“Ah, Councilor Vasylius. I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” an old mature voice spoke in an even tone.

Ben turned to see the form of Archmage Jared Durrene emerge from the trap door in the living area, painted in shades of green. He wore a long apron, and the sleeves of a plain, flowing robe were rolled up to his elbows. His hands and thin forearms were covered in dark liquid; he appeared full of vigor, contrasting with the frail old man he had met at the temple.

His surroundings seemed to blur, and objects in his periphery oscillated, yet the sounds were crisp and clear. The room was as cluttered and chaotic as before he and the blonde-haired Keeper had organized and cleaned the area. He faced the specter of the Councilor with a clenched jaw.

So, this is a memory of that night’s events? It must’ve happened the same day we arrived in the city about two months ago. Because, according to Ann, Lucianna’s dead, and with Jor here… she left to see him the night before she gave us up...

Eric's armored, pale green figure cast his gaze around the room; a subtle sneer occupied his face before his eyes settled on the Archmage. “Have you deciphered the journal?” he asked; his baritone was warm and friendly, yet Ben couldn’t associate any positive emotion with the bastard.

The old man wiped his hands on his dirty apron and nodded excitedly. “Yes, it was fascinating. Remarkably preserved, not to mention the exquisite stasis enchantment on the chest-”

A cleared throat interrupted the old man’s rambling and drew Ben’s attention to the beautiful, dark-skinned woman behind Eric.

“Archmage. The transcription,” Lucianna spoke, tone clipped.

The old man’s head bobbed, unaffected by the terse interruption. He faced the Councilor once more. “A Scribe is making copies as we speak!” the Archmage beamed. “I shall have a copy delivered to your estate in the Capital next week.”

“Does the Scribe have the relic?” Eric asked, face impassive.

The Archmage’s smile wavered, and his brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Well, yes, of course. How else would he transcribe the original along with the translation? The source material should always be provided as proof when composing academic expositions. Surely you know this, Councilor?” The old man shook his head and folded his arms, heedless of the remnants of the liquid, which Ben thought to be blood, staining his robes. “Unless those fools have been lax in their Instruction at the Academy.”

“Where is this scribe you mentioned?” Lucianna interrupted once more. Eric’s brows narrowed subtly at the woman's words, and he shot a cold glance at her. Cowed, the ebony-skinned woman dipped her head and stepped back behind the Councilor.

The Archmage, oblivious to the interaction, tilted his head at the question and stroked his magnificent white beard. “Why, the Baker’s husband down the street, of course.” He paused, and his brows furrowed at the handsome man with cold blue eyes. “Why do you ask? If you’re worried about the safety of the Herald’s writing, I’ve employed the services of this particular scribe on numerous occasions, especially for the more sensitive research I do. He is the epitome of discretion, and you can be assured that very few people know of the relic’s existence. In fact, not even my Apprentice is aware of it,” he said evenly as he turned to retrieve a dirty rag from the table beside him.

Eric lifted a hand and flicked his wrist toward the Archmage. Jor, who had been standing near the entrance, gaze cast downward with shoulders slumped, lifted her head at her cousin's signal and began to approach the old man. She wore the same stained white skirt, made pale green by the Archmage’s magic, over dark greaves and matching plate that covered her breasts. She had cut her hair before their reunion in Kieran’s townhouse the previous day. Yet, her long braid swayed like a pendulum in the projected memory, counting down the seconds to insanity.

Ben watched the blurry green specter of his former companion walk past him with silent steps. The young man’s face began to contort with anger, and he felt his breath grow rapid. The memory of her actions resurfaced and tore open the tender wound of betrayal at his companion’s hands. He yearned to reach out and grab her skull while slowly pressing his thumbs into her big, beautiful green eyes. He could almost taste the intoxicating wail she would let out, and he thought he would savor every sweet moment.

The claws of the beast wrapped around his ribs from behind, and he felt sharp daggers pierce his chest near the heart. An indiscernible echo of a familiar concept called out to him, yet he couldn’t hear its name.

He was drawn back to the phantom scene of recollection by the movement of the Councilor and his Keeper. The pair left for the door without a word, and Ben turned to see the raven-haired Archer stand in front of the Archmage.

She removed a rag from her belt and placed it tightly over her mouth, and with the other hand, she held a corked glass vial which she unstoppered with her thumb, cork caught by nimble fingers on the same hand. The significant height discrepancy between the short old man and herself allowed her to simply extend the glass container with an outstretched hand and empty its contents above the Archmage.

Archmage!

Ben screamed a warning to the old man, yet no sound left his lips. He attempted to lunge at the woman, but it was as if he were running on ice. He tried to take another step closer; however, though his legs moved, his position remained stationary.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

A fine mist of powder swirled in the air and lazily drifted to settle on and around the old man. Jor made a concerted effort to avoid making contact with the mysterious dust as she leaned backward with an arm stretched out to its limit, almost as if she held a venomous snake.

The Archmage sneezed after inhaling a significant amount of the powder and turned to the sound of an opened door. He appeared to look straight through the woman as if she weren’t there.

Dammit, she said she was a Null. He can’t even sense her aura.

Ben’s stomach roiled with anger at his former companion as she retreated with soundless steps to join the pair who were part-way out the door.

“Leaving so soon? I’ve been meaning to write to you about last week’s delivery. There must’ve been a mista-” A slamming door interrupted the old man, who shook his head and muttered under his breath. “The utter audacity of these…” he trailed off as he slowly began to disperse in grains of green sand.

The world began to regain color as the cluttered living room shifted back to the orderly arrangement of the present time. His ears popped, and the prickling on his skin began to abate. He stood, breathing heavily with clenched fists. Kieran was beside him, eyes wide and jaw slackened, opposite Ann, who was eerily calm with pursed lips and a tilted head—deep in thought.

A series of wet coughs interrupted the trio’s various states of processing the events in the recollection spell. Kieran rushed to the old man’s side, and Ben felt the warmth of Ann’s Aura envelop him.

“That’s why!” Kieran exclaimed in an outburst as he leaned over the wheezing Archmage. “There was no way the Master wouldn’t have detected a Hex or a Curse! And nothing… none of the methods to cure him worked. That’s why…” the young Caster trailed off as he pulled at his messy red hair. His brows began to slant, and his jaw slackened. “Why?” he said softly before turning to Ben. “Why did she… why would they do this? Over a relic? One that they would’ve gotten back? I don’t understand…” his gaze became distant, and Ben felt, more than heard, his anguish.

“They didn’t want anyone knowing about Deidre’s journal. The Old Worlder’s journal,” Ben said as he sniffed in an attempt to quell the fury that bubbled and boiled deep within him. He faced Ann after regaining a modicum of control over his rapid breathing and contorted expression. “Do you know what that powder was?”

The Keeper regarded the young man with soft blue eyes, seemingly unperturbed by the events they had witnessed. “I have a theory, but I am not certain.” She paused.

Ben’s rage began to abate, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt sadness tinged with fear radiating from his bonded companion. He opened his eyes to see the same thoughtful expression on the blonde woman's face, contradicting the emotions he had felt from her.

“Lucianna had begun her third year of training to be a Hand for the Order of Speakers when she was chosen to undergo shaping as a Keeper. The Hand is a group of Assassins trained in subterfuge, infiltration, and seduction. I was never privy to their secrets at the temple; however, I do know that the Matron of the sect was a Grand Master Alchemist.”

Kieran snapped his head toward the Keeper. “Will she have an antidote? Or even a means to identify the compounds used, so that I can synthe-”

A cough and a raised frail hand interrupted the red-haired Caster. “Appren…tice,” the Archmage wheezed, white beard turned crimson with blood. His coughing had subsided, and he drew short, shallow breaths. “You must… Go to the… Aeyr... On the summer solstice… the… journal spoke of an… Oracle. Take… this.” He clutched at what Ben thought was a pendant under his tunic. “My… papers…” A coughing fit interrupted the old man’s words.

Kieran knelt beside him, brows furrowed in worry. “Master, please. Don’t speak. We need you to conserve your strength until we find a means to cure you,” he pleaded.

Ann knelt on the floor where she stood. Fingers intertwined, held tightly against a scarred chest. Ben felt the warmth of her Aura intensify, and the Archmage’s coughing fit began to abate. He turned with milky eyes in the general direction of Ben, his gaze failing to find purchase on the young man.

“You… Old Worlder,” he smiled. “I’m afraid… your kind will have to… take up the mantle… once more.” The old man paused as he struggled to regain his breath.

“Lead them to salvation. Crush the Betrayer.”

An oppressive rumble deep within the young man visibly shook his body. The weight of the Archmage’s plea settled heavily upon his shoulders, and he felt his meager legs shiver to keep him standing under the sheer magnitude of the words. His vision began to darken, and he felt his head grow lighter. A pulse of radiance was a thread that reached out toward his being. He met the offered hand with his will and felt as if he was drawn back to reality from the dark, endless void.

He turned to the blonde-haired woman, who smiled and let out a sigh of contentment. Her pale brow had moistened and gleamed in the orange glow of the low crackling fire. The Archmage sat slumped in his chair, and his breaths had grown even. Kieran gently lifted the old man and carried him to the bedroom while Ben ambled toward the hearth and collapsed in exhaustion onto the large cushions.

“My heart,” Ann said softly as she approached the young man. “Your Path has taken root within you.”

Ben turned from the fire to face the short, blonde woman. “Ann. My Path is the least of my concerns right now,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m a bit overwhelmed. I need-”

Ben thought of the impending confrontation with his Avatar, and he clenched his jaw, suddenly recalling his mentor’s warning of a fatigued mind.

“-rest. Sleep,” he said with a sigh.

“Of course, my darling,” Ann cooed as she sat next to him on the floor and began stroking his messy black hair with her pale, delicate hands. “I will wait for you. As I always have.”

The heavy rain against the opaque windows of the Master Necromancer’s abode was a lullaby to his taxed mind and body. The soothing caress of his Keeper caused his eyelids to grow leaden, and the allure of deep slumber called out to him.

A bang bang bang on the door caused Ben to jolt up and nearly headbutt the blonde woman. The pair snapped their gazes to the source of the noise. The door was flung open to let in rain and an icy wind. The Keeper rushed to the entrance, and Ben pushed himself up to his feet to see who their visitor was.

His brow furrowed as he beheld a young boy of roughly thirteen summers. His dark skin glistened, and his simple tunic and short trousers were drenched from the rain. The boy dragged a long object wrapped tightly in beige fabric, and Ben thought the object's shape looked uncannily similar to the exquisite halberd he had left near the fireplace in Red Maiden’s trinkets and Baubles. The little visitor handed the Keeper a scrap of parchment before staring intently at Ben, chest heaving from running.

Ann read the message with furrowed brows. She gasped before turning to face the young man with wide blue eyes.

“It’s the Red Maiden…”