It is said that every soul is made of an eternal fire born from a spark of divinity cast upon the earth.

And much like fire acts upon the elements around it, every soul has the capacity to change the world around them, to change its shape and constitution the way that fire burns wooden logs into ash, or boils water.

For many, this is only in the figurative sense. The actions we take, the words we speak, all influence the shape of the world and what lives within it.

But there are also particularly powerful souls who burn brighter and stronger than the bodies that hold their kindling. Souls who can change the world around them with a mere thought, a will.

They call this phenomenon magic.

However, there is much that roils through someone’s life that constantly chips away at the kindling within a soul until there is little left to spark. Monotony, aimlessness, and despair dampen the flame, leaving some to never really recognize or even realize their magic potential exists. Only the strong-willed, the stubborn, or the immensely privileged could ever dare to retain enough to see their true magical potential.

In this world, mages strive to attain the Free Spirit, a state of the soul where power is untethered by the bounds of human thought, limitless.

Abel was a contradictory soul. He was a young man with a soul that could summon great winds, but his spirit was far from free.

If Abel were a privileged young man, he would be sitting in a classroom, half-paying attention to a lecture, entranced by the view of a girl he admired, and he would command light breeze to flutter by whenever she spoke, to give her the barest boost of confidence, which would only make her more beautiful in his eyes.

Or he’d be snorting orange juice up his nose in a fit of surprised laughter as his best friend attempted to gas himself up, only to accidentally pass gas (according to everyone who heard it who was not him). Abel would claim he had no hand in it, even when he very much did.

If he were a strong-willed young man, perhaps he wouldn’t be thousands of miles away from home. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a young man fighting in someone else’s war.

Instead, he was simply stubborn enough to survive, despite everything.

Abel stood at the center of a field, alone. Blood and bodies littered the grasslands around him of “enemies” and “allies” alike. His surviving comrades had already left him to tend to the injured, ordering him to act as the final and only defense by any means necessary. A wave of soldiers in gold and blue armor descended the hillside before him.

For a moment, he considered letting them rush past him and surge towards the group that left him behind. He thought of how he was brought to this nation, chained and bartered to his Commander. How he was kept in a room and given lavish meals, but the moment he acted against orders, or would give a “nasty look” for being in a foreign land with foreign customs, the copper circlet that was placed on his head since he was caught would cause a pulse of excruciating pain through his mind, threatening to end him in an instant.

He remembered the whispers of concern about the practice, and the brief visit from the grim-faced Commander to explain the purpose of the war. There was an Empire who sought to invade their lands. Invaders were, naturally, evil. He was brought so far expressly to stop them.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

As far as he knew, none of the Empire’s mages were forced to be there.

So how evil could they truly be?

In that moment, Abel lifted his hand to his forehead to feel that copper circlet’s vice still gripping his head. He had a mission to fulfill. And he still wanted to survive.

For he had yet to find his first love.

And he had yet to accidentally snort orange juice through his nose in a fit of laughter.

So he measured the distance between him and the surge of blue and gold Empire soldiers descending the hill.

And he let his spirit roar.

A gust of wind whipped through the air like thousands of blades, carving through flesh, leather, and metal armor. Cries of anguish pierced the sky, dwarfed by the howl and rumble of a forming tornado. Limbs and ichor dropped around him within the eye of the storm. From the corner of his eye, he could make out the wide eyes of a decapitated head, gazing at him in agony.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. And still, he persisted. He could handle them. He could handle this. Any moment, they would turn back.

Please turn back.

Then a beam of heat grazed his side. Pain flared up his abdomen as the heat dissipated, leaving a lingering burn. Dread filled his chest. A mage was in the crowd.

His eyes scanned the horizon, only to land on one unarmored girl donning a metallic mask with pointed teeth and thick jaws. Her hands were decked in claws of thick leather hide shaped into points.

The Dragon Mage’s eyes narrowed as she clocked his gaze.

Wind strikes buffeted the soldiers around her, only to reveal chains wrapped around her waist and legs, chains which anchored her to metal hooks dug deep into the ground. Scratches formed across the Dragon Mage as she held up a steady hand, readying her next shot. Heat coalesced around her into dense, bright orbs.

Spears of heat, like sunrays, pierced through the sky and struck towards Abel. He jumped out of the way, weaving around fallen limbs and debris. His footing became unstable and loose as the speed of these beams increased. Sweat dripped from his face and clothes.

He slipped on blood and tumbled, trying to summon a whirlwind around him to protect himself as the wave of remaining soldiers closed in on him, weaving through the howling winds that were much weaker now.

Instead of feeling the pierce of metal blades through him, he felt the earth beside him rumble. A splash of mud smeared across his face as a hook, much like the Dragon Mage’s, embedded itself into the ground beside him.

His hands reached for the dagger strapped to his side as he braced for a wave of heat to rend him in two.

But something made him stop.

He felt a hand grip over his neck.

A sudden sharp pain screamed through his head, causing his vision to black out. His throat closed up, as if he were drowning. His limbs became sluggish and tensed, as if fighting through thick swampy waters.

And all he could think about was trying to resurface.

So he fought through the pain, forcing his limbs to move. He let out a yell so reminiscent of the howling winds he conjured.

Then the throbbing in his head eased. The vice around it disappeared all at once, and his vision, his body returned to him, snapping into place with the awareness of someone who had just woken up.

He turned his gaze to see a much older soldier, cloaked in what he can now presume is the Empire’s Mage uniform. The soldier stared back at him through goggles reminiscent of an owl’s face, only further accentuated by the thick beard that flared out of the lower half of his face. He was grinning from ear to ear, with the excitement of discovering something for the first time.

The Owl Mage lifted his hand from Abel’s neck as the circlet fell to pieces around them.

“It worked.”

The smile eased and tears fogged up his owl mask.

“You don’t need to fight anymore.”

Abel tensed as more soldiers crowded around him. His confusion and overwhelming emotions stunt his capacity to hold his whirlwind up. For a moment, he thought to send them all back with a gust. But when they simply stood their ground, eyeing him with caution and curiosity, and no pain pierced his temple, Abel’s hands dropped to his sides.

And he wept.

“My name is Lieutenant Dmitri Fenharrow, and I’d like to grant you sanctuary under the Vitae Empire. Do you accept?”

And that was how Abel found a new home in yet another completely foreign land.

And, how he would soon find that his dream of snorting orange juice through his nose would require many more arduous steps before it could ever come to be.