Alaric had scarcely set foot over the gate’s threshold when his surroundings flickered and changed - a glamour. Gone were the weeds, running vines, and wet marshy ground. Before him the ruined courtyard warped to reveal a space completely filled with trees, flowers, bushes, and all manner of vibrant flora. The paved walkway ran straight as arrow from the gate into the dark depths of the gardens’ growth. Presumably from there it reached the front doors of the central sanctuary - their goal and resting place for the night.

“Hmm.” Alaric tested the ground beneath him. Taps of his boot against the pavestones were met with firm resistance. Not an illusion. Or if it was - it was coupled with an enchantment to obscure his senses as well.

“I thought the fog was the ‘veil’ in Veiled Sanctuary?” he wondered aloud. “I don’t remember the scout report mentioning a glamour of this size.”

Alaric of course was referencing the notoriously vague roll of parchment with “notes” from the initial Guild investigation. The professor had paid a hefty bribe gratuity to get an advance copy. They had read over it together at the Leaky Bucket - an inn back in Ambristad before departing and had been less than impressed with the level of detail (or lack thereof).

The others had gathered in a small circle ahead of him. Judging from their suspicious glances of the environment, they were taken off-guard just the same.

“The kid is right.” Dagna said to the professor. “And you know how much that irritates me.”

The slight wrinkle of a frown appeared on the older wizard’s pursed lips. “I agree. Something is not quite right,” as he spoke, he produced a small drawstring pouch. “If I had to hazard a guess,” he offered the pouch to Alaric, “I would say the scout team accidentally triggered something when they left. The dungeon appears to be awake. Alaric, could you manage?”

The younger wizard took the small silk bag, shaking hands nearly dropping it.

Idiot. Be careful! He chastised himself.

Alaric pulled open the drawstring. Inside the tiny bag was a mound of pale white-grey powder, glittering with an off-green hue in the last fading rays of light. He knew what it was immediately. Oxenforde’s component stores had vast quantities for students to practice with. Crushed magnesium and silica. Powdered Talc.

The spell was simple. In theory at least. But Alaric knew full well that this was a test. He set his pack down so as to better concentrate. The others stood back and watched - ranging from disinterest to slight annoyance. Fennic stood stonefaced. Grayson leaned down and whispered something to the scowling Lysa - no doubt impatient to set camp. Dagna had an eyebrow raised in doubt. Only the professor gave an encouraging thumbs up.

Alaric took a breath and a pinch of the powder. Eyes closed, he recited the Arcanum - the formula of words in Old Archonic that directed the spell. He drew another breath, this one unsteady, and tapped into the web of power that shaped their reality. He only needed a thread, a single spark. Pinched fingers to his lips, Alaric blew deeply. A shaky stream of warm air.

At first nothing happened. His spittle only blew small grains of talc from his fingers.

He remembered this all too well. His earliest practicum courses at Oxenforde had been disastrous. Memories came flooding back. Alaric, standing before his classmates, teachers, and examination boards. Always ending in failure and ridicule.

The spells always made sense to Alaric. He excelled in his coursework far beyond that of his peers. Where his fellow students struggled with pronouncing words of power correctly, mastering the somatic movements, or inscribing basic runes he stood above them all. He could even formulate spells from scratch - an achievement usually reserved for mages nearing the status of master. But for reasons he could never identify, the fundamental act of actually channeling the magic around him eluded him. And all the magical theory in the world was useless if one could not power their own spells.

Desperation set in amidst Alaric’s blowing. Grasping frantically with his mind’s eye he wrestled with the invisible threads around him, willing them to coalesce on the material in his palm.

Just one. He told himself. All I need is one. Come on, come on. COME ON!

Only as his breath began to falter did he feel something move. The faintest tug on the tapestry of energy that hid behind the world.

Stolen story; please report.

All mages had different descriptions for the source of magic they drew upon.

Sorcerers, he knew often referred to a river or fountain within themselves. Streams of energy that they could shape into effects. That made sense of course. Those with a natural connection to magic didn’t need incantations or ingredients to form spells. It simply bubbled up within them - even though such magics were never as versatile the effects as a true wizard.

Witches in turn regularly claimed they heard magic itself sing to them through the plants and animals they used to cast their charms and hexes. Even stones they claimed, were alive with inner energies that could be twisted into great powers.

But Wizards? Wizards almost universally described magic in the form of threads that could be woven or warped into any pattern under their will. The most skilled achmages of Old Acheron wrote in depth on the subject - their fragmented diaries and scattered tomes speaking at length on fine gossamer strands of magic that could mould into any pattern. Although in Alaric’s case, the only threads he could ever discern were thick, heavy and unwieldy. A carpet of immovable, fused yarns that might as well have been spun from lead.

But in rare cases, such as now, one of those burdensome strands came loose just long enough for him to manipulate. Seizing on the moment, he affixed the thread of magic to his quarry - the fine powdered silicate; Nearly depleted. YES! He had done it. Visualizing the effect, he opened his eyes.

Though he had only a tiny pinch of the talc remaining, and his breath was long since expended, the spell finally took hold. Erupting in a column of fine dust, the fine powder ballooned forward, disseminating into in an imperceivable mist. Stretching forward, the spell covered the entire garden. One by one, faint green auras flickered into existence, bobbing and twirling throughout the treeline. Each was the shape of a sphere, only an inch or so in diameter.

“Sprites!” Came Dagna’s call.

Fennic nocked an arrow, but did not draw.

Seemingly unperturbed by the party’s presence, the revealed nature spirits continued their dance amongst the flora. Humming almost like bees, the tiny lights moved from bloom to bloom, fruit to fruit, enriching the plant life with their energies. Sprites could be fickle things, but were jealously sought after by wealthy manor lords and the like for the bountiful effects they could bring to crops and gardens. Oxenforde itself even had a few in the great greenhouses to aid in magical reagent cultivation - but nowhere near the number before them.

Alaric drank in the sight with awe - but was moreso impressed with himself that the spell had actually worked.

Beside him, with a grumble and the jolt of an elbow, Lysa handed Grayson a Ducat. The dull gold coin clinked heavily in his purse as he winked to Alaric.

Of course. He was not at all surprised that they had bet on the outcome of his spell. His disfunction with magic was a running joke at this point. Nor was he surprised that the pessimistic halfling had bet against him. A rue smile crossed his lips. He had proven Lysa wrong. That in of itself was enough to make their hike through the wretched swamp worth it.

Professor Sorrel clapped him on the back. “Nicely done,” he said.

Alaric jumped at the sudden contact. Immediately, the thread he held together in his mind’s eye snapped. The magic instantly dissolved.

“No! No, no, no! Oh come on!” his faltered protest did him no good. One by one, the sprites winked out of sight. Once again hidden from view.

Grayson returned his coin to Lysa. Alaric wasn’t sure what hurt more, the spell failing or the money changing hands because of it.

The professor awkwardly withdrew his hand. “Well then…,” he struggled to find the words. “I suppose that’s rather unfortunate.” The “tsk” was barely audible, but it was still there.

“Dagna, what say you? Can we proceed?” Galen asked.

Their dwarf companion took account of the surroundings. Darkness was rapidly descending. Before them lay the gardens - and its invisible swarm of sprite inhabitants. Behind them, the trailing tendrils of evening fog beckoned. Wispy fingers of moisture concealing bugs, snakes, spiders, and whatever nighttime predators prowled the marshes lying in wait.

“Right then,” she said. “I suppose the smart play would be to make it inside and set camp.”

The others nodded in agreement.

"We stick to the original plan. Make it inside, bunker down, and wait 'till morning." While she spoke, Dagna checked several other charms on her necklace. Appearing satisfied, she continued. "No undead or other nasties in the area. I think we'll be right as rain if we can get under a solid roof for the night." She looked at each of her party members in turn. "Be on our best guard. If something has changed since the scouts departed then we should assume that nothing in the report is accurate anymore."

“Fennic, you know what to do. You take point.” The words had scarcely left her lips before the half-elf started forward.

“Lysa is going to stay right behind him.” She continued in her directions for the party, setting their order. “Master Galen, you and the kid are sticking in the middle. Grayson and I will take up the rear.” Her subordinates moved swiftly into their positions.

Alaric scrambled to re-don the supply pack. Thankfully, Galen reclaimed his implausibly heavy spool of thread. They moved into the center of their column and proceeded to follow Lysa. Far ahead, he could just make out the form of the ranger as he melted into the overgrowth to scout their path.

“Alright now,” Dagna stressed. “Sprites are relatively benign. But we don’t know what’s here, or if anything else is in the gardens. So let’s not touch anything and irritate our hosts, agreed?”

Phrased as a question, they took the command for what it was and piped up an affirmative. Dagna had been a seasoned adventurer for decades. If anyone was going to keep an adventurer alive in a dungeon, it would be her.

They set off into the gardens - the doors of the Sanctuary awaited them on the other side.