Enveloped between two mountain ranges, the dry prairies gave way to Pragian, an agricultural oasis sustained by magic and pagan ingenuity. Where goat herders once roamed, they conjured rains, manipulated the soil, built seamless walls of solid granite, and forged a community as enterprising as it was rambunctious.

Under the glow of the setting sun, a frail, cross-eyed elder stood outside Pragian’s gates. Clad in tattered rags, he leaned on a sleek walking stick and hurled insults at the latest arrivals.

“By what incarnation brings a buggerer like you into my domain?” he snarled.

“Burtrew, aren’t you a fine figure of health?” replied a villager leading a cart laden with game from the day’s hunt. “Will you grant me safe passage? Tonight’s festival feast depends on it.”

“Ah, Dugry. You dastard. Get along before I make a munster of ya.” With a disgruntled nod, Burtrew waved him through the gates.

As the cart creaked along, Burtrew’s cross-eyed gaze veered across the endless fields of wheat and barley, eventually settling on a shadowy outline of four riders approaching from the road. His scrutiny broke when a hobbling figure diverted his attention.

“Father,” Weddle said softly, stepping forward. He was a stubby man with a gentle nature, his deformed right leg braced by a ridged contraption that kept his overweight frame upright. “The evening is too young for such grumbling.”

“I am doing my fublen duty,”

“And we are thankful for it. Now come. The prodigy is ready for your appraisal,” said Weddle.

“Prodigy’s nothin’ but hype and misguided talent.”

Despite Weddle’s gentle nudging, Burtrew remained rooted to his role as Pragian’s unwelcoming gatekeeper. His resolve hardened further as the riders drew closer. Leading them was Coble, with Anneliese perched on his lap. Behind him rode a hooded Gideon, Sir Bradfrey, and Coble’s energetic wolf pup.

“Greetings, old friend,” said Coble with a smile.

“You’d be not welcome. Turn back, you dieded weasel, before I curse the night upon you,” Burtrew spat venomously.

“I apologize, Coble,” Weddle interjected, clearly embarrassed. “He’s been like this all afternoon.”

“Buh,” Burtrew grumbled, throwing down his walking stick. He stood, trembling, trying to hold himself upright without assistance. The defiant act lasted only a few moments before his legs buckled and he collapsed into his son’s arms.

“Once again, I’m tremendously sorry,” Weddle said, hoisting his father upright. “Please, allow me to escort him to the dining hall. I’ll be right with you.”

Coble nodded and gestured for the rest of the group to head toward the stable.

As they secured their horses, Gideon glanced at Coble. “I take it there’s a story between you and that fella?”

“A tale of hubris,” Coble replied.

“Burtrew was the former Grand Master,” Anneliese added, like a smug little know-it-all. “Until his crooked ways got the better of him.”

Coble gave her a sharp glance but said nothing, unwilling to correct the truth that spilled from her mouth like shallow judgment, born of hindsight's easy comfort.

“He was a foreteller,” Sir Bradfrey explained to Gideon. “A wizard who could see—and sometimes change—the future. Often for his own gain.”

“So, how did you catch him?” Gideon asked.

“They didn’t,” Bradfrey continued. “He fell ill of mind. His predictions became erratic, and his temper worsened. It wasn’t until he was forced to retire that they understood the full extent of the damage.”

Hopping between pebbles, Anneliese added bluntly, “He got his family killed. Both of them. His wife found out and—”

“Only Weddle survived,” Coble interrupted firmly. “That’s all Gideon needs to know.”

“Wow, tough,” Gideon muttered. He glanced at Coble with raised brows. “No offense, but an enchanter replacing a foreteller?”

“None taken,” Coble said with a faint smile. “It’s just one of those things. The people needed assurance, and I had something left to offer.”

Entering the hall, they were met with unexpected grandeur. Beyond its modest exterior lay a vast space of gothic arches and gold-veined marble, leading to a magnificent glass dragon perched high above, seemingly breathing fire into the rafters. Tables stretched across the floor, each near capacity with a colorful mix of villagers and wizards, fumbling ale onto sticky floors as laughter and shouting filled the air.

“Grand Master Wizard,” Weddle greeted as though their earlier exchange had never happened. His shift in demeanor was startling. Draping an arm around Coble’s shoulder, he whispered just loudly enough to be heard over the raucous crowd. “You never told me you were bringing royalty.”

“It wasn’t a planned visit,” Coble replied. “We’re keeping him safe until he can reunite with his sister, Regent Venessa.”

“In that case, avoid the bald gambler at the far table. You know what I mean.”

From behind Coble, Sir Bradfrey asked, “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m the son of a dishonest foreteller,” Weddle said with a shrug. “I might not see the future, but I pick the lie.”

“Meh, braver men have tried,” said Coble, flashing a cheeky wink toward the bald gambler. Without even glancing up, the man stilled, an eerie quiet falling over his table. A moment later, the gambler’s luck ran dry, and his stack of coins transferred to a lively heckler across from him.

“I don’t understand. Are we truly safe here?” Bradfrey asked, his unease showing.

“That depends,” said Coble. “Where does your faith lie—the cross or good old pagan magic?”

“My faith lies somewhere between you and the quickness of my sword hand, but neither in isolation,” Bradfrey replied.

Soon, wizards and their apprentices began arriving, entering two by two through a side entrance. A procession of white and grey robes unfolded, interspersed with a few less kempt, barefooted figures. Among them, Zizrum, already in her imposing Minotaur form, caused an immediate stir. Her horns nearly scraped the ceiling as she strode confidently into the hall. The towering figure drew gasps and murmurs as she gave Sir Bradfrey a slow, appraising once-over, her eyebrows raising suggestively.

Around the sectioned-off amphitheater, wizards took their seats near the ceremonial firepit. The arena, once lively and crowded, now appeared sparsely filled, the dwindling ranks scattered across its lower tiers. By Coble’s decree, the archway to the main hall remained open, allowing villagers to observe the proceedings—a controversial break from centuries of secrecy. The unrelenting stares of the crowd unsettled many of the wizards, who shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with the transparency.

Perched in a distant corner, Burtrew glared at the hourglass-shaped fire, his gaze unfocused and cross-eyed. He muttered under his breath, “You took my people. I alone, this Pragian.”

As Coble and his companions found their seats, Bradfrey grew increasingly uncomfortable. He had ended up disturbingly close to Zizrum. He’d hoped Weddle would take the spot between them, providing a shield from her unnervingly curious gaze. But Weddle was busy managing the proceedings, leaving Bradfrey at the mercy of the hulking Minotaur. Zizrum’s gaze lingered far too long, her expression one of playful amusement. Bradfrey shifted uncomfortably, hoping to appear nonchalant—until another wizard finally called her attention away.

“Zizrum, where’s your apprentice?”

Still figuring the ins and outs of her animalistic tongue, Zizrum gave a playful wink and slapped her hefty backside. “The missing link to full Minotaur is a little extra bulk where it matters. Witness—Britony and I are one!”

A collective groan rippled through the nearby wizards.

“You ate Britony?” Weddle asked in shock.

“Oh no, God no! Melding,” Zizrum replied, waving a massive hand. “The missing link to metamorphosis. I’m on the brink of a momentous discovery—it’ll change everything!”

“Right… So, will we be seeing Britony again soon?”

“Ahh… haven’t quite figured out the reverse-melding process yet,” she admitted with a sheepish snort. “But when I do, she’ll have plenty to say about it. I assure you.”

Draconian, a senior wizard, sighed in disdain. He threaded his skeletal fingers through his thick grey beard. His small, barely existent chin jutted faintly beneath the dense hair as he directed his discontent toward Anneliese and her wolf pup.

“How far have we fallen?” he muttered. “Is it not enough we bend the knee to these cross-worshipers?” He glanced at Bradfrey, then back to Anneliese. “But now we allow feral animals. No wonder our numbers dwindle when this is how we uphold tradition.”

“Should I take offense?” Zizrum asked with a snort.

Before Draconian could respond, Verivix—pale and awkward—chimed in with a strained smile. “That odor of yours, Draconian. Honestly, how does a water elementalist neglect to bathe themselves?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” said Ravenna with detached amusement. Draped in fine silk and jewelry, the mystic carried herself as though she were the first among equals—a reputation earned as one of the few remaining female wizards who openly flaunted the wealth of her trade. “Can anyone recall the last time this debaucherous necromancer courted a companion who actually drew breath?”

The commoners erupted, bashing their mugs and utensils against every surface that echoed their excitement. The clamor only subsided when Coble raised a hand for silence.

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“Indeed,” Coble began, “many of our former comrades have abandoned their convictions for the cross. Others have fallen under the influence of the battle mages. Whether right or wrong, God or guild—that is their choice to make.”

“It’s not a choice if we stand idly by while Diviners preach old omens of eternal darkness,” said Draconian.

“What if they’re wrong?” Coble countered. “It’s not as though there hasn’t been a season without doomsayers making themselves known. What would they have us do—go out and confront an evil we neither know nor comprehend?”

“Such words speak nothing of our fellow pagans and our oath to protect their way of life,” Draconian replied.

“Such words distinguish us from the battle mages who bastardize our beliefs in pursuit of violence,” said Coble, his voice suddenly rising like a sudden gust of wind. The amplification startled those gathered into silence.

Draconian finally broke the tense stillness with a measured response. “Perhaps. Or perhaps, our followers need a demonstration of conviction—standing up to these cross-worshipers when they infringe on our freedoms.”

“With all due respect, my good and honorable Draconian,” Sir Bradfrey said, stepping in, “don’t underestimate the military might of the church—or your influence over it. They share Pragian’s concerns about the battle mages. But their greater fear is how quickly pagan allegiances might shift if Vasier acts against them. Your ambiguity toward the battle mages is the balancing act that keeps sharper minds than mine awake at night—and frankly, I’d rather they not lose sleep.”

“If I may interject—tonight’s guests have arrived,” announced Weddle as he rose from his seat to greet the newcomers. “I present to you Grib and his son, Kulum the fire breather.”

“Ah, excellent. Another elementalist,” said Draconian, his interest piqued.

The crowd’s rowdiness faded as Kulum entered, leaving only the sound of shifting benches. All eyes turned toward the foreigner and his unusual attire. Grib wore a long white tunic, while Kulum was dressed in a ribbed red suit folded over a silk-skirted bottom—an outfit of considerable expense, clearly reserved for this occasion..

“Please proceed,” Coble prompted.

“Aye,” said Grib in a thick accent.

“Kulum will now demonstrate his skills,” Weddle explained. “You may assess his talents and decide if you wish to take him as your apprentice.”

“Of course,” Kulum whispered softly, his words barely audible due to the language divide. With a whispered prayer, his stage fright ebbed, giving way to something more controlled. His eyes darkened as black smoke clouds swirled around them. His outstretched arms drew deeply from the ceremonial firepit, the flames twisting and distorting as they merged harmoniously with his magic. Slowly, he lifted the entire blaze from the smoldering coals.

The flames contorted violently, twisting into complex forms until, with a flash of light, a phoenix emerged. The firebird hovered in the air, spreading its radiant wings as the remaining flames shaped into a fiery cape that floated above Kulum’s shoulders.

“I am the inferno. I breathe life and extinguish existence,” Kulum whispered, his voice resonating with an otherworldly accent foreign even to his native tongue.

“Interesting,” Draconian murmured, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the boy’s every movement—his posture, foot placement, and control—paying little attention to the phoenix itself.

“And what are your thoughts?” Weddle asked the surrounding wizards.

“Raw. Very raw,” said Draconian.

“Such untamed potential,” Verivix added. “He could almost put you to shame, Draconian.”

At the far end of the amphitheater, Ravenna stiffened. Her eyes clouded over in a mystic’s trance as she murmured, “Oh no… it can’t be.”

“Aye,” Coble said grimly. “His magic is strong—but it’s demonic. He’s possessed, and we can’t afford to take that risk.”

“Why? I’ll take him if no one else will,” Verivix offered eagerly.

The room fell into an awkward silence that needed no translation. Grib’s shoulders slumped under the weight of the judgment. “Kulum,” he called gently, trying to coax his son back from his wizardly state.

But Kulum remained transfixed by the flames, his gaze unbroken.

“Kulum,” Grib repeated louder, his voice trembling. He turned toward the other wizards, silently pleading for help.

“KULUM!” Coble barked, snapping the hall into action.

“Is this normal?” Weddle asked.

“Far from it,” Draconian replied. He rubbed his thumb and index finger together, conjuring dim flashes of light as he drew moisture from the air. With great effort, he shaped the condensation into long, roped strands of water. Whispering “Val Carum,” he raised his arms and sent a stream of water lashing at the fiery aberration.

The water hissed violently upon contact but eventually extinguished the flames. Kulum’s concentration broke, and the phoenix vanished in a burst of steam.

“As Coble suspected, the boy isn’t a natural elementalist,” Draconian announced. “His magic emanates from a fire demon of immense potential. Such a being will inevitably consume and corrupt his soul. With an experienced wizard and proper training, we might be able to contain it, but… I am deeply sorry.”

“Draconian, surely you of all people can handle such an apprentice?” Weddle asked.

“Demons are best handled by druids—a specialty we unfortunately lack,” Draconian replied. “That’s not to say it’s beyond my abilities, but I am old and preoccupied with Maneesh. No—I will not train him.”

“Ravenna?” Weddle turned to the mystic.

“It is no business for a mystic,” she said, shaking her head.

“Coble? Verivix?”

“Surely, I am prepared for such an apprentice,” Verivix offered eagerly.

“No,” Coble said firmly. “He’s too dangerous.”

“Yet if we let the boy go,” Draconian countered, “what’s to stop the battle mages from discovering and exploiting his abilities?”

“True…” Coble murmured softly, his gaze dropping. He fell into his familiar state of reflection, his thoughts drifting to Anneliese and the crushing remorse he would feel if he took on the burden of training Kulum instead of her.

“Is it too late for an introduction?” came a voice from behind the pagan commoners. The speaker, a knight clad in gleaming armor, stepped forward. His checkered red-and-blue surcoat bore the bright-yellow insignia of a cross flanked by two rearing horses—the mark of his allegiance to the throne of Mansour.

“Baraden,” Sir Bradfrey hissed, leaping to his feet with a half-drawn sword.

Coble quickly placed a glowing hand on the frantic knight’s shoulder, calming him with an enchantment. He addressed the intruder. “What be your business here?”

“My employer offers five thousand gold pieces to anyone who brings me Prince Gideon—preferably without any appendages below the neck.”

Sir Bradfrey countered with a growl, “The protectorate of Pragian is well beyond your jurisdiction, Knights of Mansour.”

“Ah, good knight, let it be a good night, and shut up,” Baraden sneered. “I hold no ill will toward you or pagan blood.”

“Five thousand gold pieces, you say? A bit underwhelming,” Coble remarked, reaching into a small waist-bound sack. He drew out a pinch of fine white sands and, with a rhythmic motion, caused the grains to shimmer and multiply. They overflowed his thick, calloused hands, scattering in gleaming streams across the floor.

Baraden stiffened. “I’m fully aware of your reputation, Enchanter. I also have a reputation—one far more heavy-handed. So, let’s not tempt trickery.”

“Is that so?” Coble said with a faint smile. He turned to Gideon, who was watching the scene unfold with confusion. Cupping the prince’s hands, Coble whispered, “Trust me.”

He helped Gideon to his feet and passed the enchanted sands to him. With a calm authority, Coble held up an open palm toward the sword-wielding Sir Bradfrey, silently urging restraint. Then, he guided Gideon forward, positioning him before the knights of Mansour.

Meanwhile, Weddle edged closer to his father’s side, seeking a vantage point over the entire hall. His eyes scanned the many frightened and resentful pagan faces. Some appeared on the verge of reckless heroism, gripping tin mugs and other makeshift weapons without a thought for how useless they would be against shields and chainmail. Yet it wasn’t the escalating tension between the foreign knights and drunken villagers that unsettled the foreteller’s son.

It was something else—something unseen. An ill intent that lingered in the air, just beyond his perception, elusive and threatening in a way he couldn’t yet define.

Coble muttered sporadic thoughts as he calmly assessed the situation. He had positioned Gideon in the center of the hall with meticulous precision, making several subtle adjustments to his stance. Gideon’s hands remained cupped around the glowing sands, which now emitted a murky yellow haze that held the crowd in a mesmerized trance.

Even Baraden, despite his defiant posture, found himself frozen in a state of confused paralysis. He struggled to form a coherent threat. “Ifff… you don’t hand Prince Gideon over at once—”

“He’s there. At least he should be. But… I could be wrong,” Coble said casually, as though nothing was out of order.

His nonchalant compliance sent ripples of uncertainty through the room, the seeds of doubt taking hold even in Gideon’s mind. He glanced down at the glowing sands in his hands, suddenly unsure of what Coble was doing.

“You’re playing games with me, wizard,” Baraden snarled, his upper lip curling as his grisly voice deepened. “Need I remind you again?”

“I’m an honest man who means no harm to anyone,” Coble replied calmly. He knelt and pressed a single index finger to the rough stone floor.

At once, the enchantments prepared for this exact scenario flared to life. Beams of blackened light surged through the cracks, forming shifting, interlaced triangles and circles. Symbols of pagan ritual tore across the floor in a jagged path toward the knights.

“Now, tell me—which one of you limp-legged lizards dares take the first strike,” Coble growled, his smoky-eyed wizard state fully manifest as a magical whirlwind tore through the hall.

The oppressive aura seized everyone’s attention—except Weddle’s. His sharp gaze caught a faint distortion creeping toward Coble from behind. His breath hitched.

“COBLE, BEHIND YOU!” Weddle shouted, stumbling from the upper seats. His braced leg buckled under the sudden movement, but he pressed on, straining to close the distance.

His warning spurred the other wizards to their feet. The realization ricocheted through the amphitheater like a shockwave.

But they were too late.

A human figure broke through the distortion—a black-clad assassin wielding a dagger of dark, glass-like material. The blade fell swiftly, aimed at Coble’s neck.

Thud.

The strike landed. Yet, no blood was drawn. The blade didn’t pierce the skin. Instead, the bud of the dagger rested awkwardly against Coble’s neck, the blade inverted, pointing harmlessly away.

The assassin, momentarily stunned, didn’t falter. He aimed again, this time for Coble’s kidneys. But once more, the blade flipped on impact, delivering nothing more than a dull thud.

Coble exhaled in exasperation, glaring at the failed attacker.

“Sambal!” Draconian shouted, recognizing the assassin by his methods. He tried to summon a spell, but before he could act, Weddle hurled himself at Sambal, his greater weight sending them both sprawling to the ground.

The two grappled furiously. Sambal locked an arm around Weddle’s throat and punched his dagger into Weddle’s side, only to find it inverting again, failing to pierce skin. The impotence that had thwarted his attacks on Coble continued to plague him.

Weddle gasped for breath, clawing at the assassin’s arm, as the hall erupted into pandemonium.

With Sir Bradfrey distracted, a nearby Mansourian knight seized the opportunity. He aimed a heavy swing at Bradfrey’s neck. Bradfrey, though off balance, managed a quick, ill-placed parry, enough to deflect the blow with a loud clang of metal on metal. The impact sent him tumbling backward past the firepit, leaving only the strange, glowing sands between Gideon and the remaining knights.

The Mansourian knights charged, each eager to land a decisive blow on the prince. But as they closed the distance, an oppressive heaviness filled the air. Their swords began to crack and splinter, the metal rapidly oxidizing under Coble’s enchantment. Blades crumbled into powdered rust, and their armor followed, shedding in brittle fragments as the airborne magic stripped away their defenses.

Despite the corrosive effects eating away at his own gear, Sir Bradfrey charged at the nearest knight, his fearless act rallying the pagan onlookers. A chaotic melee broke out. Broken stools and wild fists flew as the crowd overwhelmed the armored invaders.

Even an overly eager Zizrum rushed in, horns lowered. The brute force of her bull-human hybrid form launched the knights around like a disobedient child to battering ram. “I am MINOTAUR,” she mumbled in a gravelly yell, tossing another opponent across the hall.

Amid the chaos, Gideon stood motionless, his cupped hands cradling the glowing sands. Bewildered, he shouted to Coble, “By what magic am I bound?”

“Your own gullibility, my friend,” Coble answered faintly, a tired grin tugging at his lips.

“Ah… funny,” Gideon muttered as he pushed his way through the wild melee of pagans and knights. He broke free of the brawl and reached Weddle, delivering a firm kick to the assassin’s ribs. Sambal let out a wheezing gasp and rolled aside.

The winded assassin, outnumbered and desperate, made one last, frenzied attempt on Coble. He thrust the blade hard into Coble’s side, his own weight pressed against the dagger’s bud. But the enchantment twisted the weapon—its blade inverted, piercing deep into his own chest.

The assassin let out a high-pitched screech behind clenched teeth as black sores festered and spread across his body. Within moments, his flesh crumbled to dust, leaving only the dagger and his tattered clothes behind.

Brushed aside by Draconian as he rushed to aid the pale-faced Coble, Gideon couldn't help but ask, “Is that normal?”

“I’ve never known a wizard to specialize in normal,” Draconian replied dryly. “Though there are plenty who specialize in stupidity.”

“Those spells, the sands—what was all that?” Gideon pressed.

“Eh…” Coble mumbled, struggling to catch his breath. “Smoke… and mirrors. My enchantment needed time to—”

His hefty weight was too much for Draconian as Coble's limp body hit the floor with a hard thud. His eyes, now void of smoke, rolled back to white.

Draconian knelt beside him, urgently searching for any sign of life. But the stillness of Coble’s chest confirmed the devastating truth.

In the farthest corner, Burtrew sat unmoving, his cross-eyed, delirious gaze fixed on the scene. A lone tear traced down his frigid, unyielding cheek as he whispered softly into the abyss:

“Cursed night.”