The days continued to fall by. The air of tension never seemed to ease as Orrillimmirr and Maeve stood at the precipice in anticipation of the worst. Asammirr couldn’t go out into the village unless his father joined him, and every morning, Sorrinn and their mother departed to Lua’s without fail to continue his magic training.
Then those days became weeks, and those weeks months. They waited and waited, but the Silhouette never showed any sign of acting. It wasn’t as if it’d lost interest either. Even the villagers had begun to take note of the odd shadows slinking around the village. Catching moving shadows in the corner of their eye and sensing hidden eyes scrutinizing them from dark crevices. It was still keeping watch of everything through its shadows. Rumors of lurking monsters had started to spread with a general air of unease.
Sorrinn didn’t understand. Was it gathering reconnaissance after learning he possessed a noteworthy quantity of Origin? He assumed it would’ve moved against him by then since he was still only a child, but in hindsight, he supposed something capable of hunting Apotheoses of The Illumination wouldn’t have been dull enough to underestimate an opponent due to age. Its Absence had failed to corrode him in the first encounter. It must’ve been plotting and waiting for the ideal moment.
Things grew increasingly chilly with the coming of the frost season. The Sustainer had diminished in scale compared to the heat season, giving way to the cold in the absence of Its Radiance. Even then, Maeve and Sorrinn still headed out every morning. Whether it was snowing, raining, or a bitter wind was blowing, they made their way to Lua’s without fail.
Things had unwound some at home, however. She started preparing meals for breakfast and dinner again instead of everyone eating The Giving Tree’s fruit. The fruit was delicious and each one bore a unique, sweet taste. Compared to a home-cooked meal though? It wasn’t close. And Asammirr could at least be left home alone even if he couldn’t go out by himself anymore. It was too cold for that then, anyway. But his little group of friends had no qualms coming over to where they could hang out, settling for convening in Asammirr’s bedroom instead.
The deal with going to Lua’s every day actually worked out best for Sorrinn since it was too cold outside and he wouldn’t have been able to continue training his condition-weaving indoors. However, within the Dark Domain spell, it was as warm as he decided to dial Lux Lantern’s energy factor. The weather of the world beyond the spell bore no influence on the conditions inside. He could spend all day within it refining his condition-weaving while his mother and Lua enjoyed mutual company inside by the fireplace.
Not to be mistaken: they weren’t buddy-buddy by any measure. Lua was an asocial hermit and Maeve had no clue how to navigate the social setting around her. They simply did their own thing in a shared space—Maeve reading up on the Elven lore and the End while Lua meditated in silence.
The Silhouette must’ve been a fool, because he was making strides in both the arts and with his Spirit skills—even if the rate of his Arcana acquisition had slowed once he hit fifty. It’d been months and he was still only at sixty. It felt like he received a point once every blue moon then.
Once he dedicated himself to it across the four months or so it’d been, working in the implementation of conditions in the actualization process became second nature. With the rudimentary spells, he could improvise a broad variety of conditions while still keeping the cast speed a second under. The most important factor was knowing what conditions he was going to apply well-before the actualization threshold arrived. That demanded lots of repetition and practice, and Lua helped him in the later stages by calling out one of the four spells at random alongside the condition he was to apply with a few seconds on the execution timer. The best method he found was to have three or four possible condition combinations in mind at all times so they could be woven into a spell at the drop of a coin.
Moreover, both [Mystic Manipulation] and [Ethereal Surge] were up to level five—capped for the time being, unfortunately. He required a unique material that was rewarded from successful Forsaken Realm challenges to continue leveling them. No way he’d be able to scout out the Nomadic Gateway while his mother was glued to his every move. And he still wasn’t absolute that he was prepared enough. There weren't any indicators of difficulty or what awaited on the other side.
[Focus] and [Arcane Absorptive] were up to level three as well.
As the tip of spring rolled around and things warmed up beneath The Sustainer’s blooming Radiance, he started gaining some experience with [Tangible Will] via inconspicuously moving small stones around during the walk to Lua’s. Just a skip of a stone here and there. Since [Ethereal Surge] was capped, it was due time to move onto the next Spirit skill. Having Caleb’s support and protection versus the Silhouette was reassuring.
It was on that day of spring that Lua finally declared him to have mastered the application of conditions. She had him focus so squarely on that because condition-weaving didn’t become any more complex from spell to spell. It was a general skill of the arts of Creation similar to manipulating the amplification factors. Once he comprehended its theory and mastered it in a practical sense, it’d benefit all future spells he’d learn. The earlier he was introduced to it, the better. The only difference according to her was the consumption of wealth. Higher-tiered spells consumed more mystic wealth when applying amplifiers and conditions compared to lower-tiered spells, so it was crucial to experiment with the toll differences before committing to anything.
He always felt like he should’ve been taking notes. Thankfully, his memory was quite potent.
That said, she decided it was time for him to progress to the next step—elemental specialization. Every element within the domain of Creation was its own mountain. They each bore their own strengths, weaknesses, and unique traits when it came to expanding their spells with amplifiers and conditions. Taking a few steps around the base and collecting a few stones from each was simple enough. Things grew more complex and arduous when it came to scaling multiple of those mountains all at once. It was a trap overeager young imbibitors often fell into, she said—collecting everything in sight rather than framing themselves to hunt for precious stones unearthed in the deep mountaintops. Choosing an element to chart from base to pinnacle would be swifter than if he ran about aimlessly from mountain to mountain gathering surface coal and iron. Mastering one element of Creation would make the mastery of every element which followed all the more seamless and easy. Reaching the pinnacle of one mountain endowed immense mystic wisdom and discipline within itself.
He was grateful for Lua’s guidance, because he definitely had a case of shiny object syndrome when it came to magic. His choice for specialization was easy enough: wind creation. One step closer toward flying.
“Understood.” She started him off simple with the second-tier wind creation spell, Billow’s Breath, highlighting its route through his pathways the same as before. After that, she left him to his own devices. He was faring fine figuring out spells on his own within the Dark Domain and she wasn’t the type to hover where she wasn’t needed.
Billow’s Breath was an interesting one. It was similar to Wind Burst. While Wind Burst was a concussive blast that could be compacted and focused for a strong one-and-done blow, Billow’s Breath was a continual gust that consumed wealth for as long as it was channeled. It ranged anywhere from a strong breeze to a howling, hurricane-classed tempest depending on how much wealth he funneled into the amplification factors. Like Wind Burst, he could also make the winds frigid or scalding by amplifying the energy factor in either direction, or produce a tighter current by increasing the density factor. He was blown away by it once, deciding from that moment onward to not skimp on the force-redirection condition anymore. The spell was nice, easier to control than Wind Burst, and flexible. He was settled on optimizing its cast time to a second under immediately after casting it and getting tossed by its force. One day, he’d be the one doing the launching of others, he swore.
His days resumed with him honing [Tangible Will] in the morning before casting Billow’s Breath six dozen times in the Dark Domain. How sweet the repetition of laboring over a spell was against his tongue. And those days ended peacefully around the dinner table alongside his family, listening to Orrillimmirr and Asammirr talk about how they’d spent their days. All the more why that sense of disconcertion never lifted from his heart. There was so much for him to lose, he couldn’t bear the thought of it slipping from his fingers. One moment, he was smiling and eating in the good company of those cherished, and the next, tears were splashing onto his cut of meat loaf.
No one had to ask what was wrong, because they all knew what was at stake and what was after him. They simply said nothing and instead embraced him. First Maeve, then Asammirr, and last, Orrillimmir, bundling up into a huddle representing their promise to get through it together no matter what.
The morning of the first day of the second week of the growth season, everyone was at the table awaiting breakfast. Maeve was making that delicious oatmeal with berries, nuts, spices, and honey she returned to at least once a week. It was Sorrinn’s favorite on the menu—perhaps because it was one of the first foods he remembered enjoying as a child. So he was particularly joyous and animated that morning, bobbing his head side to side, tapping the pads of his fingers together as he kicked his legs.
Though something seemed to be bothering Maeve. She kept digging into her ear while she cooked. It grew to the point where she had to turn and interrogate, “Who’s ringing that bell?”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The boys were left looking at her like she was crazy.
“What bell?” Orrillimmirr asked. “No one’s ringing a bell, my dearest.”
“Hm… Weird.” She tried to ignore it and focus on getting the food ready. It sounded like it was coming from inside the house despite how faint the sound was.
“Can I go with you to the forest again, Papa?”
That surprised Orrillimmirr a good deal by the perking of his brows. He wasn’t going to question it too much lest Asammirr lost interest. “A-Absolutely.” He was left smiling like the popular kids had just invited him to their lunch table.
All of Sorrinn’s animatedness ran static as he whipped a sharp stare his brother and father’s way. “Wait, how come Sammi gets to go to the forest with you, Paba? I wanna go too,” he whined.
“I’m afraid you’re still too young, little one. If trouble arises, your brother will be the one to outrun me. If I have to carry you whilst being assailed by a deep forest platoon of Celpi in their most advantageous setting, we’ll both be captured or worse. I would prefer to not end up sentenced to the couch because you were tortured by sapient savage beasts on my watch.”
Apparently, the thing that had astounded his father so was an outlying society of Celpi in the northern woodlands. The thing was, Celpi didn’t typically operate in complex social structures. They were instinct-driven, unintelligent low-threat beasts who lived and hunted small prey alone for most of their lives. But, according to their father, a variant with high-level sapience had emerged. Over the months Orrillimmirr had been quietly observing and studying them from afar, they’d gradually evolved into a hunter-gatherer society with stone tools beneath the influence of the variant. They’d effectively risen from bottom of the hierarchy savage beasts to being able to contend with the likes of centurion golems via elaborate military tactics and sheer numbers. He was certain he was observing the rise of a new intelligent race before his eyes.
The issue was, Celpi were instinctively violent and territorial beasts—they were by all regards the chihuahuas of the forest; small but rambunctious and brazen in their brashness. They were on a conquest across the woodlands challenging anything they crossed, claiming the land for themselves, and propagating like rodents all the while. That conquest was gradually working its way down south toward the plain where the village resided. He gave it three more months before the Celpi arrived and waged war for the village’s land. They weren’t the merciful type either, so they were coming with the intent to spill any and all blood.
All of that information had been relayed to the caretaker a month back once he felt he’d compiled enough information. The only reason he talked was because it was public knowledge then.
Sorrinn had stars in his eyes when their father finally spilled the beans. He was ready to don the ghillie suit and head out, but was forbidden by his father. He was cool with it since Asammirr wasn’t anywhere near it either. Learning his brother was out on the frontlines of discovery without him, he had a few choice words that he was going to abstain from airing aloud. Wouldn’t stop him from fussily pouting though.
Maeve sighed. “Silhouettes. Celpi hordes. I remember when this village used to be a peaceful place.”
Sorrinn couldn’t help feel somewhat responsible for that. Not to sound narcissistic, but his circumstances radiated major web-novel protagonist energy. He had a feeling trouble would always find him wherever he went.
“Is it time to think about moving elsewhere, Ori?”
“Absolutely not. This is our home and our childrens’ home. If we must fight for its future, we shall fight. And by all intents and purposes, if Nislaann is destroyed, as an isolated entity detached from any greater society, all of its accumulated knowledge and wisdom will be subsumed into the abyss of disremembrance.”
Maeve passed her partner a dubious side-eye.
His innocence was projected through his smile. “Of course if any of our livelihoods were at stake, we would relocate to a haven of sanctuary.” A shake of his head. “However, fleeing won’t make it so the Silhouette forfeits its hunt. It would plunge this village into the depths of the End and invite Absence wherever it tread as it chases us.”
“I know. I’m only thinking aloud.”
After everyone had their fill, Maeve and Sorrinn headed out for Lua’s as always. They were a quarter along the path leading from their house to the village when an Elven boy looking to be his age leapt from the bushes further ahead. They were both given a good scare. His mother immediately pushed him behind her, cautious.
“Finally, I’ve found you, Sorrinn Songscribe…” the boy dramatically declared with that shrill, childish voice of his. He was trying to be menacing, but was too adorable and awkward to ever appear as such. He swept his hand out to the side in a dramatic showing. “You can’t hide anymore. A squirrel told me you’re good at magic. Better than me maybe. Hmph,”—he looked Sorrinn up and down, adjusting the big, circle-framed glasses he wore—“Mere fabrications.”
Considering he was of quite a tan, freckled complexion, had a head full of wavy, sandy blond hair, and had notably beautiful, riveting eyes as golden and vibrant as sunlit amber, it was unlikely it was the Silhouette in disguise. No reaction from Sorrinn’s Apotheos Factor either. The boy was just some random village kid lurking in the bushes, waiting for an opportune moment. Based on his characteristics and the relative shortness of his pointed ears, he belonged to the Viirrhmairr Elven bloodline. According to the tomes he read over the heat season, they were the final seeds sown by the original Luminary of Alteration—a tribal people who dwelled in the deep wood in communion with nature. They were said to be the founders of the druidic order—an ideology that’d since spread far and wide across the world beyond its place of origin.
Sorrinn peeked from behind his mother’s side a little, brows furrowed in question. “Uh… Don’t you mean a little birdy told you?”
The boy pointed a sharp finger at Sorrinn, exclaiming with all of the dramatic flare. “No! Be quiet, you!” A pinch of vibrato had surfaced there toward the end. He had a beautiful tone. “It was definitely a ground squirrel. You’re littler than me; what do you know? I challenge you to a duel! Face me like a kid!” He snorted a contemptuous, snide sound. “Unless the rumors are all talk and you’re just a cowardly little grimel who poops his pants like a… Like a, uh… Um—” Eyes veered sideways, he scratched his chin, soon coming up with: “Like a poopy-butt baby who— Who poops his pants!” He smiled and dipped his head once, satisfied with that insult.
By the way, grimel were a large, domesticated rodent which behaved similarly to domesticated chickens—dull-witted and vacuous, skittish, highly avaricious, lacking in survival instincts. Sorrinn had seen them all over the livestock farms around the village hopping around on their long, kangaroo-like hind legs without a care in the world in a highly capybara-ish manner. They both laid eggs and were milk-producing, so they were raised for that as well as being butchered for their meat. Being likened to one was one-hundred percent an insult. At the least, they were cute in a house cat-sized barn mouse sort of way—and delicious.
The boy unfocused his eyes outward in both directions and produced a throaty snickering sound to sell his goading.
Maeve laughed as she looked down at her son, a hand to his back. “Well? Are you going to accept, lovely?”
Sorrinn puffed. Defending his honor and all that, he guessed. He mostly just saw it as a chance to check out someone else’s magic. What kind did the boy use? He was getting all giddy inside and rosy-cheeked thinking about it. He was already bouncing on his toes from excitement. “Kay, I’ll fight you. I accept.”
“Yes!” the boy celebrated, pumping both fists. “Finally, a worthy opponent. This battle will be epic!”
Maeve sent her son on his way with a pat on the back. “Put the little punk in his place, but go easy on him please.”
Sorrinn nodded. He stepped ahead into place, opposite of the boy.
“Can you tell us when to start, Ms. Songscribe?”
“Sure. When I say ‘go.’ Ready…” She allowed them ample time to steel themselves, then called, “Go!”
The moment she gave the signal, the boy’s arms and hand mobilized into meticulous flourishes. The Mystic Force descended right on cue. He was likely already diffusing the spell route while Maeve buffered the start signal to compensate for not being able to cast on demand.
Mostly curious, Sorrinn did nothing as the grasses on both sides of the path grew, elongated, and animated like living serpents. They rushed him all at once, striking like hissing vipers, binding his arms and legs before stretching them out taut. His eyes sparkled in awe where he was left suspended in the air, bound up in grasses. “Viirrhmairr Elves really are druids. So cool!”
The boy looked at Sorrinn like he was speaking magic words. He must’ve not been educated of his ancestry, which was a pity since Sorrinn believed it was a rather rich ancestry to be celebrated. Elves were the ideal when it came to history. No genocides or surreptitious plots or conquests.
He grumbled at how swift his victory was. “I thought you were supposed to be stronger! You’re not a imb… imb… um, a imbubby-turtle!” So close, yet so far. It was a tricky word, Sorrinn knew. “You’re a faker!” the boy accusingly pointed. In his combativeness’s stead, a sad uncertainty swelled. “What am I supposed to do now? My papa will never see how strong I am…”
The jovial look in Sorrinn’s eyes sharpened to the razor’s edge in an instant. His hand and wrist were free. That was enough. That free hand danced like an open flame, then his fingers snapped, a swelling spark igniting into existence above his joined fingertips. The Firebolt erupted the moment it fully formed. The flame crawled across his restricted arm and engulfed his body in a liquid drape of fire in an instant. He was unharmed by it thanks to the aptly imposed condition preventing the spell from affecting its caster. The grass binds burned up just fine in his stead. And the spell’s energy output was zeroed out after three seconds as also defined by the condition, at which he surfaced from the flames, liberated. His right hand swept sideways and backward, motion fluid, graceful, and free like a plastic bag shepherded by the wind. When he thrust his opened palm forward, a great howl of frigid, arctic air roared toward the boy, soon inundating him in the unrelenting tempest.
Its force was powerful enough to keep him off-balanced and almost strip the cultural tunic off his back. His hair raved as his mouth expanded and his lips uncontrollably flapped, his arms making like a wacky inflatable man. His attempts to resist it were futile. The current was too strong and the below-zero cold numbed what little strength he had as a five-year-old Elf. The only thing sparing his eyes were his big, coke bottle glasses.
Sorrinn kept up the Billow’s Breath for a minute, then released its channeling.
The wind-disheveled boy was too busy shivering beyond his control to cast anymore spells. His glasses had frosted over and his shuddering exhales smoked out of his nostrils parallel to the chattering of his teeth. “O— Okay… S-So I w-was wrrrong… This isn’t… Th-This isn’t o-over…” He waddled away like a penguin, shivering in defeat. “This isn’t— O-Over…” he muttered to himself aloud.
Maeve rubbed her son’s back. “That’s my boy.”
Sorrinn thought it a pity he didn’t get the boy’s name. He seemed like someone he could gush about magic with without coming off as an overzealous, unhinged lunatic. Perhaps the boy was a little passionate about magic himself and would understand his zealotry. He shrugged. Weird kid, nonetheless. Not that he could preach to any choirs about the weirdness of other kids. Atop that hill, he sat upon the throne as king.
Detours over, the pair continued on their way to Lua’s, hand in hand.