outpost, but the magic that was here… it never really leaves.”
Zarin frowned, glancing around. He had felt something like this before—back in his village, when the Ascendants had come for his family. That same oppressive weight, that same sense of being watched by something ancient and powerful. It made him uneasy, like the fortress itself was hiding secrets.
“What was this place?” Zarin asked.
Maros stepped forward, running his fingers along one of the cracked walls. “A relic of the old wars,” he said, his tone distant, as though he were speaking to himself. “Before the Ascendants seized control, there were many kingdoms in these lands, each ruled by those who wielded the elemental forces. They built fortresses like this to defend against the Ascendants’ growing power.”
He paused, his eyes darkening as he looked around. “But none of them could withstand the Ascendants. The power they brought was too great. The old kingdoms fell one by one, and the Wastes swallowed what remained.”
Zarin listened in silence, his thoughts drifting to the stories his father had told him about the fall of the old world. He had always known that the Ascendants had shaped the world through conquest, but hearing it from Maros, who had lived through it, made it feel more real. More personal.
“So why does this place still feel… alive?” Reya asked, glancing around with a wary eye. “If the Wastes took everything, why is there still power here?”
Maros didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved deeper into the outpost, his hand tracing the ancient runes carved into the walls. Zarin and Reya followed, their footsteps echoing in the cold silence.
At the far end of the room, Maros stopped in front of a large stone archway, half-collapsed but still standing. There were strange symbols etched into the stone, symbols that pulsed faintly with a dull, otherworldly light. Zarin couldn’t read them, but he recognized the language. It was the same language the Ascendants had spoken when they had cast their spells over his siblings, the same language that had bound his powers for so long.
“This,” Maros said, his voice low and filled with reverence, “is a gateway.”
“A gateway to what?” Reya asked, her tone skeptical.
“To the Old Magic,” Maros replied, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Before the elemental forces, before the Ascendants, there were powers older and far more dangerous. This outpost was not just a fortress—it was a place of study, a place where those who sought to understand the Old Magic could come and learn.”
Zarin stepped closer to the archway, his heart pounding. The energy emanating from the symbols was palpable, like a low thrumming in the air. He could feel it tugging at the edges of his consciousness, stirring something deep inside him.
“This magic… is it connected to what’s inside me?” Zarin asked, his voice hushed.
Maros turned to him, his gaze intense. “Yes. The power you carry, the power that was bound by the Ascendants—it comes from the same source. The Old Magic is tied to the very fabric of creation itself, and those who are of the old bloodlines, like you, have a connection to it. That is why the Ascendants fear you, Zarin. They cannot control what they do not understand.”
Zarin swallowed hard, his mind racing. The idea that he was connected to something so ancient, something so dangerous, was both exhilarating and terrifying. He had always thought of his power as something dark, something that had been suppressed because it was too dangerous. But now, he was beginning to realize that it wasn’t just dangerous—it was something the Ascendants couldn’t control. And that made him a threat.
“What do we do now?” Reya asked, breaking the tension in the room.
Maros studied the archway for a moment longer before turning away, his expression thoughtful. “We move on. The gateway is not our destination. The Spire is where we will find the answers we seek. But we should be careful. Places like this are often watched.”
Zarin nodded, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the outpost than Maros was letting on. The old mage had been strangely quiet since they had entered, as though he knew more about the place than he was saying. Zarin couldn’t tell if Maros was trying to protect them, or if there was something else—something more sinister—at play.
They left the outpost behind, the wind picking up again as they stepped back into the open air. The Frozen Spire was still far in the distance, its dark silhouette barely visible through the haze of snow. But Zarin’s thoughts were no longer on the Spire. They were on Maros, and the unsettling feeling that the old mage knew far more about the journey ahead than he was letting on.
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The hours stretched into days as they continued their journey through the Wastes. The land around them remained as unforgiving as ever, the wind a constant companion, the snow and ice making every step a struggle. The temperature dropped with each passing day, the air so cold that Zarin’s breath froze in his lungs. Even with his power burning beneath the surface, the cold was relentless, seeping into his bones.
They traveled in near silence, the weight of the journey pressing down on them. Reya remained focused, always scanning the horizon for threats, her hand never far from the hilt of her sword. But even she couldn’t hide the toll the journey was taking on her. Zarin could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way her movements had slowed, the tightness in her jaw as she fought to keep going.
Maros, too, seemed affected by the cold, though he hid it better. He walked with a strange determination, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as though he could see something they couldn’t. Zarin had noticed the way Maros seemed to know exactly where to go, even when the landscape offered no landmarks, no signs of direction. It was as if the old mage had walked this path before.
But as the days wore on, Zarin began to notice something else. Maros was speaking less and less. At first, Zarin had chalked it up to exhaustion, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was a distance in Maros’ eyes, a guardedness that hadn’t been there before. And every now and then, Zarin would catch the old mage watching him, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
Zarin tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on the journey, but the unease lingered. Maros had been their guide, their teacher, but now… Zarin wasn’t sure what to think. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Maros knew more than he was letting on, that he had some deeper purpose for leading them to the Spire.
And then there were the dreams.
They had started a few days into their journey. Zarin would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat despite the freezing cold, his heart pounding in his chest. The dreams were always the same—visions of fire and shadow, of chains that wrapped around him tighter and tighter, pulling him down into the earth. And in the center of it all, there was a figure, watching him from the darkness. He couldn’t see their face, but he could feel their presence, could feel the weight of their gaze.
He had tried to shake the dreams off, but they clung to him like the cold, a constant reminder of the power inside him. And with each passing day, the dreams grew more vivid, more real.
On the fifth night of their journey, Zarin woke with a start, the echo of the dream still ringing in his ears. He sat up, gasping for breath, his skin slick with sweat. The wind howled outside their small camp, the fire crackling softly, but there was something else—something in the air that set Zarin’s nerves on edge.
He glanced around, his heart still racing, and his gaze landed on Maros, who was sitting by the fire, his back to Zarin. The old mage was staring into the flames, his expression unreadable, but there was a tension in his posture, a stillness that made Zarin’s stomach twist.
Zarin watched him for a moment, the uneasy feeling growing stronger. He had trusted Maros, had followed him without question, but now… something didn’t feel right.
As if sensing Zarin’s gaze, Maros turned slightly, his eyes meeting Zarin’s across the fire. There was something in Maros’ eyes that Zarin hadn’t seen before—something dark, something hidden.
For the first time, Zarin wondered if they were walking into a trap.
Maros held Zarin's gaze for a moment longer than felt comfortable, his eyes flickering with the fire’s glow, but there was something cold in that stare—something calculating. It was like watching a predator assess its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Zarin’s skin prickled with unease. He opened his mouth to speak, to question Maros, but the words caught in his throat. The wind outside picked up, howling through the desolate night, and for a brief moment, Zarin thought he saw something—a shadow, a figure just beyond the reach of the firelight.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Maros turned back to the flames, the flicker of darkness in his eyes vanishing as if it had never been there. But Zarin couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. The air was thick with tension, and the silence was suffocating.
Whatever lay ahead at the Frozen Spire, Zarin knew it wouldn’t just be a test of his power.
It would be a test of trust.
And trust was something Zarin wasn’t sure he could afford anymore.