It was truly a frightening thing. He had lived his whole life near one, yet now was the closest he’d ever been to one. Cirin’s eyes trailed to the glowing entrance at the base of the beast, and at end of a set of stairs. To think he’d dare enter one would have been no more of a bad dream had he considered it days ago.

Sol tugged on Cirin sleeve, prompting the older boy to look down at him.

“I’m scared.” Said the prince.

Cirin breathed hard and lowered his chin to the tower, “I know mon.” He hadn’t the heart to admit his fear. Not now when they were so close. He was the older one as well as the boy’s protector. He started marching.

Little by little, as the monster grew impossibly darker, the duo crept upon it’s abominable trunk. Cirin found comfort staring at the glowing precipice. Though the closer they got, the more its brightness hurt his eyes. When they were close enough to consider it fully, Cirin realized it was not a spectacular thing as the magical sort tended to be. It was simply a rectangular cut through the abyss.

Cirin shut his eyes and forged forwards, Sol latching on to him by the skin of his shirt.

The moment they entered, Cirin nearly tripped to the sight of it.

It was glorious. It was as if the very sun had been funneled into a tube. All around, the wall were made of glowing golden crystals and a beam of heavenly light ran from the flawless white bottom to the infinite stars above.

A spiral staircase of the same golden crystals stretched along the length of the beam to it’s core and a set of five aureate stones surrounded the base of the beam in equal distances.

Though he had not noticed immediately, Cirin felt a very faint thrumming eminent from the tower’s core. In fact, the whole room reverberated with each pulse. It made him feel at ease, it made him at awe. It was beautiful yet terrifying.

“Cirin.” Tugged Sol.

Cirin snapped out of his trance and managed to take note of the prince.

“Are they ok?” pointed Sol.

They were not alone. A little ways from them, a row of priests were on the floor, unconscious and bound.

Cirin flinched, they were the same priests who had accompanied the boy. Again he started. The boy.

His eyes flicked to the top of the stairwell. He didn’t know why. He just knew.

A small figure, just barely visible by the blinding light, stood with his back to Cirin at the top of the towering stairs.

“I doubt anyone will be coming here.” Said Cirin. He looked down at his charge, “Stay by da entrance. Do not move.”

“But Cirin!” protested Sol.

“I told ya didn’t I? I’ll save him.” Assured Cirin.

Sol stared at him for a while then finally rested his brows and nodded.

Cirin smiled, that was the approval he needed. Taking a deep breath, Cirin reached for his wooden blade, drew it and broke into a sprint. He was at the base of the stairs in a minute. At last he began the long run up the stairs.

The run was foreboding itself, as these stairs had no railings to rely on. He had to be quick, yet careful, something Azhar had drilled into his head multiple times before.

Halfway to the top, he started noticing a black line streak across the holy beam. The more he progressed that seemingly endless path, the more the crack appeared to grow thicker and thicker, as if it would snuff out the light of the tower if left unchecked.

Cirin gripped his blade as ran, his heart thumping louder and louder until it drained out the beat of the tower.

On the last couple steps he slowed drastically, he could see the boy now. The golden eyes had his arms raised as if in prayer, and his back to the entrance. Ahead of him grew a painfully black ring which convulsed strands of black lines that made the beam darer and darker.

Cirin narrowed his eyes. It was as if the world him was dying and its would be murderer stood ahead of him. Golden Eyes was the source after all.

“It’s true den?” barked Cirin.

The boy spun to him instantly. His face a mess of contorted brows and uncomfortable grin. Even then, Cirin could see the pain in those golden eyes.

“Ya should have left!” roared the boy.

Cirin lifted his blade then lowered it as he saw the boy meekly trying to raise his nearest hand to defend himself. Whatever he was doing, it required a lot of focus.

Cirin sighed, “If it’s true, I dun care if ya do it. All I want ta protect is Sol and Sol tinks ya be worth saving.”

“What?” shifted the caster. He lowered his outstretched hand then lifted back immediately, “I won’t fall for ya loaded lies. Not yours or dose words of da prince. Ya be here to stop me, ya pitiful peasant. Try den and regret it in gen.”

Cirin took a deep breath and lowered his body. Time stalled as Azhar’s apprentice clasped both hands on his weapon. Cirin charged. There were ten paces parting the swordsman from the caster, yet the caster grossly underestimated the time he had to defend himself.

Cirin had become a gust of wind on a silent day. In a moment he had ducked the golden-eyed boy’s arm and closed in on his chest, he was quick, unseen, and a force to reckon with.

Cirin’s upturned hilt stamped into his opponent’s gut, sending him sprawling to the little ground he had behind him. Just as the golden-eye boy managed to look up, Cirin slammed the sabre against the boy’s chest.

This time the golden eyed boy struggled to get up. He was on all fours as Cirin prepared another hit.

“Enough.” Coughed the boy. He reached one hand up to Cirin’s blade, seemingly in self-defence. Cirin surrendered his attack seconds before impact. He had noticed the way the boy had positioned his fingers. Snap. Cirin stepped back, yet before could avoid it, a sharpened stone swung past his forehead.

Cirin stumbled back, gripping his head with one hand. Slowly, he pried his hand off his head and quivered at the sight of his own blood. He flinched. It stung.

The boy was already back on his feet by the time Cirin lifted his eyes from his hands.

“Die.” Hushed the boy as he swung one arm back and pointed the other at Cirin.

Cirin jumped back, nearly falling off the edge as another rock, slightly larger than the first, came rushing his way.

He dodged the first yet a second slammed into his sword hand. Then a third dug itself deep into the same shoulder.

Cirin let a howl and dropped his weapon. He glared at the golden eyed boy. His opponent was strong. Magic was strong. He hadn’t ever faced anyone who possessed such powers, yet he had heard the stories. There were those who could burn entire villages in a night, those who could drown their enemies in the sands, and those who cut their foes with blades of air. Those were all stories until now. Tales made to scare the young from wondering to far from their masters. There was a reason that every bandit gang south of Gara were afraid of magic users.

The golden eyed boy stared back in emptiness. He flicked his hand and snapped it again. This time more rocks appeared out of nothingness and floated around him.

Cirin’s eyes snapped to each. Five rocks, five possible hits. He swallowed hard as his shoulder stung. His eyes trailed to the wounded arm and he glanced away immediately. He couldn’t use his sword to defend himself. If anything he’d have to dodge.

Another stone spiraled towards him and he narrowly dodged away from it and the edge.

He reached for his blade with his free hand, yet a moment to late. The golden eyed boy waved his hand at the blade and two stones plummeted against it, shattering it in an instant.

Cirin realised it then and laughed, “Ya be holding back.” He taunted the boy.

The boy narrowed his eyes, “Are you mocking me?”

“If ya threw those rocks as fast at me, I’d be dead by now.” Noted Cirin, “Ya dun really want ta do dis, do ya?”

“Silence!”

The fourth rocks zipped through the air and crashed into Cirin’s already beaten arm. Crack. Cirin choked on his own voice. Tears formed in his eyes and the feeling in his fingers parted. He wanted to howl, yet in that moment he had forgotten how. The rock had broken bone.

His other hand lowered as he accepted his fate. He had to run. There was no choice now. For all his life he could only fight with one hand, his right, and now that hand lay shattered. He had to run. Sol was still down there. They could still escape the city. He managed to his shaking feet and started to turn when the golden-eyed boy spoke.

“Zanzabarra was right. I-I am too soft.” Said the golden eyed boy.

Cirin had never feared another as much as did now. His eyes were wide and his entire body cried in pain. He wondered what his soul was saying now, for his heart screamed ‘run’. Still, against it all, perhaps to sate his miraculous curiosity, he flicked his eyes to the boy who had inflicted so much pain upon him.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Golden eyes was looking at his palm. Cirin gulped to the sight of one more sharpened rock, no bigger than a head, floating menacingly behind his attacker.

“I never killed anyone, ya know? Zanzabarra tought dat I’d need to in order ta do what she…” Golden eyes shook his head furiously, “…did before me.” He continued, “Hah! I refused, and looked what it got me!” He held his palm high, “My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. But now I see. Yes I see it clearly. Hurting you has given me peace. Seeing ya blood spill out of ya and hearing ya bones crack. Dis is real. Zanzabarra was right. I’ll kill ya, and complete da task da emperor has asked of me. You should’ve run”

Cirin stopped shaking. He breathed hard, “And what of da prince? What’ll happen to him if ya succeed?”

Golden eyes lowered his palm, “He’ll die.”

It hurt. It hurt so much, he would’ve bitten off his own tongue to redirect the pain. But the thought of losing Sol, innocent Sol, stung much more than a wound ever would have. Cirin rose to his feet, his broken arm swinging next to him like a puppets’.

Golden eyes had one rock left him, and Cirin had one more sword. Cirin reached for the rusted sabre on his back and held it out in front of him. It was heavy. More so, he felt clumsy as he held it. His left arm was always his weakest.

Sweat rolled off his brow and blood trickled out of his wounds. He stumbled once and lifted his eyes to the remaining rock. He would only have to deflect that. Focus. He told himself. Focus.

He raised his blade and took two steps before freezing well into his charge. Snap. Snap. Snap. Golden eyes glowered at Cirin. Now four rocks all larger than the last hovered around him.

Cirin’s blade arm fell limp. Magic was strong indeed. If only he had learned about it earlier.

A shaman, huh?

Cirin’s eyes went wide he glanced about madly.

“Who said dat?” He asked bluntly.

He dared to look behind him, yet just as before they were alone.

Golden eyes turned his head to the side at Cirin, “going mad just before your death?”

There’s a trick to fighting shamans, pig.

“Who are you?!” yelped Cirin.

Listen and lift up that blade.

Cirin was stunned for all but seconds, and finally obeyed.

Now throw it.

“Are ya mad?” spat Cirin.

Just do it.

Cirin gripped the blade hard, lifted it above his shoulder, and aimed at Golden eyes.

Golden eyes looked at him curiously, “What are you doing?”

Cirin flung the blade then, prompting Golden eyes to move three of his stone to his defence.

Now charge pig.

Just as instructed, Cirin followed up with a shouldercheck underneath the rocks and into golden eyes.

Head butt.

Cirin forced golden eyes down with his weight, and slammed his forehead on to the caster’s.

Again.

Cirin breathed hard and repeated the action. As soon as he raised his buzzing head, he noticed the remaining two rocks fall to the ground.

See that rock next to you? Pick it up.

Cirin noted a serrated fragment of one the rocks laying beside him. He grasped it with his able hand.

Finish him off.

Cirin paused and shook his head, “I can’t.” he protested.

Do not argue. Do not falter. Pick it up.

Cirin shook his head, his crippling pain returning to him, “No.” he managed.

“Get off of me.” Cursed Golden eyes.

The dread of it all soon caught up to him. Golden eyes began thrashing. Cirin managed to hold down one arm, but his inability to hold down the other let golden eyes grasp his neck hard.

“I’ll kill you.” He repeated, his caramel face had become redder than an apple, “I-I’ll complete my mission. The emperor trusted us to dis, and I, count Taba, will obey his command.”

Taba released Cirin, and Cirin fell back trying to catch his breath.

Once more, Taba stood, only this time his reddened face had subdued in color.

He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

“Die.” He cursed as over a dozen rocks manifested around him.

Cirin glanced at the darkening beam and then at the edge of the platform and sighed.

“Strange voice.” He started, “Ya seem ta see what I see, so do ya know what’ll happen to da light beside me if I kill him?”

I’m no expert, child-pig.

Cirin scoffed at the addition of ‘child’.

Yet if this boy you fight is a shaman, then the spell should end with him.

Cirin reached behind him to support himself up and found the blade at his fingertips. He smiled sadly and picked it up. He held it high.

Oi, pig. What are you doing?

And once more threw it. Yet this time he threw just so it missed Golden eyes, making the boy look over his shoulder on instinct.

It was all or nothing. Cirin charged again, and again leaned in low to tackle Golden eyes. He prayed against all odds, that it would work, and somehow it did.

The two boys met in a solid tackle and Cirin directed what momentum they had towards the edge of the platform.

Taba took three steps back and fumbled off the platform with Cirin attached to him.

Cirin smiled and shut his eyes. It would be over in seconds.

Cirin thought about all those who had helped him in his short life. Tears streamed out of his eyes. He hadn’t realised there had been so many. Azhar, Sol, Catherine, Marvus, Grod, perhaps even the mysterious voice he hardly knew.

Golden Eye’s voice shot through all his thoughts and Cirin snapped to.

“Fool!” bellowed his hushed voice.

Cirin glanced all about. They had been falling for far longer than he expected. The wind brushed passed his overgrown locks and revealed his ruby red eyes.

Just then, he let go of Taba, and finally found the ground approaching unnaturally slowly below him.

Cirin gasped as he realised it. Taba had his hands outstretched. The caster had conjured magical winds in the last instant.

They landed with two hollow thuds a fair distance away from each other.

“Cirin!” cried out Sol.

Cirin lifted himself up on his able arm and winced as the pain of the broken arm got him. He looked down at his traveling shirt. It was thoroughly soaked in dark red blood.

Cirin instantly snapped to the beam lumbering behind him as Sol’s steps grew nearer. The darkened scar was still spreading. He glanced at Golden Eyes, and chill ran through his spine.

“What happened?” muttered Cirin.

The voice did not reply.

“you fell!” croaked Sol, feebly managing to speak despite the well of tears forming on his lids. “You fell really quickly, and then slowly! It was very cool, but um you’re hurt!”

Cirin managed a laugh, despite his injury, “Worry about me later, mon. You need ta leave. Now.”

Sol shook his head furiously and began piling his hand on Cirin’s shoulder wound.

“Sol. Gah!” Winced Cirin. He understood what Azhar had gone through the day he fought Toftof, “You mustn’t stay here. Save ya self, mon!”

“He’s already dead.” Scowled Golden Eyes.

Both Sol and Cirin turned their attention to the approaching black neck. Only this time he was different. His pain had been replaced by a sinister resolve. He snapped his fingers.

Little by little, fragments of rock popped into the air around him and swarmed the grip he had made with his other hand until a flawless blade of stone formed in his hand.

“My magic is limitless.” He spouted, holding the blade high. He snapped his fingers once more, and the blade doubled in size, “Cirin, is it? I will slay ya, not fa resolve but because of what ya did to me.”

“Did to you?” said Cirin dumbly.

Taba paused, blinked madly, and tossed his head to the side in imperial fashion, “You know, you dared lay ya hands on me! You dirty low class peasant.”

“Ya tried to kill me!” bellowed Cirin as he tried to rise. He fell back on his arm as his injury proved too much to handle.

“Run, Sol.” He moaned. Cirin shut his eyes again. Taba continued walking. Each heavy step the scholar took filled him with dread. Now that voice before had gone silent to. “Run.” He repeated.

Then, all at once the footsteps seized.

Cirin looked up, and trembled.

Sol had not run. Instead, he stood between Cirin and the encroaching Taba with his arms held out to either side.

“No.” asserted the prince.

Silence and Cirin began to hear the pleasant thrumming of the room. Just as he heard it, a blinding light flashed through the room and forced him to glance at the beam once the sudden light had faded.

His brows rose higher than they ever had before. The black scar within the beam was receding. Immediately, he turned to Golden Eyes and asked aloud.

“Why?”

Golden Eye’s blade shattered into a million pieces and he lowered his arm.

“It-it was just like last time.” He hushed.

“Last time?” questioned Cirin.

“Tell me, little prince, why stake ya life to protect such a trifling servant?”

“He’s not my servant!” puffed the boy, “He’s my friend.”

Cirin fell on his back and slammed his hand on his mouth.

“Cirin?!” yelped Sol, once more returning to Cirin’s side, “What’s wrong? Cirin?”

Cirin shook his head and kept his hand on his mouth, “Nothing Sol.” He mumbled. In truth Cirin did not want to show the prince what lay underneath his hand. He could not dare show him the smile he had then.

Golden Eye’s gasp brought their attention back to him. He was standing where was before, yet now he held a reverberating necklace in his hands, its midst an onyx black.

“Zanzabarra…” trailed Taba.

He breathed deeply before re-addressing Cirin and the Prince, “It seems I must retreat fa now.” He squeezed the necklace hard and his body began to vanish into a mixture of sand and shadow, “Pray we never meet again, prince.” He turned his narrowed eyes to Cirin, “Degenerate.”

Cirin struggled to his feet once Golden eyes had vanished. “Degenerate?” he questioned.

By the time they left the tower and out the incline leading to it, the sun had already risen.

“Easy.” Warned Cirin as the tiny Sol tried his best to support him.

“Dere ya be!” yelled a familiar voice.

Sol squinted to see who amidst the blinding light, but Cirin knew that voice all too well.

“Hey, old mon.”

When the old mon came to view,it became apparent that he to had undergone a brawl, though nowhere near as bad as what Cirin had gone through. Toftof and a flustered Manama were with him, as well as a collection of unfamiliar guards.

Their greeting was short, painful, and filled with excuses from both sides. As soon as Azhar saw his apprentice in the shape that he was, he had Cirin rushed to the nearest inn for treatment.

The inn was a cozy thing. Though it was a mudhouse, it boast three different floors, imported Garin carpeting and food and mead to make a guardhouse happy.

Azhar paced uneasily by the foot of the door by Cirin’s room.

“Next time, I’ll guard da boys.” Snapped Azhar.

“Mother Manama did protect dem, she swears. Tree came in. Zip, snap, spwat, she finished em quick but da time she returned fa dese two, dey were gone!”

Azhar sighed, “And why did ya two idiots leave exactly?”

“To save a wizard!” blurted Sol happily.

“It was a bit more complex den dat.” Added Cirin before wincing.

“I dun want ta hear it. As soon as ya get betta, I’ll personally pummel ya so ya dun do anyting so stupid again.”

Cirin glanced to the side while Manama finished apply the splits to Cirin’s broken arm, “Stupid old mon.” he cursed under his breath.

“What was dat?” towered Azhar above Cirin’s bed, “Mana, prepare two more splits. He’ll need it afta I’m through wit him.”

“Oi, Azhar, be a little easier on da boy eh?” suggested Toftof of all people.

Just when Azhar was undoubtedly about to rebut that comment, Cirin spoke up, “Azhar can we talk?”

Azhar stared at the boy for a while, and finally nodded. He motioned the other three out of the room with a tilt of his head. Toftof left first, followed by Manama, and eventually Sol. Azhar shut the door behind them.

“What is it, mouse?”

“Da one who did dis to me.”

“da one you won’t name?” shot Azhar.

“He used magic.”

Azhar seemed taken aback by that. He had nearly turned to a statue by the way he completely seized his movements.

“Where? Why? HOW did ya end up fighting someone wit magic?”

Cirin scratched his head with his free hand, “Dats not da point. I want ta know how ta fight like you.”

“Not happening.”

Cirin sat up in his bed, “If I can fight in ya style, I can prevent dem from casting.”

“I’m not teaching ya.”

“I’ve seen ya fight.” Argued Cirin, “Ya use ya fists as well as ya blade. When I fought da… wizard, it seemed all I had ta do ta beat him was close the distance and fight wit my body.”

“I said no.”

“Why?”

Azhar stomped on the floor, “I can’t tell you why.” He fumbled.

“Is it because of my father?” started Cirin. Azhar woke up to that, “Is it because he used da two blade style? Dat won’t work fa me! I’ve only eva been able ta ya use one handed styles like ya, old mon.”

Azhar sat on the end of the bed then looked Cirin in the eyes, “No means no, mouse.” He took a breath then and crossed his arms, “If it were up ta me, I’d rather not have ya fight at all. It be a stupid ting, fighting.”

“Ya dun enjoy it?”

Azhar glared at the wall away from Cirin, “Once when I was young, den I learned what fighting meant and how dangerous, yet how fragile we be. Look at ya self, mouse. It hurt didn’t it?”

Cirin looked away from his arm.

“Now tink about dose you have ta hurt one day.” Continued Azhar, “Its just how it is. If dis world were a safe one, no one would have ta fight. But it isn’t. Da style I be teaching ya is a kind one. It is meant to defeat ya enemies without making dem suffer, and ta defend ya self with da fury of ya attacks. But it may only work when ya use both ya hands. I saw ya carrying a blade with ya left by dat damned towa.”

“Dat was necessary!” cried Cirin.

“So ya telling me ya give up den, mouse?”

Cirin balled his one good fist, shut his eyes, and snapped his head away from Azhar.

“Neva.” He said simply.

“Den one day, I’ll tell ya da reason.”

Cirin smiled instantly, “Really?” he said to an empty room and an open door. Cirin glanced down in frustration. For once, he really didn’t get it.