Tio and the Necromancer were the only ones left unscathed as the aftermath of the battle settled around them. The battlefield was a haunting scene of devastation; the once vibrant warriors, both allies and friends, lay scattered and injured, some even lifeless. Tio's heart pounded in his chest as he rushed to Orin, whose body lay barely breathing. He shook his friend, trying desperately to rouse him, but Orin remained unresponsive, locked in what seemed to be a deep coma. Panic gripped Tio, but he forced himself to move on, knowing he couldn’t help Orin alone. He sprinted over to Lysandra, who was struggling to stand, her body battered from the earlier explosion that had rocked the battlefield. Hilel's lifeless form lay close to her, a sad reminder of the sacrifices made. Lysandra, her face streaked with tears, looked up at Tio with a mixture of sorrow and determination. He helped her to her feet, and together, they moved to where Huter lay, still breathing heavily as he slowly recovered from the brutal attack Eileen had inflicted. Orin’s swift intervention had saved him from death, but he was far from healed. With great effort, Lysandra and Tio managed to lift Orin’s limp body and carry him to where Huter lay, the four of them now huddled together in shared pain and deepening worry. Orin had channeled far too much power, and it had left him on the brink of death. The Necromancer, who had been quietly tending to the wounded, approached them, her expression one of grim resignation. She moved among the injured Elves, Raincallers, and Dwarfs, many of whom were too far gone to be saved. The battlefield, once full of life and fierce combat, was now a graveyard for those who had given everything. The Necromancer’s gaze lingered on the bodies of Hvarj and Hilel, two of the most powerful priests she had ever known, now lost to the horrors of the day.

As the weight of the loss settled upon the Necromancer, an overwhelming wave of grief began to spill from her, manifesting in an unconscious release of her magic. Delicate purple threads of dream magic began to weave through the air, drifting toward the most grievously injured among the survivors. This magic, often used to ease the passing of the mortally wounded, was a gentle balm that allowed the dying to slip away without pain. The first to be touched by the threads was a Dwarf whose body was half-charred from one of Eileen’s ferocious attacks. The moment the thread encircled him, the pain vanished from his face, replaced by a peaceful stillness as life left his body, and turned it into butterflies. Silence followed as the Necromancer’s magic continued to work its way through the battlefield, claiming those whose injuries were too severe to survive. One by one, more Elves, Raincallers, and Dwarfs succumbed to the dream magic, and their suffering quietly ended. Tio and Lysandra watched in a mix of awe and horror as the threads moved with seemingly perfect judgment, knowing exactly who could and could not be saved. Hilel and Hvarj’s bodies were among the last, the threads enveloped them and turned them into a bright swarm of beautiful and colorful butterflies. When one of the threads reached out toward Orin, his friends reacted in panic, their fear turning to desperation as they tried to deflect the magic with their own. But the thread was unyielding, wrapping around Orin’s body as if to pull him into the final sleep. However, something extraordinary happened—the thread began to crumble and weaken, eventually disintegrating entirely. The Necromancer was taken aback, clearly puzzled. She had never seen anything like this before. Orin's body was burning with an intense heat, and when Lysandra touched his face, she yelled out in alarm. Huter, still weak but determined, reached out and tried to channel Water magic to cool Orin down. It worked, but only for a moment. Suddenly, Orin’s body began convulsing violently. His friends looked to the Necromancer for answers, but she had none. Acting on instinct, she quickly summoned three dark threads, using them to bind Orin’s body. The convulsions ceased, and the old woman explained that these threads were designed to contain higher magic.

The revelation sent a shock through Orin’s friends. Higher magic was something they had only heard about in myths and legends, tales of a time long gone when Avalon, the Lost World, still existed. Tio, his voice shaky, asked the Necromancer how this was possible, how higher magic could still be present when it had supposedly vanished with the fall of Avalon. The Necromancer, with a solemn expression, revealed a truth that had been hidden for centuries. Higher magic had not been entirely lost—it had been preserved by Merlin and Morgana, the last survivors of the Avalonians. They had been among the last to wield this ancient power, and as direct descendants of Merlin, Orin carried that legacy within him. But Orin had never before needed to tap into higher magic, and his body and magical core were not prepared for it. The sudden influx of such potent energy was tearing him apart from the inside. The Necromancer explained that Orin’s survival now depended on his ability to find a new balance within himself, a new way to channel and control the higher magic. If he failed, it would consume him entirely, burning him out like a dying star. The weight of these words was almost too much to bear. Tio, unable to contain his grief, began to cry, his tears falling onto Orin’s still face. He couldn’t imagine life without his best friend, and the thought of losing him to this ancient power was unbearable. Huter and Lysandra, though deeply shaken, exchanged determined looks. They knew they had to find a way to bring Orin back, to help him regain control of the magic that threatened to destroy him. The Necromancer’s revelation had opened up a new path, but it was fraught with peril, and they would need all their strength and courage to walk it.

With the battle behind them and their minds set on saving Orin, the three friends, along with the Necromancer, turned their attention to the surviving Raincallers, Elves, and Dwarfs. The battlefield was a scene of sorrow and pain, and the survivors were in desperate need of care. Together, they worked tirelessly to tend to the wounded, using what healing magic they could to stabilize those who could be saved. Slowly, they helped the remaining warriors back to their feet, guiding them to the portals that would take them home. The Raincallers were the last to leave, their spirits dampened by the loss of their leader, Hvarj, but grateful to be alive. When the final Raincaller disappeared through the portal, the Necromancer opened one last gateway, leading back to Orin’s home. Gently, they carried Orin’s unconscious body through the portal and into the familiar surroundings of his house. As they entered, they found Cassy sitting in the kitchen, sipping a glass of wine. Her casual demeanor vanished the moment she saw Orin’s limp form, her glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the floor. She rushed over, her eyes wide with alarm as she noticed the dark threads wrapped around him. “Those threads,” she gasped, “they’re made of powerful dark magic, meant to contain something far more dangerous.” The three friends quickly explained what had happened, that the Necromancer had used the threads to keep Orin alive and to contain the higher magic threatening to tear him apart. As the weight of their words settled in the room, a sudden snapping sound echoed through the air—one of the threads had broken. Both Cassy and the Necromancer shouted in unison, their voices tinged with fear. “That’s impossible!” they exclaimed, terror flashing in their eyes. The realization that Orin was a living bomb, one that could explode and destroy everything around him, sent a wave of panic through the room. The air grew thin, and a heavy silence fell over them. Huter, breaking through the fear, looked at Tio and asked if he could mind-walk into Orin’s mind with the Necromancer’s help. It was a risky plan, but it was their best shot. Lysandra and Huter would use their magic to contain Orin within a protective shield, while Tio would venture into his friend’s mind, hoping to reach him before it was too late. The fate of Orin, and perhaps the world, hung in the balance.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Tio, determined to save his friend, looked to the Necromancer for guidance. She met his gaze with a solemn expression, her deep-set eyes betraying the gravity of the situation. As soon as Tio touched Orin’s still body, he felt himself being pulled into an endless vortex, a chaotic swirl of energy and darkness. The sensation was overwhelming, disorienting him completely. Tio tried to steady himself, shouting Orin's name into the swirling madness, but his voice was lost in the tumultuous current. Panic gripped him as he struggled to find his friend, but there was no sign of Orin, only the relentless, dizzying vortex. Realizing that brute force wouldn’t work, Tio refocused, trying to sense Orin’s presence within the chaos. The vortex resisted, and with a sudden jolt, Tio was thrust back into reality. He gasped for breath, his heart racing as he saw his friends surrounding Orin, casting a powerful shield to contain the wild magic coursing through him. Tio turned to the Necromancer, desperate for another way. She explained that Orin was lost within himself, his mind fractured and his soul unstable. To find him, Tio would need to follow the path of chaos, to trace the very energy that threatened to tear Orin apart. With renewed determination, Tio looked to Huter, who offered him a reassuring smile and whispered, "You can do it." Drawing strength from his friends, Tio reached out to Orin once more, determined to pull him back from the brink.

This time, the vortex was even more violent, its pull stronger, as if it sensed Tio’s intent and sought to keep him at bay. Refusing to be deterred, Tio made a bold decision—he dove straight into the core of the vortex, allowing it to swallow him whole. He felt himself falling, the sensation akin to plummeting through an endless void, until he abruptly hit the ground with a force that left him breathless. The world around him was shrouded in a thick, impenetrable fog, and he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. Tio began to call out for Orin, but the only response was a deafening silence that seemed to press in on him from all sides. As he stumbled through the fog, he suddenly tripped over something solid—a sofa. Confused, he looked around, and as he did, the landscape shifted, the fog dissipating to reveal a familiar setting. He was in one of Orin’s childhood memories, a small, cozy living room where a younger Orin was playing with a young Tio, both of them laughing as they chased each other around the room, playing guards and thieves. Edua, Orin’s mother, watched them with a smile full of warmth and hope. The memory was so vivid, so full of life, that Tio almost forgot his mission. But as quickly as it appeared, the memory faded, replaced by another—Orin as a young man, studying biology at the university, with Tio at his side. They were in the library, surrounded by books, both of them eager scholars with bright futures ahead. Yet, even in this happy memory, Tio noticed something he had missed before—Orin’s expression during a critical moment, when Tio had revealed the truth about his powers and his heritage at Edua's hospital bedside. The disappointment in Orin's eyes was palpable, a deep, unspoken hurt that had lingered in his heart. Tio realized then that he had never truly understood the depth of Orin's feelings, the sense of betrayal that had quietly festered.

As the memory began to dissolve, Orin reached out, placing a hand on Tio’s shoulder. The touch was grounding, pulling Tio out of his reverie. Tears welled up in Tio’s eyes as he turned to face Orin, his heart heavy with the weight of their shared past. Without a word, the two embraced, the hug a silent apology, an unspoken acknowledgment of the pain that had long remained between them. The tension that had once marred their friendship seemed to dissolve at that moment, as if the act of embracing had finally healed old wounds. Tio, struggling to find the right words, opened his mouth to apologize, but Orin gently pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "That was the past," Orin said softly, his voice steady. "It’s gone now. We need to start from the present." Tio nodded, feeling a deep sense of relief, though it was quickly overshadowed by the urgency of the situation. Orin's face grew serious as he asked, "Why are you here, Tio? This... this isn't a dream, is it?" The realization dawned on Orin that Tio wasn’t just a figment of his subconscious. Tio explained that Orin was, in fact, asleep, barely clinging to life after the immense strain of the battle. The shock of the revelation hit Orin hard. He had thought this was merely a dream, a place where he could rest, but the reality was far more dire. He could feel the weight of the truth pressing down on him, and as the realization set in, his nose began to bleed. Tio rushed to his side, but Orin’s concern was growing by the second. Tio explained that the power Orin had absorbed during the battle had overwhelmed him, pushing him beyond his limits and triggering higher magic—a force so ancient and potent that only a few Avalonians could wield it safely. As a descendant of Merlin, Orin carried the potential within him, but his body and magical core were unprepared for such a burden. Tio emphasized that Orin needed to connect with his Avalonian heritage, to tap into that part of himself, or the higher magic would consume him completely.

Orin staggered back, the weight of Tio's words crashing down on him like a tidal wave. The revelation was staggering—part Avalonian, higher magic, standing on the precipice of death. His mind began to whirl with the enormity of it all, and he could feel the vortex of chaos stirring once more, threatening to pull him under. Sensing Orin’s growing instability, Tio quickly reached out, grabbing hold of him before he could be lost in the swirling madness of his subconscious. Orin collapsed onto the ground, trying desperately to make sense of everything. His thoughts were a jumble of confusion, fear, and disbelief. He turned to Tio, his voice trembling as he asked, "What do I need to do?" Tio knelt beside him, his expression one of earnest determination. He told Orin that he needed to find a new balance within himself, to reconcile these newfound truths with his sense of self. Orin needed to make peace with his identity as a descendant of Merlin, to accept the power of higher magic, and forge a new connection with his magical core. Only by doing this could he hope to control the immense energy within him and survive. Orin, overwhelmed but resolute, embraced his friend one last time. He kissed Tio's forehead, a gesture of deep gratitude and affection. "I'll be back," Orin whispered, his voice firm despite the uncertainty that lay ahead. "Wait for me." With those words, Tio felt himself being pulled back to the real world, the dreamscape fading as he returned to consciousness. The journey was far from over, but Tio had faith in his friend. Orin was strong, and now that he understood what was at stake, Tio believed that he would find the strength to overcome the challenges ahead. Back in the real world, Tio opened his eyes, the room spinning slightly as he adjusted to being back in his own body. He could see his friends gathered around Orin, their expressions filled with hope and fear. Orin was fighting, and as long as he fought, there was a chance they could bring him back.