County Wycliffe
Nearby Settlement
Quinten Valtieri Ashford longed for magic.
He watched his mother travel from settlement to settlement, healing the sick and injured, fulfilling the hopes of common farmers by conjuring the rain they prayed for. Quinten saw magic for what it was and knew the reason it was considered a Gift. It was a way to give freely, a way of improving the lives of everyone and everything.
At twelve years old, Quinten—Q to his family—watched his mother from where he sat in the mid-day sun under clear skies. She danced along the edge of a dry wheat field, each of her movements shifting the rainstorm to cover every square inch of parched earth. Her actions were playful and made her look even younger than her mid-twenties appearance would indicate. A benefit of her Gift of healing that gave her the ability to keep her and others looking young. Thunder rumbled across the field. Her blue dress whipped in the wind, rain soaking her flaxen hair. It matched the surrounding golden fields in color and stuck in long strands that framed her face, highlighting the joy radiating from her shining hazel eyes.
He knew that no matter how drenched she became, by the time she reached the carriage, she would be entirely dry, smelling faintly of earth and the nutty scent of dry wheat.
I would give anything to be Gifted , thought Q, but he knew it was a fool’s dream.
A strong hand ruffled Q’s hair. He looked up, pouting at his father, who grinned in return.
“Stop sulking, boy. I know she is amazing to see in action, but it does you no good hoping to catch a falling star.” Julian said, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, if we leave right away, we can reach your grandparents' estate by nightfall. Go ask your mother about a warm bath this evening. I bet that will get her moving instead of playing in the rain.”
He turned and walked away with a wink. Ordering their carriage readied and for their guards to mount their horses.
Obeying his father, Q sighed as the first cool raindrops landed on his sun-warmed skin.
*****
Capital City of Gremelda
Royal Palace Council Chambers
“A large deposit of manadrite has been discovered along our northern border, Your Majesty,” stated Countess Isla Montague, King Fredericks’ Minister of the Exterior.
“Along our border… is it in our lands or not?” asked the king, leaning forward in his seat, the news stirring him from his previous boredom.
Before Isla could respond, the Minister of the Interior interjected. “Across the border, Your Majesty. Otherwise, we would know more and would have brought it to your attention sooner,” added Duke Alistair Wyndham, making no effort to hide his smirk from his rival council member.
“What would those savages and barbarians even use manadrite for?” asked the king. Looking at the men and women assembled around the large wooden desk. Arrange in a large circle, each of the King’s Council seats sat filled. The Ministers of Interior and Exterior, Earl Eric Blackwood as the Minister of Coin, in charge of the kingdom’s finances. Earl Hugo Valemont filling the role of Peerage Speaker, the representative link between the Realm and its nobility. Archmage Elowen Highbridge, the kingdom’s chief magical advisor, and the one responsible for the study and regulation of magic in the kingdom. And last but not least, Marquess Henry Ashford, Lord Marshal, and the head of Rivenna’s military forces.
Manadrite, the metal currently being discussed, was a unique type of ore that was incorporated in mage staves, rings, and even swords when smelted down and Transmuted during the smithing process. The Gift-infused metal greatly enhanced a mage’s ability to channel their magic. For some, it increased the speed of their casting. For others, it amplified the power behind their magic. And for a select few, it improved both, though to a lesser extent.
The Countess continued, “We do not yet know, Your Majesty. The find was only just discovered, and the first shipment of ore has yet to leave the mine. Our spies passed along the news before they finished their investigation. We will know more within the month, sire.”
“I want that metal,” the king demanded.
the Lord Marshal, was the one to break the long silence created by the king’s words.
“We would declare war over a single mine, Your Majesty?”
The king stood from his seat, the heavy chair shrieking as its legs scraped across the stone floor. “Are you questioning me?”
The Lord Marshal remained seated, maintaining his relaxed position—something few at the table could claim. “No, sire. I simply ask for clarification.”
A long moment passed before the king responded. “Yes—over a single mine. Manadrite is for our mages. It belongs to Rivenna, and if you were a mage, you would understand.”
With an air of contempt, he turned away, calling over his shoulder. “Hugo, come with me. We need to gather support for the campaign. I believe it is time that my son learned to lead his people.”
*****
Kingdom of Alden
The Northern Forests
Screams echoed from the rear of the column, forcing Prince Estes to call a halt to their march. They were navigating through another dense patch of forest. The road from the nearest city having ended miles earlier. They had two options:: travel single file through uncut game trails or to hack their way through and create a new trail.
Prince Estes refused to duck under foliage like a commoner and demanded the latter, regardless of the increase workload for his men, effectively bringing the column’s pace to a crawl.
The first mile proceeded without issue, but that is where their good luck ran out. Hidden archers peppered the column with arrows, forcing the army to remain on guard.
“Have the archers return fire! We need to keep these savages off our flanks,” commanded the prince.
Archery Captains sprang into action. Ordering their units to disperse amongst the column and provide covering fire. But there was a problem. Without a visible target, the archers fell back on their training and conserved arrows.
The prince noticed the lack of arrows coming from his men. They disrespect their commander. I cannot let this stand.
“You there, sergeant! Attend me.” The prince demanded, pointing at a nearby soldier.
The man ran to obey, bowing. “Yes, Your Highness, how may I serve?”
“You can serve as a lesson to your men. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed!” Turning, he pointed to two nearby soldiers. “I want this man flogged for the disobedience of his unit.”
Shock and disbelief met the prince’s judgement. Not wanting to be the next to receive his ire. The men dragged the sergeant away despite his protests, the men of his unit staring in confusion and uncertainty.
Looking around at the lack of movement, the prince screamed, “Do I need to order deaths instead of floggings! I said fire!”
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Arrows were loosed until quivers ran dry, but not a one found their mark.
*****
Kingdom of Alden
The Northern Forests
"Your Highness! The numbers are in—we've lost another 50 men, with half as many wounded. We're averaging only two miles a day and are still ten miles from the mine's reported location. If we continue at this rate, we may not have the numbers to take it by the time we arrive." The Captain knelt before the prince in the crowded command tent, packed with senior officers and nobles.
Do mages have to do everything themselves? The prince thought, eyeing the mages who kept their distance from the common soldiers. “The archers have been useless, and our infantry are little more than arrow fodder. Can our mages do any better?”
Lord Taskin Wyndham bowed. “We can handle this, Your Highness. Leave it to us.”
Mages were not formally enlisted in the army, their elevated status in society sparing them from such duties. Instead, they were part of the Mage’s Core—or simply "the Core"—a separate institution that operated with a structure similar to standard military formations but on a smaller scale. The Core answered to its own leadership, separate from the chain of command used for the regular soldiers, allowing the mages to maintain a sense of autonomy while contributing their power to the battlefield.
For Prince Estes' northern campaign, the mage ranks swelled beyond those supplied by the Core. More than a hundred independent mages chose to join, each with personal ambitions tied to the venture. Most of them were young, politically minded men, eager to earn favor by being present at the prince’s first major victory. They traveled willingly, hoping to enhance their standing or secure valuable alliances by being part of the campaign’s success.
Among them was a significant number of women, nearly a quarter of the mage contingent. These Gifted women weren't just seeking victory—they sought suitable husbands among their male counterparts, aiming to secure better futures within Rivenna's aristocracy.
These mages did not have a military hierarchy, but their noble status naturally created an informal command structure. The majority hailed from the Peerage, and their respective titles dictated a framework of leadership. Those from lesser or non-noble backgrounds often grouped with others from their duchy or county, creating small, cooperative units. Over following days, their magic became indispensable, halting the Aldenian ambushes and putting an end to their hit-and-run tactics. When the first fireball ignited the canopy, setting both tree and archer ablaze, the tide of the battle shifted. The number of arrows fired at the column plummeted, though the attacks continued sporadically, turning opportunistic when a mages grew complacent and allowed their attention to wander.
After three days of poor sleep and being on constant high-alert, the mages finally cracked. Some refused to share the workload, with the higher-ranking nobles simply ordered those below them to take their shifts. It was just as the tired men and women hit their limits that the Aldenians launched their attack.
The Rivennan column made camp, collapsing in exhaustion. They'd covered just over two miles and hoped to reach the mine the next day. After the third flogging, discipline in the camp deteriorated. Though the Army Captains held their units together, the once orderly rows had fallen into disarray.
The Army Commander had a picket of guards spread out around the camp. With a mix of Core and noble mages filling in a tighter circle at the edge of the tents. The noble mages tasked with that evening’s watch were all “common-born”. An insulting term used to describe a mage born from a non-magical paring, or a single gifted mother and a normal human father. Many felt that those not born of two mages were little better than commoners. In an effort to prove themselves, the common-born mages took it as a matter of pride, manning their extra guard duty without complaint.
Sadly, their pride would be their downfall.
As the night approached its end, the witching hour tolled. The Aldenian forces creeped in like Death to a reaping. Their own magic, different in its attunement to nature, helped them blend with the forest. Muting their steps in the tall grasses and dried leaves. They stalked the sentries, dispatching them one by one.
The space intentionally left open between the picket line and the mages standing guard would have been a problem. Were it not for the exhaustion pulling the unsuspecting mages into sleep. Only for them to be woken into a nightmare, or to never wake again.
*****
Sandra Beringer was pissed. She’d been on night duty four of the last five nights, and still had to stand marching guard during the day. At one point, it became so bad that she demanded a break long enough that she could catch a nap in the back of a wagon. The Baron she spoke to tried to argue, but after meeting her eyes for only a moment, he sent her away to rest.
“What the…?”
Sandra stood, straightening from where she'd been leaning against the wagon wheel. I’m sure something's moving in the tree line. She focused. Her dry, burning eyes made it hard to see clearly. There it was again.
Sandra pointed her palm into the air and conjured a fireball. Shooting it high overhead, her signal set the alarms to ringing, rousing the camp and setting it back on alert.
Like an ocean wave, figures came pouring out of the woods from all around the camp.
Sandra braced herself to fight, and was caught by surprise when a hand clamped over her jaw, muffling her scream. A blade so sharp she didn’t even feel it until it struck bone, passed through her throat, silencing her once and for all.
*****
Capital City of Gremelda
The Royal Palace
The goblet of wine shattered as it struck the wall, wine running down the stone. Appearing sanguine in the firelight.
Fitting, if things weren’t so dire, thought Marquess Henry Ashford.
Roused out of bed for an emergency meeting, the Lord Marshal marched down the hallway toward the King’s Council room. The King, Queen Clarissa, Countess Isla, Duke Alistair, and Archmage Highbridge were all in attendance.
The news from the North was grim. The army's deployment to the mine had gone badly, with the column harassed the moment they left the roads and entered the northern forests. Then a night raid decimated the Prince's forces, leaving nearly a quarter of the 2,000 soldiers dead, along with fifty mages.
They could not afford to lose any more.
“Go north and bring back my son, Lord Marshal,” the King commanded. “Forget the mine and the manadrite. I want my army and mages safe.”
Marquess Henry Ashford knelt and lowered his head. “It will be done, Your Majesty.”
“Give him whatever he needs to make it happen and do so immediately,” said the King, addressing the remaining council members.
“Yes, your Majesty,” they chorused.
*****
The Lord Marshal led the army north to “reinforce” the embattled prince. It took a week to gather men and supplies, and an additional three of travel to reach their current location.
A scout had recently informed Henry that the prince was leading a large group of men on horseback and would reach them within the hour.
Based on the scout’s report, Henry suspected what the prince had done—and hoped he was wrong. But as the approaching force came into view, disappointment washed over him.
His aide-de-camp rode up beside him. “Your orders, Lord Marshal?”
Frowning at the approaching prince, he stated, “I will check in on the prince, ensure he doesn’t bleed out on the way back to the capital, and then we will go find the rest of our army.”
“As you say, my lord.”
The prince was uninjured and currently making his way to his father with all haste to report on and draft a battle plan to deal with the northern savages.
Henry fought to keep his expression neutral while he listened to the prince spout excuses. Fool. You abandoned your men and are running home to daddy.
The Lord Marshal had once had high hopes for the prince. As a child, he’d been crafty and full of courage. But palace life had pampered him, and his interests shifted to court intrigue and the latest gossip. He had even heard rumors that, if things grew too dull, the prince would create his own entertainment.
With his general staff following in tow, Henry mounted his horse and made his way back to his men. As he rode past the prince’s force of nobles and mages, he noticed how drawn some of their faces were. Looking around, he watched several men and women experience a coughing fit.
He turned to the nearest mage. “Pardon me, are you well?”
The man, a poorer noble or mage, bowed to the Lord Marshal before answering, “Just a cough, my lord. It has been going around camp for the last two weeks. I must have picked it up as we left. Most seem to recover after only a few days.”
Nodding his thanks, Henry responded, “Heal quickly and take care of yourself.”
Signaling to his horse, he rejoined his men and resumed their journey north, the gnawing sense that something was terribly wrong, haunting him the entire journey.