The old road cut through “death’s alley,” a volatile no-man’s-land where wildfires could rage alongside floods, each calamity feeding the other. It was a barbarous region of unconquered mountain tribes and ungodly beasts—a place where only the most determined or hapless dared to tread. But for a wizard born of fearless nature, it was a well-worn path, in need of good treading to hold back the dark forces that wished it closed forever.

As they rode, Weddle’s gaze repeatedly drifted to the small wooden chest strapped to his pack. It carried the ashes of a great man—a somber reminder of loss and the solemn task ahead. The weight of the journey pressed upon him like the brooding clouds above, while his mind circled endlessly around that cursed night in Pragian. He kept returning to one gnawing question: How much did his father know?

Of course, Burtrew had known. He was the foreteller. A spiteful, deceptive foreteller.

He hadn’t made a reliable prediction in years, but this—he had seen this. Clear as day. Yet what did it matter now? Coble was gone, and Burtrew, barely lucid on the best of days, wandered the foggy line between prophecy and delusion. A jungle eating itself.

Several days later, they arrived at Solis. Enormous bonfires blazed around the ceremonial grounds, but there was no audience to greet them. Weddle was relieved; he had no desire for onlookers. His miserable state made a mockery of even the simplest tasks, like unbuckling the small wooden chest from his travel pack. The harder he tugged, the less the buckle yielded. Each failure reminded him how useless he was as a wizard’s son. Finally, after enough curses and jerking, the belt prong bent at an awkward angle, and the chest slipped free—landing safely in Burtrew’s hands.

Weddle froze, perturbed. How had he caught that? He glanced down and saw shards of a broken potion bottle at Burtrew’s feet. His father stood taller now, his lean frame taut and his eyes burning with an unspoken threat.

“That will be all, boy,” Burtrew said coldly.

Weddle shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve taken the elixir of a second life. Father, it’ll be the death of you.”

“That. Will. Be. All … boy,” Burtrew repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

“Nonsense,” Weddle snapped. “Do what you want to yourself, but Coble meant more to me than to you. I will present his ashes to the gathering of wizards.”

“No,” Burtrew growled. “This is not a place for disobedient children pretending to know magic.”

“I have every right to be part of this gathering!”

Burtrew’s gaze hardened. “Boy, I am of mind and body to enact unspoken horrors upon you for what you’ve done. To me. Your family. My people. But if you leave now and speak nothing of it, then maybe—maybe—I’ll forgive you.”

Weddle hesitated, his anger slipping into silent protest before dissolving into swollen-eyed defeat. His head bowed as he succumbed to his father’s will. He trudged toward his horse reins, finding every muddy pothole in the path, and prepared to leave under Burtrew’s withering glare.

“Take Sully,” Burtrew added without a trace of concern. “She deserves better than to die in this backwater pig hole.” He carelessly unbuckled his own luggage, letting it fall to the wet, silted ground.

Once Weddle had left, Burtrew removed a sack of ash from the wooden chest—his successor’s final connection to the physical world. Without a second thought, he tossed it into the nearby fire. For a few sobering moments, he watched the bag disintegrate, savoring the cathartic release of jealousy that had long festered within him. “I hope you enjoy being a memory,” he muttered, “because I can’t wait to be forgotten.” He then filled the emptied chest with fine linen, concealing an unknown quantity of something known only to him.

Burtrew strode toward the granite-cut cave entrance. The dry heat of the ceremonial bonfires licked at his back while smoke, rich and pungent, invaded his lungs, drawing him closer to the divine presence he sought. The scent of frankincense and lavender softened his perpetual cynicism, allowing him to breathe in memories of simpler days.

He remembered when Solis had been a beacon of unity—when people, whether misguided or wise, treated each other as equals, all struggling to make sense of their limited existence. Back then, his foresight had guided a ragtag community into a township of hope. But now that hope was crumbling, devoured by the factionalism and ideological rot corroding the institution he once cherished.

Solis would be the start and the end of his journey.

As he delved deeper, the cave’s atmosphere shifted. Ambient light seeped through fissures in the walls, illuminating the short but winding path ahead. Narrow and strewn with intersections and offshoots, it pressed inward, claustrophobic in its design—barely traversable for those with broader builds—until the path opened toward the heart of Solis and its eternal fires.

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The birthplace of modern wizardry was a decaying marvel. Carved into the heart of a crevasse, the auditorium rose around a central firepit whose mystical blue flames parted for whomever claimed the floor. Ancient stone tiers, entwined with creeping vegetation, enclosed the chaotic scene as smoky-eyed wizards from diverse creeds and cultures clashed with shouted arguments. Leaders paced the aisles, fanning the fire of debate with gestures and rhetoric.

Maratick, the shirtless leader of the battle mages, stood as a tempest incarnate. His fists clenched, his braids whipping wildly with his movement as his voice boomed through the cavern. “He deserted his post! Let the templars sweep Strivick unopposed—our people slaughtered, mothers and sons driven to flee for their lives!”

Across the firepit, Corbis, elder of the greybeards, exhaled a long, weary sigh. His words carried less fire but no less conviction. “You battle mages were too preoccupied with finding a glorious hill to die on rather than serving the people of Strivick. That is why Draconian was appointed Grand Master of Pragian. His past failures were a direct result of your provocations. King Havious had every right to intervene, and many owe their lives to Draconian’s decisions.”

“Fibbery!” Maratick spat, his muscles flexing as he paced. “Strivick is our ancestral land! The birthplace of songs, of legends—Calgorous against the nomads, Bjarke the demon slayer! What value do you place on our history, our culture?”

Corbis didn’t flinch. “And yet, while the templars built hospitals and fortresses, aided the poor, Strivick drowned in its own neglect. Draconian walked into a cesspool and came out smelling like it, sure—but he faced adversity, not failure of character. A distinction you seem incapable of comprehending.”

Maratick’s eyes narrowed, his voice tilting toward mockery. “Corbis, Corbis, Corbis... Why the hostility? When the dogs of war hunt free men, who answers the call? We do—the battle mages. Would you refuse to call upon us when your wizardries fail to serve the people?”

The debate halted as Burtrew crashed through, toppling bronze shields with his entrance. “The day you cease to convince me the future lies in ignorance, I might be obliged to agree.”

“By the gods,” Maratick said, sneering. “Could it be Burtrew? Must have heard the twang in Corbis' coin purse and came running.”

“What have you done to yourself?” asked Corbis, curious but wary.

“I’ve come bearing Pragian’s finest. Shall we complete Coble’s journey?” Burtrew replied, presenting the wooden chest to Corbis’ waiting hands.

The elder greybeard, true to his craft, traced his fingers over the finely worked wood. His eyes seemed to draw in light like a black hole.

“Last I heard, you were barely lucid—half mad, incontinent even,” Maratick jeered.

“Your confusion is excusable. I speak reason to the wise and nonsense to imbeciles,” Burtrew retorted loudly.

Corbis’s fluttering fingers as he sensed something amiss within the chest. “Either Coble’s ashes have adopted some peculiar qualities, or you’ve acquired a new alchemist,” Corbis whispered to Burtew.

“Would I have brought it to you if I didn’t know the outcome?” Burtrew asked.

“And what outcome do you seek?” Corbis inquired, his tone edged with suspicion.

“Age is not on our side,” Burtrew replied. “I won’t forfeit the future to the likes of Maratick.”

“Better the devil we know…” Corbis muttered.

“NO,” Burtrew snapped. “Not this devil. It doesn’t end well for anyone.”

Corbis exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze distant as if weighing the unspoken truth every greybeard knew. “And you think this will change that?”

“Sometimes, we must step blindly into the unknown rather than stand idle and let evil rise through our indifference.”

The blood in Corbis’s eyes flushed red and faded to normal as he made his decision. Burtrew handed over the wooden chest with a grim finality, entrusting the graybeard leader with both the ashes and his faith in a precarious future.

With the fate of magic set in motion, Burtrew squared his sights on his rival. “Oh, Maratick. You are a weak shepherd in need of a mindless flock. I better you in every way and need no sheep to prove it.”

Maratick's face hardened, his muscles flexing as he stepped forward. “You’re delusional. I could crush you without a second thought.”

Burtrew met the threat with a mocking twist to his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare, you overgrown, limp-wristed tissy boy.”

Maratick wasted no more words. With a flick of his hand, he sent a surge of telekinetic force hurtling toward Burtrew, knocking the old man into the thick undergrowth. Burtrew staggered but remained standing, brushing off dirt and debris, his eyes burning with stubborn pride.

“Wrong again, old man,” Maratick jeered, his followers erupting in laughter. He spread his arms wide and gave an exaggerated bow, feeding off the revelry of his supporters.

Corbis, unfazed by the spectacle, turned back to the firepit. He stepped barefoot onto the cold, smoldering coals, his robes rustling as the flames whirled softly around him. He cradled the wooden chest close, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he prepared to honor the solemn task.

“Here before us is a reminder of mortality,” Corbis intoned. “A wizard who gave more of himself than he asked of others.”

“Get on with it, you loose-lipped bullock browser,” a battle mage heckled.

Corbis ignored the interruption. He gazed down at the flames. “Goodbye, old friend. History praises the feast, rarely the frugal.”

With reverence, Corbis held the wooden chest high, then released its contents into the flames. The assembled wizards fell into a reverent hush, eyes wide with awe. For a moment, the fire crackled quietly, absorbing the ashes—then, in an instant, the flames roared to life, igniting with terrifying intensity.

The substituted ashes reacted violently, unleashing a torrent of energy that ripped through the crevasse. Light and raw force detonated outward, faster than the eye could register. Ancient stone tiers shattered, enchanted glyphs fractured in blinding flashes, and the entwined vines and roots disintegrated in a breath of fire. In mere moments, a millennium of pagan history crumbled into dust, carried away by the roaring shockwave.