“I’ve heard everyone arrived—a full set of new adepts. Any idea who might fill the two vacant spots in our squad?” Ria’s voice echoed through the expansive hall, a playful twinkle in her eyes.

Ari scanned the crowd, but she had no answers to offer Ria. The vastness of the chamber dwarfed the nearly hundred recruits gathered within. The newcomers, unsure and isolated, cast furtive glances around the room, while those who had been here for days, having already formed small clusters of companions, huddled together. They resembled solitary islands adrift in a vast sea of gleaming marble floor.

Ari, alongside Ria and Kiran, formed one such island. She glanced at the podium, waiting for the speaker, who would soon announce the commencement of the academic year. The two months since her acceptance into the academy had flown by, a dreamlike period of exploration and wonder, devoid of obligations. The upperclassmen had warned her that the first three years would be the most challenging, laden with a diverse array of classes ranging from literacy and mathematics to strenuous physical training. And these were merely additions to the main coursework. Despite the daunting work ahead, Ari felt ready. Ready to do whatever it takes to unlock her Power.

A shift in Kiran’s stance drew her attention. He was standing quietly behind her, as he always did, choosing to observe rather than participate in their conversations. She had grown accustomed to his silent presence. Like a shadow, he was always there, accompanying them on each of Ria’s audacious escapades, yet always maintaining an emotional distance, refraining from casual chatter.

Despite his quiet demeanor, Ari had come to recognize Kiran’s sharp perceptiveness. He had an uncanny knack for picking up on things that she and Ria often missed. His silent warnings had saved them from getting caught more times than she could count. As their list of violations grew, Ari has been steadily increasing her reliance on Kiran’s foresight to avoid detection. She blamed Ria for this newfound paranoia. Ria’s assurance that they would not be expelled no matter what they did because of the Academy’s shortage of adepts worked only for so long.

Barely a moment had passed since Kiran’s subtle shift when a figure strode onto the stage. The woman was not overly tall, her stature more stout than imposing. But as she approached the podium, her demeanor projected an air of authority that commanded immediate respect.

“Good morning, adepts,” she said, her voice resonating throughout the grand chamber, a clear, potent sound that exceeded Ari’s expectations. “Welcome to Tramiria’s Grand Academy. I am Deputy Director Adele Silverlight, and I have the honor of delivering today’s introduction.”

She paused, letting her words settle in, her piercing gaze sweeping over the room. The last whispers of conversations died away, succumbing to an encompassing hush that wrapped the hall like a blanket.

Then Deputy Director Silverlight continued, her stern gaze never faltering. “I won’t mince words. You are aware of our situation. Each year, we witness a dwindling number of new adepts. This year, we’ve hit another shameful milestone—for the first time we’ve failed to even gather a full hundred candidates.

“Because of this, some of you may believe we’re desperate, that we’ll lower our standards and allow the slackers to pass. Let me assure you that this could not be further from the truth. The scarcer the quantity, the more our focus intensifies on quality, the more we demand from you, and the more we expect from you.

“You have one month. That’s all the time you have before the branding ceremony and real inauguration of the academic year for the new adepts. Show us your diligence, your determination, your passion. But most importantly, your talent. Those who are found lacking will have to depart.”

The chamber was deathly still. No one dared move. The air itself seemed to hold its breath as Deputy Director Silverlight’s gaze weighed on them.

“Take this to heart,” she continued. “I will not present a single unworthy whelp to the emperor. If you dream of someday bearing the title of a Great Mage, this is your only opportunity. Your presence here implies you posses sufficient Tau, but raw power is not enough. Time is ticking away; bring your best forward and perhaps we shall see each other again.

“You are free for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow, you will commence your journey at dawn with a class that covers the basics; your duties, your schedule, and your life within the Academy in general.

“Now, you are dismissed.” With these words, the deputy director descended from the podium and exited the hall, not once glancing back at the room full of wide-eyed adepts.

Ari felt the shared, palpable tension among her peers to gradually ease as the stern figure disappeared from view. As the oppressive presence of the Academy official dissipated, a murmur slowly rose among the students like a tide gradually reclaiming a deserted beach.

“That’s it?” Ari found herself uttering, her eyes scanning the hall, noting the varied reactions of the others. “That was rather brief.”

“Seems so,” Ria responded, a casual shrug accompanying her words. “As she said, the real inauguration will be in a month.”

“You were saying all the time that we’re too valuable for them to just let us go,” Ari said, frowning. “But this speech sounded like they are more eager to get rid of us than keep us around.”

“They’re only trying to scare us,” Ria dismissed with a wave of her hand. “If they have such a shortage of their precious adepts, do you really think they’ll drop anyone? I bet they won’t.” Ria grabbed Ari’s hand and tugged her towards the exit. “Come on, let’s take a detour, so our missing squad-mates have time to settle without us gawking at them.”

Ari found it odd that Ria, who usually cared little about others, was being so considerate. But something else nagged at her.

“Hold on. You ‘bet’? What do you mean by ‘you bet’?”

It was not long before Ari had to retract her previous impression about Ria’s unusual consideration. Ria would always put her own needs first and foremost. If she claimed otherwise, she had a hidden agenda. This time, it was the route she had chosen that betrayed her true intentions.

They wound through the endless corridors of the main facility, the place where most of the classes were held. It was also the building housing the most entrances to the Academy’s undergrounds, each of which they painstakingly visited.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ari declared, her voice echoing down the empty corridors.

“What am I doing?” Ria replied, feigning innocence, her attention fixed on a nearby stairway leading downwards.

They skirted around several more entrances in silence until Ari had enough. She grabbed Ria’s arm and pulled her to a halt. “Stop,” she ordered.

Ria spun around, her mouth already opening to protest, but Ari had been prepared for this. She cut her off before she could start. “No, quiet,” she said.

The look of shock that crossed Ria’s face was priceless—half surprise, half disbelief.

“I won’t hear a word,” Ari continued. “We agreed on something, didn’t we? If there were no signs of your elusive evildoers by the time the academic year started, you’d drop it. Well, today’s the day, and you made a promise, remember?”

“But—“

“No buts,” Ari interrupted. “I’m certain you only wanted to admire all those lovely walls we’ve toured for the past hour and it had nothing to do with inspecting the undergrounds. Just a mere coincident that we happened to visit all the entrances along they way. Because you wouldn’t break your promise, would you?” Ari’s gaze bore into Ria, who licked her lips nervously.

“I wouldn’t.” Ria paused, her voice softening as she avoided Ari’s gaze. “I just wanted to give our new squad-mates time to settle in.”

“Perfect, then I believe enough time has passed and we can return to meet them. Do you agree?”

“Yes…” Ria agreed, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

With a dejected Ria trailing behind, they left the main building, heading back toward their dormitory. Upon exiting, a verdant park full of lush greenery opened before them, and Ari took the lead, meandering through the labyrinth of manicured hedges. She tilted her head upwards, allowing the warm rays of the sun to bathe her cheeks. Her heart raced as if she had just completed a marathon, the euphoria making her chest thrum with excitement.

(I did it, I said her ‘no’.) The urge to skip was strong, but Ari reined herself in, maintaining a composed face. The last thing she need was for Ria to witness her victory dance.

This was the first time she had resolved to advocate for herself rather than going with the flow, and it had worked! The realization brought a wide grin to her face, completely derailing her attempts to maintain a neutral expression. But after all, this was Ria’s fault; she had made that promise, providing the very stepping stone for Ari’s victory today.

She cast a sideway glance at Kiran, who followed silently as ever. His habitual quietness seemed to envelop the trio, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

Upon entering their suite, Ria regained her natural attitude and sped ahead of them. Finding the living room empty, Ari and Kiran moved into the adjoining bedroom, following a few steps behind Ria.

“What a letdown,” Ria said, coming to a stop next to the wardrobe while looking at the previously vacant bunks.

Ari caught up to Ria half expecting the beds to be still empty. Instead, two boys sat on their respective bunks, staring back at them.

“I was hoping for more girls,” Ria let out an exaggerated sigh, her voice laced with profound disappointment. Ari’s mouth opened and remained agape as she darted her eyes between Ria and the new boys. She was at a loss on how to react to Ria’s comment.

“Ahem, nice to meet you,” she said after a moment, forcing herself to break the awkward silence. “I’m Ari, this is Ria,” she pointed at each of them in turn, “and this is Kiran.”

A few heartbeats passed as the five of them studied each other. Eventually, the boy from the lower bunk cleared his throat. “Erm, I’m Alec,” he introduced himself, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks.

Taking in the sight of Alec, Ari could not help but notice his extra padding. (He must be wealthy,) she thought, her gaze roving over his plump form. He was not obese by any means, certainly not like those corpulent merchant lords she had seen in the docks back home, but he carried more weight than most. This unfamiliarity made her eyes to wander back to him even when she tried not to stare too obviously.

“I’m from Tribold, and my alignment is fire. Nice to meet you all,” Alec continued, his face reddening under their collective scrutiny. Ari could tell he was relieved when their attention shifted to the boy perched on the bunk above him.

"I am Ela—" their second new squad-mate began, but Ria abruptly cut him off.

“Candalore!” she hissed.

The boy on the top bunk, emanating an air of superiority, shot them a frosty glare. His jawline hardened and his nostrils flared in obvious disgust as his eyes met Ria’s.

“Yes, Candalore. Elathiel Candalore. And some lowly imperial noble won’t be addressing me in that tone. You can play ‘house’ amongst yourselves if you wish, but don’t bother me. I’m not your friend. I’ll get what I need on my own; who’d need the help of some imperial dogs?”

Ari noticed Kiran’s subtle shift at Elathiel’s decisive remark, grateful that he remained otherwise still. Ria, however, was quick to retaliate.

“You have the gall to speak like that, traitor. We should put you to death for the treason of your family. For all the safety the Empire had provided, that’s how you paid us back? Rot in hell for all I care.”

A proverbial lightstone illuminated in Ari’s mind. She recalled stories told at her uncle’s tavern by other Bandawi, about a distant island that revolted against the Empire a few years ago. It had been grist to the mill for her people, but the Empire’s swift and ruthless response had quickly doused any embers of rebellion.

She was not aware of the specifics, but even though she despised the attitude Bandawi had, she could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for Elathiel despite his hard demeanor. After all, they shared common roots: their opposition to the Empire.

“… are you sure they didn’t make a mistake during your admission process? You were supposed to get a collar and be walked into the underground prison. Go now, they can still fix—“

“Stop that,” Ari interrupted. She must have spaced out earlier while the Ria’s verbal assault continued. The harm was already done. She had no idea how it came to such blows, and whether she had had any chance to prevent them, but now the least she could do was damage control.

“What?” Ria asked, her tone incredulous, as if she heard the most unreasonable request.

“Just stop. I don’t know what’s going on here, but we’re squadmates now.”

“You’re joking. That Nadoo trash can’t be part of our squad. It must be a mistake. At first, I thought maybe he had reflected on his crimes and wants to apologize and beg for a chance to redeem his sins, but you’ve heard his attitude. He called us dogs, and you side with him?”

“I’m not siding with anyone. Could you just stop? Like it or not, we are supposed to be a squad now.”

Ria fell silent at that, though her animosity was palpable. Elathiel continued to glower at them from his bunk but said nothing more.

Ari let out a heavy sigh as the silence extended toward the rest of the day. She watched her squad-mates come and go, each ignoring the other. Her attempts to engage Ria in conversation were met with deliberate ignorance as well.

Fed up with the tense atmosphere, Ari retreated to her bed, and propped her pillow against the wall, settling with her legs crossed and head rested. Her gaze fell on the opposite bunks. The lower one occupied by Alec was empty, and on the upper one, Elathiel was sitting in a meditative pose. His strikingly white hair, long enough to graze his shoulder, was his most distinctive feature. She was used to standing out in the crowd as the Bandawi population was a small minority even in the Docks, but compared to the stark whiteness of Elathiel’s hair, her silver locks seemed plain, dull even.

Shaking away her thoughts of others, she closed her eyes. She needed to clear her mind—the classes and lectures were starting tomorrow. Regardless of the tension among her squadmates, she was here for her own growth and nothing was going to impede that.

After two months of diligent practice, diving into the fog world had become second nature to Ari. The misty environment, with its milky streaks of vapor, felt familiar now as she twirled around, reveling in the freedom it offered. In the past, she used to be able to visit this place only in her dreams.

(And look at me now, I own the place,) she mused, smiling, while she attuned herself to the faint resonances that marked the presence of various items scattered across the realm. The closest one was a spear she had discovered three weeks prior. She had tinkered with it just the previous day, yet it had drifted a considerable distance from where she had left it.

(Which connector was it again?) Ari pondered, mentally touching the slender threads emerging from her spine. Although she could easily detect the spear’s aura, she still struggled to link it to the correct connector.

(It should be this one, maybe?) She sent a ‘pull’ command along the thread and watched with a sense of accomplishment as the spear drew closer.

In her time at the Academy, she had met Master Toaro only once. He had strictly forbidden her from summoning anything to the real world without his explicit consent. Meanwhile, he instructed her to gather as many items as possible, teaching her about ‘binding’ to help her achieve that goal. The instructions provided by Master Toaro were hazy, a collection of half-remembered accounts from others who possessed a similar gift as Ari. Despite the lack of clear direction, she had achieved considerable success and claimed every object within her immediate vicinity.

(Alright, that’s enough of a warm-up. Items, assemble!)

Once the spear flew into her waiting hand, she sent pull signals down the random threads, tugging at a multitude of auras simultaneously. As she awaited the arrival of the other objects, she traced her fingers along the nearly translucent string connecting the spear to her spine. The thread was only visible and tangible when she channeled her Power through it. Even then, it was ethereal, melding seamlessly with the surrounding fog.

From her first successful binding back then, Ari had discovered there was already a single thread firmly attached to her. This original link, more robust and unyielding, did not respond to her ‘pull’ commands. Having no other options, she had traced this anomalous thread, which in turn led her straight to her old friend, Wolfie. Despite no recollection of ever binding the armor, it was inexorably tethered to her via this aberrant thread.

Much experimentation had followed that discovery. While every other object she bound complied readily to her will, Wolfie remained stubbornly unresponsive, refusing to yield like a giant boulder standing in her way.

Alongside the armor, another anomaly emerged—the bodies forming a sphere around her source resisted binding entirely. This did not surprise Ari as much; these mangled corpses lacked auras, distinguishing themselves from the other objects floating in the fog world.

Heeding her call, the items she had pulled earlier congregated around her, orbiting in their distinct paths. A majority of them were weapons of various kinds: spears, daggers, staffs, swords, and hefty hammers. Interspersed among these were more commonplace items, like a plate, or a fork, or even a solitary horseshoe.

She coaxed them into a formation, and the objects complied, assuming their new positions. Their threads never tangled; she had already tried to forcefully twist two strings together, but they showed no interaction between each other.

With the items in formation, Ari embarked on her daily regimen of control exercises. Every day, she added more objects to her ensemble, and as long as she regarded them as a unified group, they obeyed her mental directives, flitting between the points she assigned. However, her dominion instantly faltered the moment she attempted to manipulate any individual item.

(That’s probably because I still can’t clearly identify which thread corresponds to which object.) She sighed in frustration.

Her practice continued. With all the threads sprouting from her spine, she imagined herself as some strange, tentacled monster. Brandishing an arsenal of weapons in all her hundred limbs, she conducted an imaginary assault on an unseen enemy, attacking and retracting in a steady rhythm.

A horseshoe whizzed past her field of vision, and she could not help but grin.

“The hunt is on! A sneaky attack with a horseshoe!” She shouted, attempting to alter its path. But she fumbled, stimulating the wrong thread, and control slipped from her grasp. The carefully crafted formation disintegrated, with object scattering in every direction.

(Yet another failure.)

Allowing herself a few moments of respite, Ari then mentally gripped the threads once more to resume her training. Time in here seemed to warp and twist, not adhering to any predictable rhythm. She sunk deeper into her trance-like state, oblivious to the hours slipping away in the outside world as she maneuvered her formation of the fog-world items.

An abrupt blast of light and sound within her mind shattered her absolute focus. She instinctively covered her ears, but it did nothing to mute the cacophony of exploding auras. As the mental clamor subsided, she scrambled to locate the objects responsible for the flare. Yet, she found nothing. Whatever had caused it was beyond her perception’s range.

With only a vague idea of the direction from which the blast have originated, she let the formation disperse and propelled herself forward. Gaining speed, she flew towards the estimated source of the disturbance. The lingering sensation from the blast hinted at a clash of two auras—most likely two objects had collided at a high velocity. It was a strange occurrence; the deep space of the fog world was barren, lacking any structures, and thus far she had never witnessed a natural collision between objects.

A pair of faint signals registered from afar. By this time, she had already ventured far from her usual territory. Having her surroundings already thoroughly scoured, she deduced the two distant blips must represent new objects as all the familiar items she had already bound beckoned her now from behind.

The two new auras seemed to drift apart. Tracing their trajectories backward, she confirmed her initial suspicion—they converged at the same point, the point from where the headache-inducing blast had come from.

It took her some time, but once she had honed on her targets, they stood no chance of escaping. She collected both of them before stopping to appraise the fresh additions to her inventory.

The first object was a peculiar construct of steel: two broad slabs of metal fused together, connected across half their length by a thinner line leading to what looked like a hilt extruding from the slabs. Placing it vertically next to her for comparison, she found it was longer than her legs, reaching up to her waist.

She placed both hands on the item, letting the surge of information flood her mind. Even though she lacked the necessary understanding to fully comprehend the complex design, she could grasp useful tidbits of its function. The ability to allow objects to imbue her with detailed knowledge about themselves was a hint Master Toaro had provided; without his guidance, she might have never discovered it on her own.

From the initial impressions, she discerned it was a projectile weapon of sorts. She sensed hundreds of channels embedded within its structure, all ready to receive her Power and convert it into a concentrated energy beam emitted from the space between the slabs.

Following her intuition, she moved her hand toward the hilt—a grip for handling the weapon—and held onto the bottom slab with her other hand, pointing it ahead. Her finger found a small lever nestled between the slab and the grip, and, as suggested by the wordless whispers in her mind, she injected her Power while pressing down on the lever.

The weapon drained her energy in an instant. Scared by its voracious appetite, she severed the connection and released the trigger. A series of tiny white lightning bolts dances between the slabs, generating a rising whine, before a pristine white beam lanced into the fog. The radiant jet lasted only for a second before dissipating. She could not ascertain the weapon’s strength, and had no way to test it; even if she would aim it at some other item, objects in the fog world seem indestructible. Yet, the weapon was undoubtedly the most exotic find she had made—a discovery worth sharing with Master Toaro.

To bind the item, she pressed a finger against the steel surface. When she drew her hand back, a thread remained, lingering between the weapon and her finger. Casually, she tossed the weapon aside, watching it drift through the fog. The thread peeled away from her palm, through her arm, until it detached from her body, remaining anchored only to her spine.

Then, she reached for the second object—a pentagonal prism with curved edges that smoothly transitioned into its base. No thicker than a centimeter, the item was wide enough to fill the entire open palm when held.

She caressed over its surface, letting the information flow into her. This time, all she received was an incomprehensible gibberish, to the point where she could not even discern what material the object was composed of. The only bits she understood were words like ‘Many’, ‘A lot’, ‘Tiny’, and similar, but these offered no insight into the object’s function.

Irritation bubbled up within her, frustrated at the persistent sensation of understanding lingering just beyond her grasp. It felt as if she was on the cusp of some significant realization, but it never came—she lacked the requisite knowledge to gain proper insight.

She flipped the item over to examine its base. Along one edge, she discovered a series of embossed symbols of unknown origin, unlike anything she recognized. Her fingers traced their elevated surface, as if she wanted to ensure they were really there.

(“Na—“) She blinked several times and shook her head. The symbols remained alien, but the longer she stared at them, the more she felt an inkling of comprehension. Her gaze remained fixed on the bizarre script as she awaited the moment her mind would decode the symbols.

‘NanoCorp — Redesign Yourself’

The meaning flickered in and out of her understanding. One moment she could decipher the alien writing, and the next it regressed into a meaningless combination of lines and strokes.

As she contemplated the meaning of the cryptic embossment, another tidbit of information stuck her from within. She flipped the object back over so that it rested on her palm, and with her other hand she applied pressure to the center of its surface.

The object vibrated beneath her touch, and she quickly pulled her finger away, observing a waterfall of symbols appearing line by line.

“Explorer! Welcome!”

“Booting ‘Premium Explorer NanoKit’. Please wait…”

“Processing DNA sample. Please wait…”

“DNA sample processed. Storing…”

“The local license store is empty. Fetching…”

“Network error: Could not connect to the server. Retrying(1)…”

“Network error: Could not connect to the server. Retrying(2)…”

“Network error: Could not connect to the server. Retrying(3)…”

“Connection could not be established. Please try again later.”

“Your license could not be confirmed. Pre-bind NanoKit to the current DNA sample?”

Two areas on the surface highlighted: ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Ari licked her lips. Even though she could read the words, she did not fully understand their meaning. Some of them sounded exotic, while others were familiar but used in contexts foreign to her.

She pressed ‘Yes’; what’s the point of owning an item you do not use?

“Binding. Please wait…”

“‘Premium Explorer NanoKit’ is now bound to the current DNA sample. Please activate your license to use the product.”

The symbols vanished. Ari waited, anticipating the next step of the activation process, but the object ceased all interactions and remained inert.

(So, what was that? Has it done anything?)

Just as she was about to press the prism again, hoping to force the reappearance of the messages, something else caught her attention. Barely visible flames danced before her eyes, partially transparent, almost like a reflection seen on a window.

She turned her head to look behind her, but the flames remained in a fixed position in her field of vision, stuck to her eye. Then she felt warmth spreading over her cheeks.

Not wasting any more time, she closed her eyes and sought the path back to her physical body. Exiting from the fog world had become as intuitive to her as entering, and in an instant, she found herself back in her room.

The sight that greeted her was horrific: a massive fire blazed before her, a dark figure flailing wildly at its center—the spot where Alec would sleep. The flames had already engulfed the entire lower bunk and were climbing towards the upper one.

A tangled heap of bedding tumbled down from the top bunk. Elathiel hit the floor with a hollow thud swaddled in his blanket. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the wall. His eyes, wide with terror, briefly met Ari’s before they both returned their gazes to the blaze, paralyzed by the sight.

The black silhouette within the flames continued to flail, yet it remained on the bed, silent. The only sound in the room was the cracking of the fire.

The night had draped itself over the sprawling city, letting the two moons to glow ominously in the dark sky. Alec sprinted down the unfamiliar street, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alert, praying he would not trip over the treacherous puddles dotting his path. The dim reflections of the moons in those puddles offered scant warning, keeping him perpetually on his guard.

From a distant alley, a pack of wild dogs burst onto the street, their menacing growls growing louder as they spotted their prey again. Their ears twitched, their pace quickening as they renewed their pursuit with fervor.

The buildings Alec sprinted past were alien to him; Tramiria was a colossal city, and he was but a newcomer. As a stranger unfamiliar with the city layout, he had no idea where he was, and the relentless chase of the dogs left him with little time to think. He veered into the first side alley he came across, realizing he needed a hiding place and the main street was certainly not it.

A few meters into the alley, he spotted a ladder clinging to the side of a tall stone wall.

(Just in time.) A small smile tugged at his lips, even as the ferocious dogs entered the alley as well.

His foot slipped on the muddy ground and he stumbled, his hands landing in a filthy puddle. The water felt wrong, sticky like oil. Pushing himself to his feet, he scrambled to grasp the ladder, slithering on the treacherous mud.

The dogs were right behind him, their growls echoing in his ears. He scaled several rungs of the ladder, but his oil-slicked grip failed him. His hand slipped off a rung, and he plummeted toward the snapping jaws of the dogs below.

At the last possible moment, he looped his arm around the ladder’s rail, his finger clinging onto the frosty metal for dear life as he stared at the dogs’ disappointed snarls. Regaining his balance, he resumed his cautious ascent. The ladder stretched high, and his oily hands slowed his progress to a crawl, his palms slipping every few rungs.

Just as he was nearing the top, the heavens opened up. A freezing downpour soaked whatever dry clothing he had left. Shivering, he reached for the wooden oval door at the top of the ladder.

The door gave way, and he threw himself inside with a satisfied grunt. The familiar smell of musty books filled his nostrils as he rolled away from the entrance. As he looked around, recognition set in—it was his room in the Sanctuary.

Exhausted, Alec flopped onto the bed, allowing the soft linen to engulf him. The day had been long, and his tutor had issued a stern warning—if he continued to slack off, the next day they would send him to work in the fields. He ran through his mental checklist of tasks, trying to reassure himself that he had done everything necessary. (Did I forget anything?)

A rumble of a thunder echoed in the distance. Wind from the gathering storm battered against his humble abode, the walls swaying in the rhythm of the creaking wood. The howling amplified, turning into a wild, ravenous beast. Wooden planks strained against the tempest’s fury until they could resist no longer. One by one, they splintered and broke away, torn from their places and swept up into the tumultuous sky.

As his protective walls vanished, he was confronted with a raging sea that crashed against the shoreline on which he had built his house. With waves smashing all around him, he attempted to anchor himself to the leg of the bed, but the power of the hurricane surpassed his grip. The might of the wind broke his desperate hold, lifting him into the violent gale, tossing him about like a rag doll. He soared upward, climbing higher and higher, the world beneath him growing smaller with each passing second.

Emerging from the clouds, he was momentarily blinded by the brilliant sun. Above the storm, the sky was a serene expanse of clear blue with no trace of the calamity unfolding below. Carried by the turbulent current, Alec tried to gauge his altitude, fearing the inevitable descent when the wind would finally cease to support him.

Then, a realization dawned upon him, one that defied all reason. The storm had wrenched the entire island from the sea and hoisted it into the sky. He was soaring above this airborne island, which in turn was flaying high above the ground below, both of them waiting for the wind to weaken and send them hurtling back to the earth.

His laugher rang out into the sky. “So, that’s it,” he declared, a strange calm setting over him at the prospect of plummeting from such a height to a certain doom.

Darkness. Alec blinked a few times, hoping to bring some clarity to his sight, but the black canvas persisted before his eyes. The dream, it seemed, had come to an end, and he was awake—standing upright in absolute darkness. The lingering sensation of flight still clung to him, leaving behind a peculiar premonition of a fall, stirring unease within his chest. He found it odd—he would have expected to wake upon the impact of the fall, yet the dream had ended just like that, while he was still coasting on the high winds above the clouds.

A snapping sound of burning wood pulled him out of his musings. He swiveled his head towards the noise.

The flickering flames of a small campfire danced in the darkness, their hungry tongues gnawing on a pile of thick sticks arranged into a cone. Beside the fire sat a figure, cloaked entirely in black, with a hood shrouding their head, murmuring soft whispers to the fire.

“Mom?” Alec called out, his voice shaky.

The mumbling ceased. The hooded figure turned toward him, their face hidden in the deep shadows of the hood. “It’s coming. It’s coming!” The words tumbled from the figure in a raspy feminine voice. A chilling cackle followed, then cut short by a fit of dry coughing.

“Mom… Please, I…” Alec began, his voice faltering.

“Look!” The woman’s bony finger pointed at the fire. “Look! It’s coming!”

Alec turned to the campfire, which appeared ordinary enough, if not for the unusually vivid hues of its flames. Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over him. It felt as if he had consumed something rotten. His stomach twisted, creating an unbearable heaviness within him. He doubled over, clutching his belly and gasping for breath, but the distressing sensation did not relent.

“Mother, please stop,” Alec croaked out.

In the next moment, the modest campfire morphed into a roaring bonfire. The flames surged skyward, illuminating the surrounding darkness. The Power, his Power, intensified to the levels he had only ever known once—the horrific night that had forever scarred his past. He tried desperately to contain it, to compress it, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands—he had failed in the past, and he was failing again. The energy bulged within him, swelling his body, inflating him like a balloon.

“Plea—“ he tried to plead once more, but his words devolved into a garbled groan and his face distorted, stretching in every direction.

“Why do you ask me?” The woman took a step toward his ever-expanding form, but her face remained veiled in darkness. “It’s not me. It’s you. All of it. You. Always have been.”

Fire engulfed him, every fiber of his being transforming into a living torch. The bonfire leapt toward him, merging with his fiery form into a single, massive inferno. Then, the energy burst forth, leaking into the surrounding world.

The blaze devoured everything in its path. His pillow and the linen he had slept on were the first to succumb, reduced to cinders within seconds. He experienced the mesmerizing process of combustion firsthand. The building blocks of the universe danced within his flames, merging, splitting and reforming as he incinerated them, simplifying their intricate structures into basic, purer forms, the better forms. Yes, that was his purpose. To set everything ablaze, to make the world a simpler place, a better place.

Alec lost part of his consciousness in the intoxicating vision of the fire’s forthcoming feasts. The other part desperately tried to rein in the spreading heat. He longed to run, to return to his body, to do something; anything. But he had a body no more. His source became a scorching star, swallowing him whole. He was the fire.

The wooden frame of his bunk, despite being fuel for the fire, put up a resistant fight—it must have been imbued with powerful protective spells. Yet, even if it was fireproof, it did not matter, for his source was still just getting started.

Alec’s thoughts wandered to his new squadmates—they were the first in line to be devoured. His fledging hopes for a normal life shattered once again. Even if the Academy had mechanisms in place to contain his outburst, there was no saving those near him.

In response to his thoughts, his fire-infused desires roared to life. If his form had a mouth, it would water in anticipation of the main dish—the first bite of living organic matter, the most complex structures he had ever tasted. They needed simplification. They needed betterment.

He mustered all the remaining mental strength he had in one last desperate attempt to avert the looming disaster. He tried to reach out to his physical body, to run, to leap out of the window in the vain hope that his death might snuff out the flames. But his body did not respond.

At last, he capitulated—there was nothing more he could do. His surrender brought him a strange sense of relief, tainted with a heavy dose of guilt. Now, having accepted the inevitable, he realized he was curiously eager for what was to come. Who would be his first meal? The conceited white-haired prince? The red-eye girl? Or perhaps the one with the twintails? He could not remember their names, but he recalled the past—the exquisite taste of burning flesh—and his entire existence quivered in anticipation.

Before Alec could comprehend what was happening, he was abruptly cut off from the outside world, as if his fire had been extinguished all at once. Yet, his source did not cease, it continued to generate more and more heat that had no escape route. It radiated into the darkness, dispersing hotness in all directions. Oddly enough, he felt warm, as if he carried a furnace within him. This was wrong—during his previous outbursts, he had never sensed the temperature. He was the fire, and fire should not be bothered by heat.

A soft breeze fluttered across his mind. The energy from his source surged toward one location, forming a river of flames. At its terminus, it spiraled into a singular point in space, transforming into a massive vortex of flowing Power. Something was siphoning away his outburst.

His source went into overdrive, expelling the amount of energy that far eclipsed his infamous record from the past. Yet, the black spot seemed bottomless, drawing in and swallowing every strand of his Power.

The surrounding darkness shimmered, as though the space itself was getting excited. An overwhelming presence manifested in a form of micro-bursts of light flashes across his entire inner world.

“I shall impart my blessing upon you as the payment for your contribution to my stash,” a disembodied voice echoed from all sides simultaneously. “Let the malicious misfortune never befall you as long as you carry the imprint of my Power. Let the manipulated good fortune of others never manifest in your presence as long as you carry the imprint of my Power.”

Alec’s entire existence reverberated in response to the influx of unimaginable energy, the wave sweeping over him and penetrating every fragment of his being.

He had no time to ponder the meaning of the stranger’s words as a final proclamation was made.

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“You shall sleep now.” And so he slept.

“Fire!” Ria’s piercing scream from the top bunk jolted Ari from her paralysis. The flames had already licked their way to the ceiling and were now moving in her direction along the floor.

Elathiel, having run out of space to retreat, joined Ari on her bed. She shot a glance to the left, where Kiran sat wide-eyed on his own bed, a shocking void of expression on his face amidst the chaos.

Her gaze shifted to the door, but it was near the burning bunk and already aflame. Their options dwindled to either attempting to open the blazing door or opting for the window. But they were on the third floor; would they even survive a fall from such a height?

She peeked at the open window and felt her stomach lurch at the thought of exiting through it, but neither did she fancy the idea of braving the flames that danced merrily upon the bare stones.

Just as she was turning her head again, a ball of fur landed next to Kiran. It was the sleek, slivery cat that he had brought in the other day. The elusive creature came and went as it pleased, and Ari had always wondered how it could do that with their room securely closed. Now she knew—it was an adept climber, scaling the building effortlessly. But from the ground to the third-floor window? She shook her head. It made little sense.

The cat stretched its back, seemingly oblivious to the fire. Then, in a few swift hops, it crossed the room and leapt directly into the heart of the flames, into the flailing silhouette.

Ari’s muscles tensed, an instinctive, albeit futile, attempt to stop the cat. She braced herself for the anguished cries of a dying animal, but instead, the flames vanished as if they had been nothing but a mirage.

The cat sat nonchalantly atop a very naked Alec. Neither he nor the cat showed signs of injury, the only remnants of the fire being the ashes of the charred linen and Alec’s clothes. Ari quickly averted her eyes from Alec’s exposed body while the cat curled itself on his belly and purred.

“What do we do now?” Ari’s voice was barely a whisper in the stunned silence.

No one answered.

“Ria?” she called out.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m sleeping,” Ria’s voice sounded from above, turning slightly muffled as she hid under her blanket.

Next, she turned to Elathiel, who had been sharing her bed. Seeing her stare, he got to his feet. “I almost got roasted when this pig was playing the human torch. I’m not going back up there; the wood’s still glowing. I’ll sleep on the sofa.” With that, he exited the bedroom, dragging his blanket along and cursing when his hand met the still-hot door handle.

That left only Kiran, who merely shrugged at her before lying down.

Ari sighed. (I guess it can wait until tomorrow. Unless it happens again and we all burn alive.)

Reluctantly, as no one wanted to deal with the matter, Ari settled down as well, pointedly avoiding a glance at Alec. The smell of charred material stung her nostrils, but it was bearable. Her last thought before drifting into sleep was a desperate wish for a good night’s sleep before her first official day at the Academy. Anything else could wait, as long as she woke up alive to see another sunrise.

*

Hashet blinked twice, his eyelids struggling to moisten the eyes parched from the oppressive heat. The relentless sun bore down from the cloudless sky, scorching the earth beneath, spawning distortions and mirages birthed from the hot air that radiated from the frying surface.

In the distance, minuscule figures bustled among their equally tiny yurts. He could discern men from women, but the vast distance separating him from the camp swallowed any more intricate details. Despite the urge to draw closer, he knew better; if he could see them, they could spot him as well.

His hand wandered into his pocket, finding its way to a lock of hair he kept tucked within. He drew it out, twirling the golden strands between his fingers, all the while sending a pulse of energy through them. As always, there was no response. The princess was not here.

If not here, then where? Where else would a young, lone girl seek a succor if not among her mother’s clan? Yet, even after a full fortnight of vigilance and shadowing every departing man, he found no trace of her.

It was possible they had whisked her away to a safer location, assigning a guardian to help her weather the storm. But the lock of hair begged to differ. The strands, so carefully collected from her chambers, had remained dormant for the entire time. Had she been in the vicinity, the hair would have guided him to her.

The memory of the princess’s vacant chambers brought back a surge of irritation. Instead of being greeted by his promised reward, an empty bed had awaited him that night. How had a sheltered royal girl knowing only the pampering of her attendants escaped unnoticed? Had a servant aided her?

The king had secretly dispatched his most trusted guards to search for his daughter, but they returned empty-handed. The princess had evaporated into thin air. No one had seen her leave the city, yet as the days passed, Hashet’s tracking abilities received weaker and weaker responses, affirming that she had indeed fled. The worst part was that, against his better judgment, he had heeded the king’s insistence that she must have sought refuge with her last remaining kin.

(Should have scoured every outgoing route from the city. Maybe then I’d still be able to pick up her scent, get a glimpse of the path she’d taken. Instead, I raced here like a fool, like a half-wit, chasing after nothing).

As he dwelled on his thoughts, his fingers brushed against the needle of a Tica tree hanging right above him. The tree, while lacking in height, had an impressive breadth to make up for it. The thick crown spread out like an expansive dish placed atop its trunk, but to use its shade, one had to roll underneath, lying on the reddish-brown dirt as the tree’s roots extended even farther than its crown, sucking away every droplet of moisture, and barring grasses from intruding into its turf.

It was the ideal spot to hunker down during the daytime, offering shelter from the punishing sun and a hiding place from the prying eyes of other, potentially hostile, travelers. Underneath the prickly canopy, one could see as far as the distant horizon where the sky met the flat expanse of land, all the while remaining hidden. The only caveat was that one could never be sure if the spot was unoccupied until they reached it.

(So, she’s not here and I’m simply squandering time. Let’s be done with it.)

He rolled away from the Tica tree’s shelter, dusting off his arms to rid them of the clinging dust. The heat assaulted his sun-tanned torso right away, but the summer was drawing to a close, and the worst of its scorching days were past, making the temperature tolerable.

“Come out, lad. I know you’re there. You might as well show yourself,” he called into the unmoving grass, the direction opposite to the camp he had been observing.

Nothing stirred. The air was devoid of wind. “I know you’re hiding there. No use playing coy,” he said again after a few moments into the still static grass.

No reaction.

“Are you that much of a coward? Did you piss yourself and now you’re too ashamed to face me?”

The taunt proved successful; the provoked young man rose from the grass, precisely from the spot Hashet had been eyeing.

“Which clan are you from?” the young man challenged. The dry grass he stood in covered him up to his waist, but Hashet had not trouble reading his posture cues. His voice projected confidence, yet his muscles were tense, ready for action. Hashet could not help but smile; that was how a warrior should be—cautious but radiating strength.

“I belong to no clan. Why?” he said.

The man’s eyes narrowed at Hashet’s response, drawing a chuckle from him. Regardless of the circumstances, the initial question always pertained to one’s clan. Free-roaming Argenta were bound by their birth, and it was perhaps the only instance where Hashet favored the city dwellers, who held a far more laid-back attitude toward clan affiliations.

“Clanless!” The man’s nostrils flared in disgust. “Are you here to steal our horses? You’ll come with me. Turn around and walk. Make a false move, and I’ll slit your throat, understood?” He drew a bone knife tucked into his loincloth.

(A bone knife, what a joke. Are they so destitute they can’t arm their youth with proper steel? And is he blind to the size of my scabbard, not realizing the range disadvantage he’d be at? But his courage is commendable; let’s see where it leads if I prod him a bit.)

“What’s that in your hand? A fly cutter?” he mocked.

The man’s jaw clenched, and he hissed. “Do as I say, or I’ll carve you up.”

“Please, do try,” Hashet responded with a laugh. “I hope you brought your horse along, so I can take it after I kill you. You do have a horse, right?” He cast a glance at the man’s knife. “Or perhaps not.” He smirked.

As anticipated, the taunting triggered the young man. He charged at Hashet, forsaking the grassy cover and entering the barren ground under the Tica tree reign. Just a handful of steps separated them when the man dived, sliding through the dirt, legs outstretched.

Hashet sidestepped the daring move, the man’s bone knife cleaving through nothing but air. (That was close. He targeted my legs, a clever move. Had I wasted time pulling my blade, he might have reached me, stabbing or slicing my tendons.)

Despite his private acknowledgement of the young man’s strategy, Hashet goaded him further. “Why so slow, boy? You’re so sluggish even your grandma must have better moves than you.”

“You got lucky. I won’t miss next time.”

The youth advanced again, his body coiled and ready, the bone knife clenched tight in his hand. Hashet made no move to unsheathe his blade. Instead, he crossed his arms nonchalantly. The man’s body stifled and a spark of ire ignited in his eyes moments later. Nothing stoked the fires of the young quite like a subtle sprinkle of disrespect.

In response, the young man lunged forward, stabbing his knife directly toward Hashet’s heart; no pretense of a feint. But once again Hashet proved too quick, sidestepping the attack with deceptive ease.

At the same time, Hashet called upon his source, filling his body with the Power, and accelerated. He watched as the desperate stab aimed at his heart slid past him in a sluggish motion, like a nightmare slowing down to a crawl. Then, he grabbed the man’s outreaching arm with one hand and his rib with the other. The entire operation felt like an eternity. His body was strained from fighting the surrounding air, as if the world opposed his will—under the acceleration, everything required more force to do, and a huge dose of patience.

Having his both hands in the right positions, Hashet pulled as to threw the man into the air. He gathered more power, funneling it into physical strength and sending it down to his muscles. Then he let the acceleration effect go.

Time snapped back to its normal flow, and the man was catapulted upward, soaring for an instant before crashing back into the tall grass some distance away.

Hashet watched the spot where the youth had disappeared into the grass, but the young man did not rise. After a few measured breaths, he followed the faint trail of groaning. A predatory grin pulled at the corner of his mouth as he found the youth sprawled on his back, grimacing in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m not used to fighting Powerless,” he said, smiling.

The man’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you a mage?” he asked.

“Better,” Hashet replied, reaching to his belt and pulling out a small stone embedded with an array of tiny, shimmering crystals. “I’m an emissary of the king. To your clan.”

The man’s expression was blank, his gaze flickering between Hashet and the gem-studded stone. His comprehension seemed to falter, the notion of an emissary unfamiliar, shadowed by the ‘mage’ revelation, though the mention of the king caused his brows to furrow.

“Emissary,” Hashet repeated, but the man’s face remained clueless.

He sighed. “Messenger. I am a messenger. I carry a message from the king to your clan. Specifically your clan.”

The young man’s face finally betrayed a flicker of understanding. His mouth opened and closed, fear glimmering in his eyes. “I… I…” A fit of coughing interrupted him, his spittle staining the dry grass with flecks of red.

“Save your breath. Get up.”

With a grimace of pain, the man obeyed, struggling to his feet.

“Now, find your clan elders and inform them that their king’s messenger has arrived. I will follow at a distance. They will have ample time to prepare my reception,” Hashet continued.

Another fit of coughing seized the youth’s body.

“Understood?” Hashet prompted.

“Yes.” The young man gasped out between wheezes. “Yes. Messenger. Elders. I’ll go.”

He limped away, staggering towards the distant camp, and from time to time, casting terrified glances back at Hashet.

“Faster!” Hashet barked.

With a start, the man picked up his pace, his limp even more pronounced.

(The fall must have injured his leg,) Hashet mused.

When the man had put half the distance to the yurts between them, Hashet began his own leisurely approach. He allowed his arms to stretch out, fingers running lightly through the tops of the grass, tickling his palms with their gentle touch.

The tingling sensation on his skin stirred a sense of calm within him, rekindling memories of a simpler, carefree time when he was but a child, and the grass still towered over him. That tickle had always served as a reassuring affirmation of his strength, of his control over his surroundings and his life. Because strong he was, and he would survive no matter what.

Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, Hashet held it for five heartbeats before letting it out in a slow, steady exhale. His head swam lightly from the oxygen intake, filling his veins with a sensation of unbridled power. He was not just powerful; he was invincible. He deserved the title of a Great Mage.

His fists clenched instinctively at the thought. (If only I could meet my examiner once more. I’d show him the true measure of my Power, though there would scarcely be anything left of him afterwards to ponder that revelation.)

The ever growing human silhouettes went into a frenzy when his personal makeshift herald reached his camp, disseminating the news of Hashet’s arrival. Curious heads emerged from between the yurts, only to dart back after spotting the lone figure approaching.

By the time Hashet entered the perimeter of the camp, most of the clan members had retreated into the shelter of their glorified tents. Yet he could see them, peeking out through the gaps of their door-flaps left ajar, and stealing surreptitious glances at him.

Those who had remained outside clustered in front of the largest yurt—the elders in the center, backed by the clan’s mightiest warriors behind them, with the addition of a few promising youths flanking the sides.

“Greetings, honored elders.” Hashet’s head dipped in a slight bow, as much an act of perfunctory respect as it was to mask his disdain. These old men, these fossils of times past, had always been an object of contempt for him. Through his life, he saw them as nothing but useless worms, clinging to their stools until the very end, using their age as the ultimate tool to force their ways, even when they barely remembered what they had said a sentence before. The more gray hairs, the more wisdom, they claimed. But that was not his experience. Not when he witnessed such ‘wisdom’ bringing demise to his own clan.

(Huh, that’s one more point I have to give to the city-dwellers. They rarely let old folks to meddle in their affairs, and instead, they set them aside when the time comes.)

“Welcome, messenger,” one of the elder intoned. Despite his age, the man’s eyes held a spark of lucidity. “We had not expected to be graced with the king’s words. Please, come inside, where we can receive you as befits your station.” He gestured towards the open door of the grand yurt, the others parting to create a passageway for him.

(A sharp one, this elder. A pleasant surprise, but not that it matter,) Hashet mused, saying nothing.

Accepting the elder’s invitation, Hashet followed him into the heart of the grand yurt. The others poured in after them, pressing themselves against the curved walls and forming a tight human ring around the pair.

The interior of the yurt was spacious, but the press of bodies from every direction left Hashet feeling trapped, as though he were a wolf caged by sheep. He watched as they jostled and whispered among themselves, vying for a better view of the spectacle in the center. The strict hierarchy they maintained on the outside seemed to break apart within the confines of the yurt.

While waiting for the commotion to settle, Hashet allowed his gaze to sweep across the construction. The circular wall was draped with rugs that served as tapestries, intricately woven with depictions of argent grass in full bloom and sapphire butterflies dancing in the wind. Above, wooden rafters stretched upward to form a cone, from which strings of colorful scraps hung. The sight stirred up a wellspring of unwelcome nostalgic ruminations.

A strange pain twisted in his chest, catching him off guard. He blinked rapidly, attempting to dispel the sudden film of moisture that had gathered in his eyes. He had always loathed these camps, these remnants of a past he would rather forget, as he had no desire to dredge up the ghosts of bygone days. But the familiarity of the view was refusing to release its hold on him.

“Honored messenger?” the elder’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Shaking his head to dispel the ensnaring fragments of the past, Hashet coughed to clear his throat. The whispers had died down, and all eyes were on him, expectant and watchful.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he began. “First, let me prove beyond any doubt that I am here today on the king’s order.”

Reaching to his belt, he drew forth the same gem-studded stone he had shown to the impudent youth who had challenged him earlier, and handed it to the elder for examination. (Is the boy absent? Perhaps his leg pains him too much to bear weight.)

Hashet’s observation was cut short as he shook off the distraction. (No matter.) His attention refocused on the elder who was studying the stone. The old man turned it this way and that, tracing the embedded crystals with curious fingers.

(What is he doing?) Confusion crept into Hashet’s thoughts as he observed the elder. (Why is he examining it so closely? Does nobody here possess enough Power to confirm its authenticity? The process requires only a modicum of skill. Surely someone…) He glanced around, expecting someone to step forth to validate his claim, yet the clan members remained silent, watching in anticipation.

(Impossible! Surely they must have someone among them capable of sensing the Power imbued in the stone. It requires no talent at all.) Hashet’s eyes narrowed as his confusion grew.

“Yes, it seems to match the stones I have seen in the past. Thank you, messenger. We are ready to heed the king’s words,” the elder said, returning the stone to the bewildered Hashet.

(They can’t be serious. He checked its appearance? How one of these simpletons became the king’s consort?) A spark of suspicion ignited in Hashet’s mind. (Unless… Could they be feigning ignorance? If the princess is indeed here, my arrival would be expected. Are they playing some sort of game? I suppose time will tell. Soon.)

“Honored elders, honored…” he began, only to falter as he realized he did not know the name of their clan. They had always been referred to as the ‘princess’s clan’ at the castle, and he had not thought to enquire further once he had their location. “…warriors,” he recovered, smoothing over the stumble in his speech.

“I come bearing grave news from the capital. It involves one of the king’s daughters, one whose veins carry your blood.” Ha paused, allowing his words to sink in.

Hashet watched them closely, scrutinizing their expressions. Their faces grew solemn at his announcement, but there was an undercurrent of genuine curiosity, almost as though they were truly oblivious to the purpose of his visit.

“Respected messenger, we lay no claim to the royal child. We bowed to the king’s will and let our ties to her mother wane. By law, she is not ours,” the elder seized the moment to make their stance.

“Allow me to finish.” Hashet held up his hand to stop the elder from speaking further. “The princess underwent her assessment this year, and it revealed a remarkable aptitude for magic. We are talking about a Great Mage level of the Power.”

A low murmur of whispers broke among the rear ranks, their anticipation surging. A glimmer of hope sparked in their eyes, a tantalizing promise of potential good fortune. Even the elder appeared to hold his breath, hanging on Hashet’s every word. Could they all be such skilled deceivers?

“Yes, a prodigious talent in the Power of Death,” Hashet concluded.

Silence, dense and palpable, immediately consumed the gathering, dropping into the yurt like a stone sinking in still water. The buoyant hope that had filled the air moments ago had vanished, supplanted by vacant expression and befuddled looks. Uneasiness crept among the clan members, their shifting movements and anxious glances at one another, punctuating the oppressive quietude. No one dared to utter a word. The hushed silence remained undisturbed.

The elder’s hand trembled. He tried to disguise it by rubbing his palms together, but his efforts were futile. His quivering fingers were plain for all to see.

“I… We…” he stammered, not daring to look at Hashet. “We, we have no mages. Our clan is Powerless, it’s not our blood. Not.”

The elder raised his eyes to meet Hashet’s, his voice suddenly strong. “The king! He…“ The elder’s voice faltered just as quickly as it had risen. “It’s his…“ He swallowed hard, unable to complete his sentence. The words were left unsaid, but their meaning hung heavily in the stifling air of the yurt.

“Honored elder, you speak the truth. The king’s lineage is pristine, it could not possibly birth a scion of Death. Your concern for our sovereign touches me deeply. Be assured, he is in fine health.

“However, these circumstances leaves us with only two explanations. It is your blood that carries this curse, or a new bloodline has arisen. You cannot absolve yourself of the first possibility, and the king cannot afford to gamble.

“And thus we arrive at the king’s decree,” Hashet paused, his gaze sweeping over the gathered clan. Their bodies stiffened, their breaths hitched, awaiting the impending proclamation.

“By royal command, your clan, in its entirety, is hereby condemned to death. The sentence will be carried out immediately.”

As the last word left his lips, Hashet accelerated.

In truth, there was no royal decree, no formal condemnation. The king would never publicly acknowledge the existence of a Death Mage in his lineage. Hashet’s task was straightforward: eradicate the entire branch of the princess’s maternal kin to eliminate even the slightest risk of another such mage being born, one that could incite deeper scrutiny of the Empire.

And yet, here he was, divulging the secret, posing as a royal emissary. Worse still, instead of striking when they were overwhelmed and unsuspecting, he had confessed to their impending doom, thus surrendering his advantage. But it was too late to change his course now; the die was cast.

(That’s my way anyway, let’s ride this storm,) he mused, his lips yearning to curve into a smirk. But the crushing force of acceleration confined his muscles, leaving his body lagging, ensnared in a surreal temporal disparity.

An electrifying surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins, a sensation he had learned to crave. It unfurled from the pit of his stomach, radiating outwards in slow motion, pulsing across his heart. He had incited needless escalations too many times in his brief life, simply to experience another heady hit of this very feeling. This dangerous dance with death, this thrill of stirring the hornet’s nest, had become a haunting addiction.

With a mental nudge, he channeled his Power, feeling it seep into his very bones. Unlike the adrenaline, its effect was all-encompassing, a simultaneous surge of energy that infused every cell. His muscles, now bolstered by the Power, could defy the sluggish pace dictated by acceleration. To him, each movement still felt agonizingly slow, the air viscous like molasses. Yet to onlookers, he would be nothing more than a blur, a phantom skimming through the tent.

Casting his gaze over the gathering once more, Hashet looked for signs of adversarial acceleration in anyone else: eyes tracking his movements too accurately, hands reaching for weapons with unnatural speed. But all he found were figures ensnared in the iron grip of the time, helplessly awaiting their fates, their lives ripe for plucking.

His hand found the hilt of his blade, the simple act of clenching his fist around the cool metal proving to be a time-consuming struggle. Despite positioning himself for a swift draw prior to invoking acceleration, the battle against the stagnant world was lengthy and strenuous.

Once he secured his grip, Hashet funneled a steady stream of the Power into his blade, sheathing it in a thin layer of shimmering energy. Mustering all his strength, he began the process of drawing the sword from its scabbard, his torso twisting as though readying to pivot. His arms moved at a glacial pace. However, he had no intention of waiting for the entire maneuver to complete. The strain of acceleration was too severe, consuming too much of his Power.

And so, he cast off the shackles of his enhanced cognition, releasing the grip of acceleration, plunging back into the realm of real-time. His hand, which moments ago seemed to crawl, now cut through the air with the force of a tempest. Hashet completed the full circle, his blade whispering a death knell to those around him. The men, even the elder, were too distant to be reached by the physical edge of his sword. Yet, as he spun, his blade traced a translucent line that sailed outward, tearing through the space, humming with his primary element: Sharpness; for he was a Sharpness Mage.

The semi-invisible wave burgeoned towards the hushed gathering. The men were still grappling with the horrific decree they had been dealt, and slowly the first signs of understanding creased some foreheads as the reality of their fate began to sink in. Others widened their eyes in shocked disbelief, their minds struggling to digest the fate that had befallen them.

But to Hashet’s disappointment, not one of them reacted as the lethal wave carved through their forms.

It cleaved them clean, cuts ranging from chest to neck depending on their height. A line of blood blossomed on their bodies, tracing the path where the wave had struck. Some even exchanged stunned glances with their kin before their knees buckled and they crumbled in unison. Upon hitting the ground, their severed upper bodies slid away from their lifeless torsos, marking the abrupt end of their existence. Each man now lay bisected.

The yurt swayed. Its conical roof, compromised by the wall that was sliced in two, trembled. With a reluctant groan, it detached, tilting and falling to the side. Despite the collapse, it maintained its integrity, rolling away in one piece.

With the cover gone, the merciless sun bore down, illuminated the horrid tableau. Blood, still warm, oozed onto the ground, melding with dust and sand, forming muddy puddles colored in red.

Hashet surveyed the camp. Its inhabitants were still indoors, save for two young women who had evidently tried to bypass the elder’s temporary curfew, flitting between the yurts. They were staring at him, the sole figure standing amidst the remains of the central yurt where the key clan member were meeting the royal emissary. The residual wall that reached up to Hashet’s chest, the point of his cut, obscured the carnage.

One woman clasped the other’s arm and yanked her towards the nearest yurt. They realized something was amiss, but what could they do besides cowering in their hovel?

A cruel smile twisted Hashet’s lips as he remembered the tent’s location. Then he turned his attention to the corral housing the clan’s horses. A lone guard usually kept watch there. If the survivors reached the animals, catching them all could be a challenge.

His slashes birthed waves of Sharpness that were stronger, more potent. They cleaved through two yurts, obliterating them before assaulting the coral. All that lay within the trajectory of his attack crumbled silently—no screams, no whinnies. An immaculate execution delivered by the translucent scythes.

Emerging from the remnants of the central yurt, he prowled around the camp, slashing through one tent after another. The clan members did not flee, perhaps they remained blissfully ignorant of the massacre. Their lives were extinguished in their homes, along with their possessions. How many children had been amongst them? He did not spare a thought.

Eventually, only one yurt remained untouched.

“You see?” Hashet bellowed into the sky. “I am mighty. I deserve to be a Great Mage. I deserve it because I am invincible. Nothing can impede my path.” He threw his head back, his arms outstretched, bathing in the radiant sun. “I am the epitome of strength! I am unparalleled!”

The silence of the ravaged camp offered no rebuttal to his monologue. Turning his attention to his final act, Hashet stepped into the last standing yurt. His sword poised, his Power humming, ready to be unleashed. As expected, there was no ambush. The two women he had seen earlier huddled at the far end, their bodies trembling like leaves in a gale.

The sight delighted Hashet. The way they tried to shrink away from him, their attempts to conceal their fear—it was all for him to savor. The spectacle of the weak squirming to please the strong, their desperate struggle to appease the powerful. It was intoxicating.

These women, they held potential—he mused. He sheathed his sword and unbuckled his belt, stepping into the center of the yurt. They were appealing enough, he surmised, his eyes appraising his prey. They were no princess, but they would do.

The women shrieked when he scooped to grab them. (Yes, for today, they will do.) He smiled.

Relishing in the final throes of daylight, Hashet reclined against the taut canvas of the last standing yurt. It had been a day of blood and iron, of grim deeds and darker pleasures, but it was done now. He had patiently awaited the warriors who had left the camp before he arrived, and fortunately, both of them returned home on the same day. And returned to the earth after that, joining their kin in the embrace of death.

His newly acquired women had been dutiful, proving surprisingly adaptable and compliant. Their obedience, while charming, marked their end—his work required the tragic finale for them too, for not a single soul from the clan could be left standing. It was an unfortunate, albeit necessary, sacrifice for his purpose.

In the dwindling daylight, he pondered over the king’s next course of action. The practice of exchanging women was common between clans to maintain diverse blood lines. The king would undoubtedly face resistance from the clans whose brides were of the princess’s kin if he sought to reclaim them, potentially exposing a weakness to his adversaries. It was a conundrum the king would likely avoid, choosing to settle for the eradication of the main branch.

And what about the real objective of his mission? The princess had not fled to her mother’s clan as the king had anticipated. So where was she? He had no leads, no clues.

An unexpected memory came to him then, a recollection of the bloated, corrupt examiner he had slain back at the capital. (What was his name again? Ron? Rick? Something of that sort.) A worm of unease wriggled its way into his mind. (That fatty must have been a disgrace in the eyes of other examiners as well. What if he had spoken to someone about his discovery, and that person decided it was safer to personally deliver the princess to the Empire for the neutering procedure? A mage could sneak her out.)

If she had indeed fled to the Empire, with such a head start, Hashet had little chance of intercepting her unless he knew her exact route. He fingered the lock of her hair he had kept, the residual energy fading a little more each day. Soon it would be useless.

He sighed, slipping the lock back into the belt. Without the princess, his position was precarious. His unique set of skill made him somewhat valuable, but his failure and the secrets he carried made him a liability. It was a fine line to tread, and Hashet was not sure which way the king would lean.

Just as sleep beckoned him, the air before him shimmered, twinkling like stardust. He watched the flashing glints slowly dozing off. The sparking haze morphed int a solid boulder. A stout cudgel of stone, tapering at the base and widening towards the top.

“What do you want?” Hashet mumbled, half-asleep.

The boulder hummed, vibrating with an incessant rhythm, as if to call him.

“Go away. I’m not in the mood.”

The phantom stone did not retreat but seemed to solidify, its resonance intensifying.

“Go away.” Frustrated, Hashet attempted to smack the apparition, only to find nothing. His lurch sent him stumbling forward, barely saving himself from plowing the ground with his face.

The stone was gone. It had never been there in the first place, Hashet realized. But as clarity returned, he considered the call. The boulder was located in the direction of the Empire. And it was his amplifier.

Despite the distance, if he could reach the stone while the princess’s essence still clung to the lock of her hair, he might yet locate her. Even a general direction could change the game.

Revitalized by this revelation, he rose to his feet, glancing one last time at the decimated camp before breaking into a sprint, heading away from the setting sun. He left the butchery behind, moving at a pace that could match the swiftest antelopes, the landscape blurring around him. Hashet knew there were few who could match his endurance. With his source supporting his stride, he could maintain this pace for days.

(If she fled west, she wins. If she fled east, to the Empire, I may still have a chance.)

And so he ran.

*

The gentle hum of the countryside soothed Melia as she ascended a small knoll, seeking solace in the cool shade of a copse at its peak. She lowered herself onto the grass, relishing the tickle of verdant blades against her neck and the dance of sunlight peeking through the dense leafy canopy. Her hands glided through the grass, drawing pleasure from its softness.

The trees above swayed gently, dappling the sunlight that sifted through the network of leaves, transforming the otherwise harsh rays into an intricate dance of light and shadow. A sigh of contentment slipped past her lips as she lifted her hands to her line of sight. The coarse calluses below her fingers, earned through manual labor in the fields and orchards, chafed uncomfortably as she attempted to massage them, leaving her with a feeling of unpleasant friction. Her feet throbbed similarly, blistered from constant use. After two weeks of toiling, she was growing accustomed to the menial tasks, but, truth be told, she was not doing much—helping here and there, trying to be useful, but taking only the low effort jobs, like picking plums today. Even then, her body ached from the endless stooping; her back radiated a dull pain, making her marvel at the resilience of the villagers who worked many times over.

A dog’s bark interrupted her quiet contemplation. The sound echoed, followed by the call of another dog, and then yet another. Hoisting herself into a sitting position, she leaned against a sturdy trunk of a tree, her eyes surveying the small settlement nestled below.

It was a modest village, nothing grand, yet large enough to host a blacksmith and a glassblower. A largely self-sustaining community, with occasional merchants passing through to supply the odds and ends the villagers could not produce themselves. In her short stay, she had already witnessed five different carts trundle down the rutted road towards the capital city of Melkar.

The dog’s barking stopped, restoring the tranquil atmosphere. Melia reached into the only pocket of her ragged work clothes, retrieving a ripe plum. These faded and worn garments were a generous gift from the kind-hearted peasants to spare her own traveling attire. Both the pants and the shirt, barely fitting and tailored for a girl who had long since outgrown them, were now awaiting the growth of younger children for their next wear.

Melia sank her teeth into the dark purple fruit, the sharp taste of plum filling her senses. The juice threatened to escape her lips, prompting her to a quick slurp, saving the fruity ambrosia from wastage. She twisted away the stone from the pulpy flesh, feeling the moist hardness against her teeth before spitting it into her open palm.

(Such a waste. There could be so much more plum in a plum if not for this,) she mused, casually tossing the stone away. The stickiness lingered on her skin, the remnant of the fruit’s sweet nectar. She wiped her hands on the grass, but the residue stayed, stubbornly clinging to her fingers.

“Enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?” a voice drifted up the slope.

Her gaze flicked toward the figure climbing the knoll. “Naturally, one can only expect a proper rest and a hefty pay after their hard work,” she replied, catching the smirk on Arturio’s face.

He snorted in response. “Hard work, you say? Well, you do more than I’d expect. I think they’re not suspicious of our story of a pampered city girl, family collapse, and siblings on the road.”

Melia rolled her eyes. “Oh ‘brother’, you’re still on this? It’s been two weeks since we had left the steppe. We made it.”

Arturio’s smirk faltered. “You said they’ll search for you. We have to go farther. I’m not sure where to yet, but we get some more coin and we’re leaving. It’s lucky enough that harvests have started and they have work for us,” he said, settling down a few paces away from her.

“You could sell more of my crystals before we left.”

“Yes, and get myself killed, great idea,” Arturio responded, his voice laced with sarcasm. “If only you’d stolen smaller ones, not those giants. Now we need a big city, and not one, mind me, to get rid of them without drawing too much attention.”

“They didn’t seem that big to me.” Melia shrugged, before scoffing. “And for the records, I stole nothing; just took a rightful share of my family’s wealth, to which I’m entitled as a princess.”

“In any case, now we work,” Arturio said, ignoring her rant.

“I’m done for today,” she responded, producing another plum from her pocket. “Do you want one?”

He declined her offer with a shake of his head. “No, thank you. So what will you do for the rest of the day? I still have one more round in the fields to do.”

“I think I’ll spend it picking mushrooms. It was raining for the last two days, and Mary told me that’s when the mushrooms grow. I can almost taste them right now—their caps salted and crisped to perfection, served with melting butter.” Melia licked her lips. “Uh, I decided. I’m heading into the forest.”

Arturio grimaced at the idea. “I’ll pass. I heard it’s far too easy to pick poisonous ones, and I’d rather not be stuck in an outhouse for the whole day. Or worse.”

“What ‘worse’?” Melia nudged him in the arm. “I’ll have Mary double-check whatever I find. Besides, don’t forget that if I die, so do you.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Arturio said, his tone flat. “But between eating a dubious mushroom and death, there is a whole world of suffering I’d rather not explore.”

As Arturio’s answer hung in the air, they lapsed into silence until the sound of a young girl’s voice cut through the stillness. “Me-La! Me-La!” A small figure was racing towards them, up the knoll.

“Shana! Slow down, you’ll trip and fall,” Melia called, but the child did not heed her warning, continuing her scramble up the hill, panting heavily when she finally reached them.

“My mom asks if you’ll come,” she said, catching breath.

“Ah, right. I forgot.” Melia turned to Arturio. “Mary invited us to dinner.”

“Again? We can’t impose on them that much.”

“Why not? It’s just food.”

“Just food.” He shook his head. “Royalty…”

“You can leave them some coin for the hospitality before we leave if that bothers you so much,” she retorted, turning back to the girl. “Shana, tell your mother we’ll come.”

The young girl beamed. “Come play?”

“I can’t now. I am going to the forest to pick some mushrooms. Be good and help your mother. We can play together when I return,” Melia said, patting the girl’s head.

“Really? Last time you forgot.” Shana’s eyes shone with sadness.

“Oh, don’t you try that look on me. I promised we’ll come for dinner, so go now and tell your mother,” Melia said, trying to hide a smile.

Shana turned on her heel and raced back down the hill, her mother a distant figure waiting for her by the first line of houses.

“Not so fast!” Melia shouted after her, but the girl did not slow down, gaining even more speed along the slope, her laughter echoing through the copse.

“That girl… I swear,” Melia muttered, shaking her head.

“You sound like an old lady,” Arturio chuckled.

Melia shot him a glare. “You had some more work, I heard. The day isn’t getting any younger, so maybe don’t waste it.”

With an audible exhale, Arturio pushed himself up and ambled down the slope towards the village. When he reached the base of the knoll, he turned around and called out. “If you’re venturing into the forest, beware of the wolves.” His laughter threaded through the wind. “They’d certainly savor a morsel as tender as you.”

Melia withheld any reaction to his taunt. The villagers loved spinning tales of terrifying beasts lurking in the shadows, but Mary assured her that wolves seldom ventured this far south, preferring the wilderness of the forests skirting the northern mountains.

Casting her gaze upwards, she noted the sun was already beginning its descent. If she wanted to avoid being stranded in the forest's heart as darkness fell, she would have to get moving as well.

“’Shrooms, ‘shrooms, ‘shrooms. Tasty little ‘shrooms,” Melia hummed as she ambled amidst the trees, her gaze glued to the forest floor, searching for signs of fungal life.

“Got you!” she crowed as her eyes caught sight of a brown-gray cap peeking from the ground. She yanked it out, snapping off the dirt-coated end of the stem. Following Mary’s instructions, she returned the severed mycelium to the same spot from where she had plucked the mushroom. (Will this really allow the ‘shroom to grow back? Perhaps I should carry a knife to slice it at the base? Wait, a knife would be useful anyway. Why haven’t I ever thought of bringing one before?)

(Oh well, that’s an idea for next time anyway,) she concluded, placing her bounty in the wooden basket borrowed from Mary.

As she was about to resume her search, a leaf landed on her head, its surface speckled with yellow and brown spots. Startled, she looked up, scanning her surroundings. The forest was nothing like the mirthless, monotonous city she had been raised in; nothing like the parched, desolate plains she had observed from afar her whole life, only to traverse them in haste over the recent weeks.

These woods were ancient, filled with dense, moss-covered trunks and gnarled branches reaching skyward, competing for a share of sunlight high above her head. Their foliage was still predominantly green, yet sporadic flashes of yellow betrayed the onset of autumn—or so the villagers claimed. Melia had no way of knowing herself. In the plains, summer gave way abruptly to winter—barely a hint of transitional seasons—with only the brief bloom of argent grass heralding the arrival of spring.

Mary had once explained to her that each year, all the trees die. That their souls wither as their leaves fall, refusing to be touched by the Cold. And when the snow comes, their lifeless remains stand bare in the testimony of their defiance. Then, their hollow husks wait for the spring, for the Cold to be banished, and for the new souls to come and nest within them, for their lush to sprout once again, completing the yearly cycle.

Even as she knew the trees before her were dying, Melia could not help but marvel at the eerily beautiful view. Arturio was eager to leave, but she found herself longing to stay here forever, to work alongside the villagers, to become one of them. She imagined taking a husband and raising a few children dashing about carelessly, like Shana does. It was a tempting dream, but was it truly that distant from reality? She could free Arturio from his bond and live out her life here, needing nothing more than a mushroom every other day.

Something changed. Melia stood still, deep in thought. The shift was not in her surroundings; it was within herself. An odd heaviness settled in her chest, constricting her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

Then she heard a flutter. She spun around, only to find herself alone with the silent trees. Yet, the fluttering persisted, and each time she blinked, the fleeting image of a butterfly flickered in her mind.

She closed her eyes. The forest vanished, replaced by a void that was anything but empty. Butterflies swarmed within the darkness, breaking free from their stone shells. This dazzling display of blue and silver wings was interrupted by the emergence of a small orb. As it expanded, the butterflies underwent a transformation, their hues shifting to match the sickly dark green of the orb. They abandoned their disordered flight, taking positions around the swelling sphere. Their erratic fluttering slowed, synchronizing into a rhythmic pattern that resembled the pulsating waves of a heartbeat echoing through the void.

Melia’s eyes snapped open. She felt sick and ready to vomit any moment. The larger the orb grew, the more pressure built within her, exerting an unbearable strain on her insides. She attempted to halt the process but was vividly reminded of her failure during the examination. Now, the amount of the Power surging within her was immensely larger than before, even though she had neither willed it nor called for it.

Grasping for breath and clutching her belly, she attempted to quell her roiling nausea, bracing herself for the impending detonation that was bound to happen. The Power swelled within her to the point where her skin prickled from the surging currents coursing beneath.

Paralyzed by fear, she wondered what would happen when it spilled over. Would the runaway Power sap her life force, grinding her bones to dust, and erasing every trace of her existence? The image of the parched rat she had killed returned to her over and over again, relentlessly haunting her despite her efforts to expel it from her mind.

Dizziness sprung in her head, and she swayed, her balance faltering. Reaching out for support, she found the rough bark of a nearby tree. The contact acted as a catalyst. The Power gushed from her hand as though she had uncorked a tightly stoppered bottle, creating a strain that quickly escalated into a searing pain.

But the torment was soon swallowed by a receding tide of nausea and an influx of Life Power drawn from the tree. The draining did not stop there. The flow of power continued, seeping into the earth and radiating outwards, insatiably leeching life from every organism in its path.

Within mere seconds, a swath of death several meters wide lay around her. The effect ceased as abruptly as it had started. The desiccated trees groaned under their own weight, their brittle twigs snapping off with the slightest brush of a breeze sweeping through their bare crowns.

Melia sank to her knees, struggling to regulate her ragged breaths. The Life Power circulated in her veins, its invigorating essence infusing her body. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, an inner fire ignited by the surplus Power. It thrust her into a state of pure joy so profound it bordered on ecstasy.

All the debilitating symptoms diminished, even the throbbing in her hand lessened. After relishing the relief of unlabored breaths, she placed her other hand on the ground to support herself as she rose. The moss beneath her palm crumbled into dust under her weight. Her hand sank into the dead detritus until she encountered the solid earth below.

With a soft grunt, she hauled herself upright. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if they would give way. Fortunately, they held, shaky but sufficient to keep her upright.

Back then, in the wake of the life-draining wave, Melia had hardly had a moment to react. She only vaguely recalled the adrenaline rush as the wave splintered from the tree, racing towards her feet. Yet, it had swept over her inflicting no harm, and now she stood as the sole beacon of life within a radius of several meters. The strange thing was, it did not bother her in the least. Her heart pounded in her chest, thumping like a drum after a long sprint. Her mind, light and intoxicated with an inexplicable joy, seemed blissfully free of worries.

Her gaze landed on her basket, lying toppled on the dead ground, its contents spilled. She could not recall when she had lost her hold on it. Peering into the basket, she discovered the mushrooms she had painstakingly collected were now nothing more than shriveled remnants, disintegrating at her slightest touch. Interestingly, the basked itself remained unaffected, its structure as robust as ever. She mulled over the inconsistency, the stark difference between the fate of once-living trees and harvested mushrooms versus the inanimate wood of the basket.

A forceful slap to the bottom of the basket expelled the ruined fungi. The sun was sinking, its golden light fading rapidly; she had no time to replenish her lost harvest. There would be no salted mushrooms for her tonight.

As she turned to depart, a thunderous crack echoed behind her. A tree, starved of its life force, had given way, its base snapping. It crashed to the ground, fracturing into myriad shards upon impact and sending a haze of dust billowing out in all directions.

(Fun,) she thought. Her mind became a fortress, repelling all negativity and basking in the intoxicating thrill of the Life Power she had plundered.

She left, accompanied by the occasional cracks of falling trees—a new clearing in the making.

“Play?” Shana tugged Melia’s sleeve. She clutched a worn rag doll to her chest as she awaited an answer, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Before Melia could respond, the aroma of hearty stew filled the room. Mary placed a steaming pot in the center of the wooden table, casting a firm glance at her daughter. “Dinner first,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Sit.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed Shana’s expectant face, but she complied, scuttling off to her designated spot at the table. Melia watched her with amusement. She had a feeling she would not be able to dodge her promise of playtime with Shana today.

Her neck itched. Absently, she scratched at it, her nails scraping off a flake of skin. The sensation was unpleasant, exacerbating the irritation. Before she could second guess herself, she grabbed a larger flap and gave it a firm yank, ending with a layer of dead, peeled skin in her hand. She started at it, taken aback.

“Sun got’ya, eh?” Mary asked, noticing what happened. “You gotta wear a hat out there on the fields.”

“Yes, I need a hat,” Melia mumbled in agreement, but she was certain it was not the sun. Her body had begun itching shortly after the incident in the forest.

“Whoa, you’re glowing red. You sure you’re alright?” Arturio leaned towards her from his place at the table, a look of concern in his eyes.

“I’m fine.” She drew back away from him. “Mind yourself.”

“How was the forest? Shana told me you were going,” Mary asked, as she distributed wooden bowls around the table.

“Hah,” Arturio chuckled. “You’re wasting your fine basket on her, Mary. She came back empty-handed, not a single mushroom.”

“I was unlucky.” Melia defended herself. “Someone must’ve cleared the area before I got there. That’s why I couldn’t find any.”

Mary raised her brew. “It happens, but to not find even one? Not even the tiniest one? I need to teach you how to look for them, my dear.”

Melia rolled her eyes. Sometimes, more often than not, Mary treated her like a little child, trying to mother her as if she was one of her own.

The door swung open at that moment, and Mary’s husband strode in.

“Took you long enough. I thought maybe the Cold took you,” Mary said.

He shrugged. “A bit too early for that. You gotta wait some more, woman. But it’s getting colder, that I can tell you. We have to gather a good pile of wood during the Lumber Days for the winter.”

Nodding in agreement, Mary refocused on the dinner again. “Sit,” she said to her husband. “Melia, Arturio”—she looked at them, gesturing towards the stew—“go on, while it’s still hot.”

After the meal, the men sat in the corner discussing work, while Melia found herself swarmed by a sea of rag dolls, forced to play ‘house’ with Shana under the keen eye of satisfied Mary. As the lingering effects of the Life Power waned, fatigue washed over her. Despite the early hour, Melia excused herself to retire to their rented room, leaving Arturio to stay longer with Shana’s family in her stead.

When she came back, she dropped onto the bed like a log of wood, and fell asleep right away.

In the morning, she would find that all her blisters and callouses had disappeared, together with scabs and even some old scars. And that she had shed a lot more skin.

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