The next morning, Sorrinn awoke to the perfervid shouts of the boy coming through his window.

“Face me!” the boy shouted. “I challenge you to a duel, Sorrinn Songscribe. Or— Or will you continue hiding like a coward!?”

Sorrinn rubbed his eyes awake, dragging his feet to his bedroom’s window. He crawled up onto the stool, opening the window flaps, and peered out. There the nameless boy was, making a fuss beyond the front gate in his warmest winter clothes. He’d come prepared that time, he saw. Sorrinn hadn’t thought the boy had left much of an impression. After the whole duel deal, he stepped back into the Dark Domain, spent the day casting Billow’s Breath another six dozen times, increased his Arcana to sixty-one, and hadn’t thought much about his encounter with him. Yet, there he was, grinning and excitedly bouncing on his tiptoes first thing in the morning. He scrambled about getting on his shirt, shorts, and little moccasins before rushing outside to confront his challenger. “I accept!” he boldly declared with a point, sparing none of the theatrics of tone.

“I won’t lose to your tricks this time.” The boy retreated further up the path into position. He carried a pale stone in hand. “When the rock hits the ground, we go.”

“Roger-roger,” he saluted. Sorrinn hopped into position too. Excitedly he pranced in place. The grin plastered on his face was too strong to quell. “By the way, how many spells have you learned?”

“…Three.”

Sorrinn’s excitement further broadened his eyes, two notches short of frothing from the mouth. His hands squeezed into enthusiastic fists before his chest while his arms flapped beside him. “Are they all Alteration spells!?”

The boy’s face puzzled over. “Alter-ation? What’s that?”

All of Sorrinn’s energy died on the spot, left static and drooping. That was why things like school were so important for the blossoming mind. The boy was casting magic but didn’t know any of the theory behind it so he couldn’t refine, discuss, or impart the knowledge he did possess. Knowing the theory behind all of it was largely what had allowed Sorrinn to progress so far in the almost two years he’d been at it. Being able to parse it all into its components, analyze it, and comprehending why the machine clicked and clacked was vital. That meant the boy would never pose a genuine challenge for him until he was educated in mystic theory. But Sorrinn saw the potential. He had a feeling the boy was like him—hungry, perhaps a little unhinged with most of his screws loose before the mystic arts. The greatest motivator was unfettered desire. He would demonstrate just how vast the cavern between himself and the boy was, and when he came running to Sorrinn for the secrets of greatness, he would welcome him into his coven with open arms.

Sorrinn was already madly giggling by himself, cheeks flushed as he thought about it all. He snapped out of it and prepared himself. “—Forget it. I’m ready whenever.”

That said, the boy chucked the rock into the air as high as he could get it.

The instant it thudded against the ground, Sorrinn blasted him with a blustering Billow’s Breath cranked to one-fifty fahrenheit.

The boy was thrust into familiar circumstances, pressed against an unrelenting wall of wind he was too small to resist. Except that time, the wind was scorching like the desert’s heat. In all of that thick winter clothing, he was left overheated on his knees, sweating and gasping for breath in just a short half-minute. “I give up, I give up…” he gasped. “I can’t take anymore… I’m going to die… Too hot… Water…”

Sorrinn was certain to cast a gentle, cool breeze afterward to cool the boy back down. The bakery-like aroma wafted from him in full force. He knew Humans had a little glucose in their sweat, but Elves must’ve had something like high concentrations of sucrose in their sweat to produce such a pungently sweet, subtly fruity, nectar-y smell.

He also created a small faucet of fresh water with Create Water, which the boy gladly guzzled his fill from. He wasn’t sure when he’d learned it, but his guess was it was something from when Izebeus occupied his body to do that mystic equilibrium thing. There was also Create Flame, Create Stone, Create Wind, Create Heat, and Create Frost. Those spells weren’t even first-tier spells. They were something beneath that didn’t consume wealth at all to actualize—at least, not any amount that was noticeable. But they were also exceedingly weak to compensate, unable to be enhanced through amplifiers or instilled conditions. The sad spout of running water it produced then was all it’d ever be able to. He didn’t think he’d ever have any genuine use for them beyond minor quotidian tasks.

What intrigued him most were Create Heat and Create Frost. He’d technically been using both of those for a long while without thinking about it. The creation of heat and frost were the basis of the energy factor.

The cool air and water was a breath of relief for the boy. He pulled off his hat and mittens and scarf to really let the air hit him. Once he was all cool and hydrated, he directed Sorrinn a mean glare before scurrying away like a rodent exposed from its hide, shouting as he ran, “This isn’t over!!”

Sorrinn folded his arms, brows arched above his perplexity, and sighed. “He could’ve at least told me his name…” Bouncing his shoulders, he returned inside for breakfast.

***

The boy returned to challenge Sorrinn to another duel the next day while the family was having breakfast. His shrill declarations pierced through the general room’s window, drawing everyone’s attention. “Face me, Sorrinn Songscirbe! I challenge you to a duel!”

Orrillimmirr donned a confusedly concerned face. “Eh… I’m apprehensive to inquire for further details.”

“That’s a first,” Asammirr joked with a laugh.

Maeve aimed a pair of silently scolding eyes her first born’s way. She didn’t have to utter a single word to make him shrivel.

“Sorry…”

She sighed, brushing it off. “It’s only some boy from the village determined to best Sorrinn in a magic duel.”

His brows arched in intrigue. “How many times has he thrown forth a verbal provocation?”

“Two times, Paba.” Sorrinn held up two fingers whilst he messily, somewhat clumsily stuffed his face with his other hand.

His mother directed him a funny look from the corner of her eye before helping him wipe up his face with a cloth.

“How many times has he hobbled away in shame, encumbered beneath the weight of his defeat?”

Once again, two fingers. “Two times, Paba!”

Orrillimmirr laughed a graceful sound. “Well done, little one. I harbored no doubts. The first triumph over many future rivals, I’m absolute. The strong of the world are magnetized to one another.” In his pride’s stead, he soon donned a blissfully reminiscing smile. “Ah, I still remember my first duel of the mystic arts. I was coming on ten years of life, hatched from the cocoon not hardly a decade before, and my fellow, Aallimmaar, challenged me before the brood to prove himself my superior of mystic cohesion. You see, your father was rather beloved by The Mystic Force himself in days of yore; so much so, the high elders believed I may have been an incarnation of a Luminary. Of course, that turned out to be false. I was merely a gifted outlier even amongst outliers.”

Cocoon? Brood? Hatched? Those were odd choices for words. What was going on with Elven conceptions?

“Did you win, Paba?”

“In fact, I did, little one. While he opted to conjure the might of his greatest Creation spell, birthing a volatile storm of energy to be his offense and defense, I merely summoned a quickly-conjured prism-fanged veneken in his blindspot to nip his ankle. Its ethereal toxin left him paralyzed and incapable of rousing his wealth for a full hour.” Orrillimmirr had a bite of food, saying, “Hm, rather anticlimactic in the end, I suppose,” before pointing his fork Sorrinn’s direction. “It’s important to remember, in some cases, the most destructive spell isn’t always the most effective spell, Sorrinn. Perhaps Aallimmaar would have trounced me once or twice in a century if he’d made that revelation sooner.”

Sorrinn could say cheers to that. There was something else he was curious about, though: “What’s a veneken?” Sounded mythical.

“Ah, pardon my failure to illuminate. Veneken are a multi-winged-serpent indigenous to the Inverted Forest of Iishyae, an isolated region of the Great Forest of Oberon. They’re the children of the Great Serpent of the Four Winds herself, Iishyae. The greatest of them can grow to be as large as an ancient tree and they’re covered in quite the mesmerizing array of feather-mimicking scales.

“Prism-fangs are the silent guardians of the forest. Compared to their others, they’re quite small—no more than perhaps a hand’s length from wrist to longest finger—albeit many times more lithe and swift in flight than their great counterparts. Their venom is a fascinating mystic phenomena which targets the victim’s incorporeal self directly, both incapacitating the body, cognitive function, and the ability to manipulate internal mystic energy in mere seconds after injection.”

Sorrinn bounced in his seat and awed. “I wanna see!”

His father couldn’t help but chuckle at his ignorant enthusiasm. “I shall pray you never do, little one. Iishyae isn’t fond of interlopers irregardless of how pure-intentioned the visit is. If you’re paralyzed by a prism-fang’s ethereal toxin whilst encroaching in her domain, I’m afraid you’ll end up becoming fodder for the hatchlings.”

Sorrinn shivered and pouted. Orrillimmirr said frightening things sometimes. The most astounding things were always murderous or cursed, for some reason.

He stuffed the few scraps remaining into his mouth, hopping from his chair, heading for the door. “Kay, I’ll be back.”

He met the unnamed boy in the usual spot. The boy had done away with the winter clothes that time, dressed light in a shirt, shorts, and sandals accented with all manner of cultural flourishes. Good for him, realizing that so quickly. Those gimmicks really weren’t going to carry him far. Sorrinn loosely folded his arms whilst he scrutinized the boy’s aesthetic facial features. “Can I ask you a question?”

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The boy had the start signal rock in hand. With the way he was glaring at him, Sorrinn couldn’t help fretting it was going to be chucked at his head instead of into the air. “What.”

“Do you have a spell that can beat my wind spell?”

“No,” the boy harrumphed.

Sorrinn scratched his head, gaze meandering in bemusement. “Uhhm, why are you back here then? Ifff you can’t win, y’know?”—a shake of his head—“Doesn’t make any sense.”

His time would’ve surely been better spent training. Even if he didn’t know the theory, anyone who cast a spell enough would be able to discern the more they cast said spell, the shorter the casting process became. The decimals mattered when it came to life and death, victory and defeat. That was why he never stopped training the rudimentary four despite already having them a second under. One day, those decimals he was shaving off would save his or someone else’s life. That, and he was curious what happened when there were no decimals left to optimize out.

The boy huffed, exclaiming with crossed arms, “Because I need to win!”

The question mark above Sorrinn’s head was palpable as his stupefaction scrunched his features and narrowed his eyes into slits. Something about that math wasn’t quite adding. Reason was already long discarded out of the window with him, it seemed. There was no point trying to discuss it. He readied himself, saying, “Kay, let’s go—” only to jolt out of his preparedness. He shook his palms out in front of him in a panic. “Wait! What’s your name! You never told me.”

“Nuurr.”

Sorrinn cracked an amused half-smile and snorted to himself. It was pronounced how Australians said ‘No.’ He wasn’t expecting that. Cool name, though. “Nuurr, nuurr, nuurr, nuurr, nuurr.” The urge to repeat it aloud had struck him out of the blue. It was a fun sound on the tongue.

He readied himself for real that time. “Kay, I’m ready.”

He was overjoyed to kind-of-sort-of have a friend, but Nuurr looked so miserable being there, like he was perpetually verged on tears. The whole situation was so strange. Sorrinn felt guilty despite the fact Nuurr was willingly challenging him. If he said no and turned away, he would’ve definitely caught that rock with the back of his head.

Nuurr once again chucked the rock high. Before long, it thudded against the ground. The Mystic Force descended. A compact cluster of wind weaved through the crevices of Sorrinn’s fingers and vortexed around his wrist. He thrust his hand forward, an invisible burst of wind cast forth to his motion. Before Nuurr could even finish gesturing, a howling force, kindred to a grown man slugging him in the gut, struck hard and fast. The boy dropped, hunched over on his knees, heaving up his saliva from a gaped mouth.

Had he overdone it? He tried his darndest to hold back. He hadn’t even applied any amplifications or conditions to the spell besides focusing its spread to increase its range. That was just Wind Burst in its near-base form. Sorrinn thought he heard sniveling tears. Worried, he ran over to check on him. But the moment he dipped down and placed his hand on the boy’s back, Nuurr shoved him hard, making him spill onto his rump.

Nuurr lunged up and ran away as fast as he could.

Sorrinn watched him flee with question-furrowed brows. He returned inside some time later, still stuck somewhere between baffled and guilty. Was Nuurr some sort of masochist? Could five-year-olds be masochists? He crawled back into his chair, his complex soup of emotions broadcasted on his face plain as day. “Mama, Paba, do you know where a kid named Nuurr lives?”

“No, why?” Maeve answered. “What’s going on, lovely?”

“Is everything in good sorts, little one?”

Sorrinn shook no. “I think I need to say sorry. He ran away and cried when he lose.”

“When he lost.”

“When he lost.”

Maeve smiled, running her hand through Sorrin’s hair. “That’s very kind of you. We can go into the village and ask around. How’s that sound?”

A nod. “Good.”

“Okay, let’s go now. The quicker we resolve this, the better.” She gestured her son along, heading for the door.

***

Nuurr’s palm slammed against the nearby tree’s side. He hunched over against it, tears falling, sniveling breaths rushing, heart racing, gut throbbing in pain. He couldn’t catch his breath. It felt like he was dying. He couldn’t—

“Did you really believe something would be different today?” a warped, gravelly version of his own voice asked him in his head. It snorted a derisive sound. “Pathetic. You’ll never measure up to him. He’s a blessed child beloved by The Mystic Force. You? You’re an embarrassment. Not even beloved by your own family.” It laughed, every echo penetrating to the deepest depths.

“Sh-Shut up…” he cried. “You’re lying. My papa loves me. He does…!”

“Am I? How is it that I lie when I am you?” the voice maliciously snickered. “You saw the look on your dear papa’s face when you finally showed him the magic you’d been pouring your heart and soul into learning. You were so filled with pride over your accomplishments. Him? Why don’t you remember it for yourself and tell me where I’m lying?”

The boy’s memories flashed back to that day six months ago. With nothing for guidance but the illustrations from some old heirloom scrolls he’d scrounged up in the storeroom, he’d spent the better of the year teaching himself magic. At first, it was merely out of curiosity—the nagging wonder in the back of his mind wanting to know if he could—and a desire to impress his father. He often heard his father lamenting how he had no cohesion with The Mystic Force despite being of Elven blood. Though, somewhere along the way, Nuur became enamored with the process of deciphering the puzzle.

Then that day arrived when he figured it out and was able to cast a spell—the spell he’d been toiling over in secret for months. Just a simple one which caused a single plant to rapidly mature. He nearly fell down the stairs rushing to show his father how he could make a seed sprout, flourish, and bloom in mere moments. But he couldn’t even draw his father’s eyes amidst his effervescence and excitement. All he was afforded was a cold, indifferent, dismissive glance. And in the end, his father had missed the sight of the fruits of his effort before the flower wilted.

It must’ve been the spell, he told himself at the time—it wasn’t grand enough. So he returned to the scroll and figured out how to cast another. It was better—stronger. It drenched the dirt and churned it into a slick pit of mud in an instant. Then another after that—one which overgrew and nourished the grass to become something’s resilient binds.

He’d never forget the way his father brushed him off as he tugged at his robes, trying for his attention.

If three spells weren’t enough to get his attention, then it must’ve been because he hadn’t proven himself strong and capable. It must’ve been because he was weak—just how the voice in his head said. If he went out into the village and found someone to defeat with his magic, his father would look at him then, right? He hoped with all of his being he would.

All of his days were spent wandering the village in search of his destined foe. It’d been months and no luck. The only magic-casters in the village were people who used it to water the crops or ignite their fireplaces. Defeating them wasn’t anything to be proud of. Then he heard it from a group of varied-raced young boys walking ahead of him, talking about magic:

“My friend’s little brother, Sorrin, is like a prodigy or something. He’s only five and he cast this huge fireball. I heard it blew a hole through his house too.”

Nuurr barged into their conversation, rushing up and shouting, “Where!? Where does he live!?”

The Human boy raised an eyebrow. “What’s it t’you? Who even are you? Are you a creep?”

“No. I’m gonna fight him and win.”

“Really?”

Nuurr set free a vigorous nod.

“Your funeral.” The Human boy pointed the way. “He lives down that way. The last house.”

Nuurr ran off in the direction he pointed. It was his moment to show his father he wasn’t weak or worthless. He was strong. All he had to do was defeat Sorrinn and then… and then…

…He couldn’t win. He would never win. Broad, wettened eyes quivering in their sockets where he propped himself against the tree, he never stood a chance. He recognized that then.

“You’re weak. You’ll always be weak—worthless. Your papa knows it. That’s why he can’t bear the sight of you. Such an ugly, reprehensible thing. He’s revolted by the unsightly thing risen into existence from his own seed.

“What do you believe Sorrinn Songscribe does when you leave in defeat? He laughs at how weak and pathetic you are. They’re all laughing. The world is laughing at your existence! Howling with lunacy at the circus that is your life! Don’t you hear their raving cackles!?”

A stadium’s worth of laughter collapsed in on Nuurr’s ears. It felt like his head was going to burst. Images of distorted faces stretched horrifically in amused ecstasy, jaw-unhinged laughing at him, ripped through his mind’s eye. Hand squeezing into a fist, he screamed in pain as his crying intensified. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He thrashed and clawed at his ears. “Get out of my head! You’re not real! You’re not—! Real!”

“Ah, but I am real. I am you. I see the truth that you refuse. I am the truth that you hide from and attempt to bury deep inside.” The wickedly gleeful face of a featureless silhouette loomed over him. “The world laughs behind your back, but I do not. The world believes you worthless, but I do not. The world believes you weak. The world is wrong. I see you for who you really are—the potential you hold that everyone else, even your own papa, denies. All you have is me. All we have is each other, Nuurr…”

His trembling ceased alongside the raucous mass of laughter’s fading. All things drew inward into an abrupt silence. He almost seemed to spiral into a trance. His head lifted, neck stiff, blank face directed forward, abyssal vortexes stirring in his pupils. Pitch-black threads of Absence raveled around him from below.

The shadow’s grin stretched to unnatural lengths. It hunched down closer to him, whispering close into his ear: “Kill them all. How will their laughter persist when their throats have been slashed? Burn them all to ash until nothing remains. When only you stand, there will be no one and nothing to contest your power.”

“I can’t… I’m just a kid… I’m not strong enough…”

Its darkness constricted around him tighter. “You can. You will. All you have to do is accept the truth. All you have to do is accept me, and you will know strength beyond your wildest dreams.”

Nuurr blinked. A mass of undulating darkness hovered before him. The shadows lifted, a monochrome reflection of himself coming to light from within the silhouette.

The reflection reached its hand toward him, impassivity hugging its colorless face. “Accept me… Be reborn in your true image.”

“Will I be stronger than him if I do?” his hollowed voice inquired.

“The child will drown in his blood and anguish as he dies before your strength. All that stands in your way is you.”

A puppet having its strings maneuvered from the rafters, his hand joined with the reflections’. In a creeping wave, his hand and arm were dyed ink black. His fingers had already warped into elongated claws as spiked growths rose from the tainted flesh.

A wave of iridescent light crashed from further up the path like a flood, so bright, his surroundings washed to color-speckled white—so pleasantly warm and comforting, the notion of malice was impossible within its midst. It was home.

Within the light, the reflection’s true form was exposed for what it was: An emaciated shadow entity standing thrice his height, modeling dark shapes into facades. Hollowed, cracked, pitch-black craters were planted where its eyes and mouth should’ve been with only thin slits for a nose, naked, stony skin fractured and sooty. The demon’s gaunt, hunched figure writhed and spasmed out of control in the light. It unleashed a harrowing death shriek as it burned to ashes before his eyes. The dark threads it’d meticulously entangled him in over months were purged with its erasure. His Origin Flame was stoked ardent, expelling the Absence that’d burrowed in deep.