image [https://i.imgur.com/iFn6iCK.png]

Eleven hundred miles away in Imperium, Durrin couldn't sleep.

It was the day after his meeting with Salidar. He had spent the morning shopping for supplies and gear, before a wave of exhaustion hit him in the afternoon—the cumulative weariness of three weeks of travel. Intent on catching up on much-needed sleep, Durrin bunked down early. But though his whole body felt exhausted, sleep eluded him.

Perhaps there was too much light in his tavern room. He shuttered the windows and jammed a cloth into the cracks.

He still couldn't sleep.

Was it his pillow? It was old and lumpy. He asked a servant for a new one.

Still couldn't sleep.

He mentally counted up to a hundred goats. Nope. Backwards? Nope. In Mitrian? Still nope.

Something troubled him that he could not shake.

He stared up at the beams of the ceiling, the conversation with Salidar replaying in his head. Why had he agreed to another mission? He had done Calamar's dirty work once. He had already earned that scroll.

He turned his mind to the mission before him. Assassination. Again. How would he pull it off? There would be many more guards this time. Could he strike at night? No, too obvious. During an event outside the palace? Perhaps. Maybe while the queen—

Queen—not a king this time. Not a seasoned ruler whose decrees threatened Durrin's country, but a youth, barely eighteen years old, only weeks into her reign.

His memories turned to that fateful day, seven years ago. To the pain and shock in the king's eyes as Durrin's blade had struck. Durrin had gone on many perilous missions, fought in many skirmishes and sorties. But King Everborn's had been the first and only life he had taken in cold blood.

The Pyromancy Guild had a code, one he'd repeated a hundred times at the Academy. Kill if kill you must¸ the last line read, but never after dusk.

It wasn't the most scrupulous of codes, but even pyromancers had their standards.

Never after dusk. Durrin had honored that. He had even rushed his attack to make sure he struck in the afternoon, well before twilight—so that the king's soul could be claimed by angels and taken to the Halls of the Sun, not left to be seized by demons.

He had followed the code. So why did the deed still haunt him?

Durrin forced his mind to turn to other thoughts. He relived his years studying at the Academy, recalling faces long past. Tutors. Classmates. Friends. People he hadn't seen in over seven years.

Salidar had ordered him not to let anyone know he had returned. But surely there was someone from his past he could see, someone who could keep a secret. Where were they all now? Many were probably fighting in the war. Others would have found jobs in the city or elsewhere in the empire.

Luckily, he knew where to find such intel.

Giving up any last hope of an early bedtime, Durrin gathered up some gear and slipped out into the streets, wrapped in a dark cloak.

* * * * *

Two hours later, under the cover of dusk, Durrin stood on a rooftop, surveying the Imperial Pyromantic Academy of Calamar.

The Academy stood atop the city's fourth spur, in company with buildings dedicated to the other four mancery arts. Each structure's architecture was designed to reflect its subject. The Pyromantic Academy boasted towering spires and steep gables, all constructed from orange tiles and rust-red bricks—the whole complex conjuring the image of a raging fire.

image [https://i.imgur.com/XaYTfeG.png]

Durrin overlooking the Imperial Pyromantic Academy of Calamar. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

Behind Durrin pulsed the shimmering column of light that marked the city's leyline. At the moment, it glimmered orange and red, lighting up the spires of the Pyromantic Academy as if the building truly was aflame.

Durrin hadn't bothered with the Academy's front gate—that would require revealing his identity, against Salidar's orders. Besides, where was the fun in that?

Instead, he had scaled the northern wing of the College of Terramancy—which was built directly underneath the leyline, adjacent to the Pyromantic Academy. He crept along its rooftop, then broke into a run for the last few yards.

As he picked up speed, Durrin marshalled invisible currents of power around him, a wave of potential energy waiting to be unleashed. As he hurled himself off the edge of the roof, the spark within him surged, transforming that energy into extra momentum that propelled him across the twenty-foot gap. Fire flickered in his wake as whisps of excess energy burnt off.

His feet caught purchase on a small ledge halfway up the wall of the Pyromantic Academy. Before gravity could claim him, he hauled himself upward by grabbing small protrusions in the stonework. After a nerve-racking couple of seconds, he pulled himself up onto the Academy rooftop and lay there, spread flat on the tiles.

He listened, chest heaving, waiting for the call of a nightwatchman to split the darkness. Nothing.

Not bad, he thought. He had discovered this route of entry back as a cadet. It had taken careful study, repeated attempts in daylight, quite a few bruises, and a broken leg before he had mastered the jump to the ledge and the subsequent climb. Muscle memory, it appeared, had not forsaken him during his imprisonment.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Satisfied that he had gone undetected, Durrin crept along the rooftop, weaving his way between garrets and spires, avoiding the ridgeline where his silhouette would be visible against the starry sky. Soon the Academy's courtyard opened out below him. After checking for watchmen one more time, he grabbed the edge of the roof and swung down to a second-story walkway below.

The courtyard stretched below him. At the moment, it was empty, just a uniform expanse of flagstones (no shrubs or flowers—too flammable) and a fountain in the corner (for when cadets caught their clothes on fire).

But to Durrin's eyes, the courtyard was brimming with memories. Here he had launched fire from his hands in endless drills. Here he had competed in the annual Kymar competition, winning first place for the level-one routine, then the level-two routine, working his way upward year by year until he won first place at the fifth and highest level—a title he held three years in a row. Here he had become the greatest of his class, a rising star, a legend in the making.

Here the Council had turned him down, three times, for guild mastership.

Focus.

Durrin turned away, creeping down the balcony. When he reached the door he was looking for, he produced a lockpick set—a purchase he'd made earlier in the day—and opened the door in seconds. The next door, a couple of rooms later, took more work. After several unsuccessful attempts, he grew impatient and melted the lock's interior into slag. It would be noticed, of course, but not before he was long gone.

Beyond that door lay the Academy archive—the mundane one, not the secret vaults buried deep beneath the building. He had worked here in his first years at the Academy—back when filing paperwork wasn't beneath him—so he knew his way around. He used a pitcher of water to wet a lumen globe for light, then ran his finger down a shelf until he found a large, leather-bound tome, which he hauled over to a lectern and opened.

The codex listed all the cadets admitted to the Academy from the prior decade. Each cadet had their own page dedicated to tracking their progress and status. As he thumbed through, some pages were full, crowded with reports of Academy performance and updates on the graduate's subsequent career. Others were largely empty, ending with a terse note about the cadet's dismissal or withdrawal.

Soon he reached the section for his graduating cohort. He eagerly scanned each page, focusing on the name at the top and the most recent entry at the bottom.

Jorman "Firebrand" Tallaway . . . Independent blacksmith in Killia.

That was a surprise. The Firebrand had become a blacksmith? Jorman had sworn he would never settle down and work a "low" pyromancy job. How Durrin would love to see that. But Killia was a two-weeks' journey to the west. Too far for a visit. Durrin turned to the next entry.

Swiftwing, of Greendarrow . . . Lieutenant, South Sea fleet, three decorations of bravery.

Trusty ol' Swiftwing. Good to see she was making a name for herself. Durrin turned the page, smiling as he saw the name of a close friend.

Marvin Junger . . . Killed by Elandrian cavalry in the Battle of Lindor. Cremated with full honors.

His smile vanished. He read the last line again and again. Marvin? Good-natured, prankster Marvin? How could he be dead?

Durrin's pace through the book quickened. Every second or third page he stopped, reading and re-reading a classmate's final entry.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7Bt2dAs.png]

Durrin in the Academy archives. Generated by the author via Midjourney, touched up with Photopea.

Died of the yellow plague while on campaign in Elandria. Buried in a mass grave.

Killed in the second assault on Erlenmir. Cremated with full honors.

Disappeared while scouting the Penandre Pass. Presumed dead or imprisoned.

Wounded in the Battle of Twisted River. Died eight days later of infection. Cremated.

Caught retreating during the Battle of Seven Heights. Executed. Buried with dishonor.

Each name brought a host of memories. These were men—boys—he had studied beside, competed against, sparred with, pulled pranks on. And now four, five, six of them were dead?

No, not just dead. Killed in the war.

The war he had helped to start.

On his journey back to Imperium, he had seen the devastation in Western Elandria firsthand. Salidar had mentioned the war had not gone as smoothly as he had hoped. But until now, Durrin hadn't stopped to consider the full cost of Calamar's "victories." Elandria was far larger than the tribes and minor city-states that Calamar had conquered in previous wars. Both Elandria and Calamar were large enough to field armies in the tens of thousands. How many pitched battles had been fought in the last three years? How many of his countrymen had died?

He stopped at the next page.

Halorn Venarim

"Halorn," Durrin whispered. Halorn, a fellow human, had been one of Durrin's closest friends. They had spent many afternoons together, practicing, studying, or talking—always talking—of ideas and questions and stories.

The first half of the page was full of glowing reports of Halorn's diligence and achievements at the Academy. One year, he had even won the fourth-level Kymar championship.

Then came a few entries of his subsequent career for the Guild. Durrin smiled at one:

Nearly bungled a job for Nachimans the Aquamancer, resulting in a public scandal and a formal complaint from the City Chancellery. Censured.

Halorn had asked for Durrin's help getting through that mess. It had involved a hilarious fight with a punctilious snippen, then a near run-in with an old man and a crossbow. Good times.

The page ended abruptly with three entries. The first was dated to the fourteenth year of Emperor Stoneclaw's reign, the same year Durrin had undertaken his ill-fated mission to Saven.

June 8, Fourteenth Regnal Year – Halorn's whereabouts unknown. Appears to have left Imperium and is purposefully evading detection. Investigation opened.

December 2, Fourteenth Regnal Year – Search for Halorn unfruitful. Investigation suspended.

September 12, Seventeenth Regnal Year – Investigation reopened at the Guild Council's request.

June 17, Eighteenth Regnal Year – Halorn located on a small farm in Caradell. Claims he has renounced pyromancy. Deemed to pose no security threat. Investigation closed.

Durrin stared at the page, relief mixing with confusion in his gut. Halorn, at least, was still alive. But what did these entries mean? "Purposefully evading detection"? "Renounced pyromancy"? Yes, Halorn had been uncomfortable with certain types of work the Guild assigned. But he had absolutely loved the art of pyromancy itself.

Durrin crossed the room to where a large map hung on the wall. Caradell—there it was, little more than a village, about a day and a half's ride from Imperium. He could journey there and back in three days and still make his appointment with Salidar.

Durrin was about to return the volume to the shelf when a thought came to him. Opening the codex again, Durrin thumbed through the pages, glancing only at the names. Reaching the end of his cohort, he frowned and looked through the section again, careful to not skip any pages.

His name wasn't there.

He leafed through the section one more time, slowly. Halfway through, a ragged line of paper marked where a page had been torn out.

His page.

He fingered the stub of paper left, examining the torn edge. It looked like the page had been ripped out a long time ago—several years ago, most likely.

Durrin stared at the torn page for several heartbeats. Then he slammed the book closed, returned it to its shelf, and strode to the door.

It was time to find an old friend. And when he did, he had some questions.

Besides—if he stuck around in Imperium with nothing to do, who knew what trouble he could get himself into? He might do something rash, like break into the Academy archives.