Purple moss, some dead rabbits and cheap booze. Ink and parchment. A couple of books he’d managed to steal from the Academy. A rusty knife. A dirty cloak and smelly boots. Those were the provisions of Icaros Flint, outlaw mage and desperate vagrant. He was in his mid-twenties but he looked old. His face had a rash from eating too much purple moss and his face permanently hid between a scraggly beard and long brown hair that had surpassed his shoulders. The only good thing in his life was Pounce, his Dustling. The blue rat-like creature had turned into a scavenger of sorts, doing its best to gather berries and herbs to spice up his diet of rabbit and moss. Yesterday Icaros had glimpsed a small village between the trees, somewhere on the outskirts of the swamp. It had taken all his discipline not to walk into the nearest inn and order a decent meal. Now he sat in the little wooden hut in he called his home, thinking about where his life had gone wrong. ‘So tell me Pounce, was I wrong? Was it stupid to prefer morals over his majesty’s military needs?’ The Dustling stayed silent as it always did when he spoke. It moved the little fishy gills beneath his whiskers. Icaros had decided this meant a confirmation of some sort. ‘I know right!’ The mage looked around at the little hut he had claimed as his own. The former owner had been some swamp witch, no doubt. Weird symbols telling tales of ancient water spirits had covered the walls when he first discovered the place. Now those symbols were barely visible beneath the incoherent scribbles of Icaros. The ink on the wooden planks was part diary, part research, a testament to his fall from grace. His eye fell on the surface of the door, equally used as a piece of parchment.

I am a Maker, able to attune to the realm of Dust and to shape and transform magic into objects. Why then, was I making tools of war, while magic is a thing of beauty? I saw the Steelguards killing civilians, the day on the Royal Square. Those same Steelguards that I was making.

Why can I not make beautiful things?

What went wrong?

Bridge of light? Living gardens?

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Maybe I will just return

Options:

* Travel overseas

* Kill the king (too dangerous, too violent?)

* Go feral and die in the woods (I like this. Bit crazy but still better than other ideas)

Dear door, today I washed myself in the swamp. Now my body itches. Pounce has dared me to do it again. I will but not tomorrow.

He sighed. Was this really what the rest of his life entailed? To go mad? Every morning he woke up with the idea of finally going to some other place. He made his backpack and went outside, but fear kept him from actually doing it. No one no he was here. The Wildlands were a big place. Lawless, yes, but great to hide. As soon as he would go to a town or an outpost, people would see his Dustling. All mages in the kingdom were bound to his majesty by law. His Dusthunters scoured every corner of the land to sniff out any talent of magic, any connection to the realm of Dust. Mages weren’t exactly prisoners. They were paid, got nice rooms and every luxury they could ever hope for. Within the miniature city the Academy had created, they got to simulate what a normal life looked like. All of this was of course but a gilded cage, a prison without cells meant to keep mages in check.

The Gods knew the king needed their help. Now the Age of War was over, the kingdom had to keep hold of all its provinces. That was the reason he let Makers like Icaros create Steelguards. The automatons needed no food or sleep. The army would send them out by the boatload to doven any sparks of rebellion. So of course, when a mage escaped, the king wanted his property back. Even though Avora was an ocean away, Icaros feared that the distance wouldn’t the Dusthunters to come after him. Deep inside he knew that they’d find him eventually. So there’s not a big difference between staying and going, is there? Maybe I should just build myself a Steelguard and turn myself in, ha. The mage blinked. How long had he been staring at his door? ‘Let’s go for a walk, Pounce. I’m spiralling again.’ The Dustling jumped on his shoulder and he went outside. The fist of steel punched him right in the face. The swampland around him blinked out of existence. Nothing but darkness and pain. He felt the sharp wires of the copper net fall over him and he knew he was fucked. Icaros blinked. A squad of five Dusthunters stood before him. ‘Fuck.’