Framing Flax’s port in a manner not too dissimilar to a beetle’s mandibles was a pair of mountains known as the Twins of Ericles. They were so tall that they reached the clouds, their rocky, barren sides sharp as a knife’s edge in some places and worn as smooth as marble by years of rain in others, and it was on these peaks that the Mystics dwelt.

The Mystics were, as their name might imply, heavily involved in magic and sorcery. Their full name was actually the rather mouthy “Coalition of Wizards, Witches, Warlocks, Mages, Oracles, Sorcerers, Alchemists, and Other Magicians”, so you can see why people just referred to them as the Mystics. If you wanted any sort of magic-based insight, be that a grand prophecy or a charm to do your laundry, they were the ones you asked for it.

However, because of their location just above and beside the port, they served a very similar role to the sea-based routes that the Youngbloods served to Flax’s walls. It was due to this that the two groups became fast friends, with the Youngbloods frequently exchanging weapons and defense tips (and occasionally members whenever a Youngblood decided to take up magic or a young Mystic accidentally discovered the Elixir of Youth).

This was why, the day after her visit to Neith, Artemisia found herself wandering around the port with the Mystics’ leader, a former Windwalker by the name of Saga.

Saga was short and a little round, with olive skin and hair stained white from alchemical experiments. Their eyes were a distinctive icy blue, the result of their Windwalker powers still shining through. A pair of massive wings the color of a midwinter storm trailed behind them, the flight feathers beginning to stain from dragging on the ground.

Any Mystic would haughtily insist that their numerous factions were not one and the same, thank you, and it was this stuffiness that made it difficult for them to choose a collective leader, as all of them clamored for one of their own to be chosen. Saga, though, had been chosen because they didn’t easily fit into any of these categories, and everyone had been so stumped by this that they near-unanimously decided that Saga was now their leader, despite them having been fourteen at the time. They’d taken it in stride though, throwing themselves into their subjects’ fields.

Artemisia rather liked Saga. They were nicer than their predecessor and far more reasonable, although that wasn’t hard, given that their predecessor was a grouchy old man who’d been so awful that the Mystics collectively rose up against him and threw him into the bay. The last time they’d booted out their leader in such an undignified manner, it was because he’d started the incident that had led to the Mystics being kicked out of their old base of operations and moving across the sea to Flax.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Saga and Artemisia walked along the docks, watching the various distant travelers and sea-going factions in their natural habitat. Distant merchants unloaded cargoes of gemstones, fibers, wood, and trinkets while loading cargoes of fabric, charms, glass, and clockwork. Twin Nomads with the salt-white hair of seagoing mages untangled their ship’s moors. A Privateer and a Pirate captain were getting into a spat over the legitimacy of their work. A sailor from Rime was serenading a merman while a pesky siren attempted to seduce a completely uninterested harbor woman. Saga waved their hand in the siren’s direction, and Artemisia heard a distant shriek and a splash as the water around the siren began to boil.

“I appreciate the stroll,” Artemisia said, “but I do have to ask: why did you call me here?”

“Do you remember my predecessor?” Saga asked.

Artemisia nodded.

“He’s back.”

Artemisia wished she could say she was surprised, but unfortunately, that man was stubborn as an elephant and grouchy as an everborn dragon.

“What do you need from me?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Saga paused. “Well, no. I’d appreciate having one of your cannoneers on my side, and perhaps the Bandits if you can manage. My Windwalker siblings have pledged their aid once the Dreamspinner thing is over, and the rest of the Mystics are bracing themselves for a fight. He’s old and powerful, but he’s not stronger than his entire former faction.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate him, Saga,” Artemisia cautioned. “He might not be able to beat you physically, but he could still defeat you mentally.”

“I know,” Saga said. “That’s why I’m asking for you to aid me.”

“I can spare a cannoneer crew and a cannon, and Bonnie does owe me a debt-”

“I don’t mean just by that.” Saga spun around to face her. The bristling feathers on their wings indicated that whatever they were going to say was making them just as nervous as that observation made Artemisia. “I mean that I want you to help me - personally.”

“I-” what was there to say? It would be a grand honor, but Artemisia was no great commander. Her job was to tell others where to aim their cannons and settle disputes. She could fight herself, but that came from years of training and experience and was in case she personally was attacked, and most knew better than to attack the leader of the Youngbloods. “I can’t, Saga. I’m sorry.”

Saga’s wings slumped, their gaze falling and drifting out to the sea. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I forgot that you were in charge of your own faction with your own problems. Still, I had hoped you would be able to spare your own hand.”

“I can still send you my best cannoneers and put you in contact with the Bandits if you still want it,” Artemisia said. “Really, though, I am sorry.”

Saga waved it off. “Again, it’s in my hands, not yours. I’m sure we’ll handle it fine.” They stretched their wings and stepped to the edge of the dock, glancing back at Artemisia. “Thank you. Sincerely, thank you. You have done more than enough for me with what you can offer, Artemisia, and for that, I owe you a great debt.”

With that they plunged off the dock and caught an updraft, rising into the sky and towards the mountains. Artemisia watched them leave, the salt-stained wind from their wings twirling through her hair, before heading back towards the wall.