ZENITHOR, SATURDAY, BARDUS 35TH

Zenithor Whisperwind stormed around the workshop. His steps were heavy with purpose, and the wind itself complimented his movements. Zenithor was eighty years old, but he was far from decrepit. There was tension building around Zenithor. Today was the day for drastic measures.

With alacrity, the aged sorcerer gathered alchemical ingredients, spell components, and scrolls from their resting places all over his dusty workshop. The workshop hadn’t produced wonders in fifteen months. As the older man cut through the workshop, his increasingly unstable winds blew the accumulated sawdust and soot swirling into the air in miniature dust devils.

“Zenithor, you are going to start breaking things,” Zenithor’s magic staff, Serenity, told him. The words came crystal clear to Zenithor, mind-to-mind. Her voice was calm and almost motherly. Serenity was his arcane focus. The staff was a long piece of polished Nedra core. The mystically potent wood was the color of ripe cherries. As the wood curved near the top, wooden scales and spines were carved in, culminating into a serpent’s head. Emerald inlays completed Serenity’s soulless snake eyes.

Zenithor responded with a grunt of acknowledgment. His frigid blue eyes darted around the room, identifying the many things he needed. Today, Zenithor was reaching the apex of his life’s work. Zenithor was anxious and grieving, but the emotion that boiled deep within him was a seething anger. Like a churning volcano ready to blacken the sky for generations.

The unyielding gale blew unfinished wands, glass vials, and trinkets off the workshop desks. The shattered potions and spilled ingredients filled the air with a sickly rotten smell. Zenithor didn’t care. The only beings affected by Zenithor’s gale were the six and eight-legged creatures seeking cover under the desks or in the corners of the room.

“Did you want my opinion?” Came Serenity’s loving tone.

“No, but you are going to give it anyway, I’m sure,” Zenithor admonished under his breath. Zenithor’s anger was clear in his growling voice and was only stoked further by false compassion in hers.

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know… I know that you know this spell’s success is unlikely, and then you will be dead,” Serenity said, her calm voice tiptoeing through the convoluted sentence. When met with silence, she continued. “And then you will not be able to bring good into the world like you always wanted.”

“I spent my entire life bringing good into the world,” Zenithor responded. His mind flashed to his deceased daughter, Lilium Whisperwind– Taken from this world far too soon. Lilium was going to be his legacy. She should have become a powerful sorcerer with the power to permanently fix the metaphorical cracks in the world. As Zenithor thought about Lilium, his rage flared, and the winds howling around him lifted an unfinished staff and flung it at the wall. The enchanted trinket exploded in sparks and magical energy.

“If this does work, I want you to rethink your path. The results of this spell should be constructive, not destructive.” Serenity said, bound by the goody optimism a younger and happier Zenithor had instilled in her.

“Constructive, that is a joke coming from you. I want to be destructive. Not only do I want those kids to hurt, I want everyone to see them perish,” Zenithor said. Emotion was thick in his throat. He had to do this now; if he waited another day, he would lose his chance. Blinded by hatred, he continued to gather the materials for the peak-level enchantment he would attempt.

On the table at the center of the workshop lay a body. It was made entirely of dried clay but perfectly and meticulously shaped. The body had feathery, short black hair. She wore the same outfit as Zenithor—a long gray cloak trimmed with black fabric. Sorcerer's robes wrapped the body from neck to toe. A sorcerer hat with a wide brim and comically long tip was on the top of the body's head. Tucked in the band of the hat was a pink lily. He thought internally about his mantra from his youth, but nostalgia did nothing to ease the rage in his mind.

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Serenity decided not to say anything. Her attempts at calming the old sorcerer had only further stoked his fires, made even more apparent by the small monsoon isolated to the workshop's interior.

Zenithor decided to vent further, “My old friend…when a child stomps on a flower, they’re prone to feeling a momentary thrill. However, if the gardener catches them…” He trailed off as he adroitly arranged more components into place. Zenithor continued. “These children chose to step on my Lily, and only my death will stop me from pruning them.” He punctuated the sentence with a wave of his hand. A casual gesture that sent a blade of wind flying into the bricks on the far wall—a simple cantrip strong enough to leave deep gouges in the brickwork. “And even then...” The old mage muttered.

When Zenithor accumulated a small mountain of magical trinkets, spell components, and scrolls on the desk, he triple-checked to ensure he didn’t miss anything. There was a thaumaturgical necessity for this spell; beyond any he, or any other magician, had ever attempted. This spell had dozens of component types. It had constrictions from many schools of magic, required a colossal amount of mana, and finally, it also included a component that only existed in theory.

For a moment, Zenithor reflected on the true value of his soul, and it only reaffirmed his resolve to risk it. “I want to know why they did it first. I want to feel what Lilium felt, what they made her feel. Then, I will make a spectacle of the end of their lives.” Zenithor continued. “That is the part I don’t understand. Lilium was so kind. Why did they do it? How can they just go about their lives? How do they have the focus and drive to be accepted into the most prestigious college on the continent…While I am left to struggle alone?”

“You’re not alone, sir,” Serenity attempted, but the psychic connection might as well have been linked to the clay corpse on the table for all the good it did. Zenithor was too focused. He grabbed an extended length of rope for the final stage of the casting. He used dextrous magical fingers to tie the knot perfectly for the loop’s purpose. When the spell resolved, the rope rested irritably against the skin under his collar.

“Fifteen years ago, my beloved Celia was taken from me. Fifteen months ago, Lilium followed her.” With those words, Zenithor began the casting of the spell. He crafted layers upon layers of complex spell circles that floated delicately before him. Zenithor channeled and pulled each layer's required components and sculpted runes into the spell. The monsoon churning around him this entire time transformed into an updraft gale, and Zenithor felt himself lifted into the air before the clay body on the table.

“But, sir, everything you are; everything you have built… will never be accessible. You will lose me, too.” Serenity said, pleading through the mind-to-mind connection for Zenithor to reconsider.

“I’ve always hated you.” The old mage scowled as he finished the spell. Ten increasingly more complex spell circles and countless runes dissipated into the ether. The winds that had caused Zenithor to fly up into the air dispersed, too, and the master sorcerer fell freely. There was a crack in the rope as it was pulled taut, and a quieter, more delicate crack resulted from Zenithor’s neck breaking. The once raucous room was thick with heavy silence– besides the slight creak of Zenithor’s swinging corpse. Zenithor’s staff, arcane focus, and lifelong companion, Serenity, fell to the ground with a loud wooden clatter.

Silence hung heavy in the room.

The workshop, Zenithor’s life work, was destroyed. The storm brought on by the end of Zenithor’s life threw everything around the room to the periphery of the workshop. The exception being the body and the table she lay on.

Aellaria opened new eyes and looked at the hanging corpse before her. There was nothing in the workshop worth salvaging.