After being shown to a lavish room and offered a hearty meal, Sylvia decided to explore. It was raining now, but the rumble of thunder was still distant. Surrounded by stone buildings, she was not particularly worried about the coming storm.

Brofäste was truly a marvel. With the exception of the occasional warehouse, the waterside was reserved for a broad band of cut stone paving. It provided plenty of space for market stalls and goods. The roads leading further into each district were lined with stables, inns, and shops. There were cobblers and smiths, chandlers and tailors, every and any equipment one could need. Sylvia eyed the many wares on display in windows and under awnings. In the window of one small workshop, she found a heart shaped pendant with a red crystal embedded at its centre. It looked much the same as the one hanging around her neck.

Sylvia stuck her head through the door. “Excuse me.”

An old and bald man sat by a workbench just past the door. He glanced up ever so shortly and then returned his attention to the braiding of a leather bracelet. “Come on in. Have a look around.”

Sylvia stepped inside and turned to the display of jewellery. Upon closer inspection of the golden heart, she was sure. This was indeed the man who had made the pendant that Rebecca had purchased for her.

“The necklace is for a lover”, the jeweller said. “If you give it to your love, they will remember you forever.”

Sylvia hovered a hand over her neck. The necklace sure seemed to do that. Rebecca still ghosted in her mind. She looked over the selection of chains and rings sharing the display. Finding a curious pitch black ring, she picked it up and noticed just how heavy it was.

“Blackstone? You work it? How is that possible?”

“Do not bother an old craftsman”, the jeweller evaded.

Sylvia reached into the pocket of her jacket and produced the blackstone disc from Nyberg. Holding it out to him, she urged, “Did you make this?”

The old man looked at the disc for a long moment, and then at Sylvia. His brows furrowed. “Where did you get that?”

“It belonged to Rebecca AriIngemar.”

“Belonged?”, the craftsman repeated.

“She died in a Wolf raid earlier this year.”

“I am sorry to hear it”, the man said. “You should return that to her father. It is the house sigil.”

Sylvia shook her head.

The man nodded in understanding. “That explains why Sepp has not sent anything in a while.” He inspected Sylvia through his small round eyes. “You are from Nyberg I assume?”

“I am”, Sylvia confirmed.

“Good stone. Bad metal. How bad is it?”

“I am the only survivor as far as I am aware”, Sylvia answered.

“You have my sympathy…”

“Sylvia Fri.”

“Sylvia. I am Yrian.”

“Yrian. How do you work blackstone?”, Sylvia asked again.

“Who made your boots?”, Yrian countered.

“I do not know”, Sylvia answered honestly. “If I did, I would tell you. Please, teach me how you cut blackstone.”

“Oh no”, Yrian laughed. He shook his head. “Even if you could cut it, you have no practice. You would ruin the material. It will be difficult enough to get a useful supply now.”

Spotting a fist sized blackstone lying on a nearby shelf, Sylvia pointed to it. “How much is this piece worth?”

“Now, ten mark. When I am done with it, fifteen”, Yrian said pointedly.

Sylvia counted out twenty mark in silver and copper and put it down on the workbench. “I will buy the blackstone and compensate you for your instruction.”

Yrian eyed the money, counting it from a distance. “You would need a knife.”

Sylvia pulled out her dagger.

“No no. A knife.” Yrian nodded at a small carving knife. “One mark.”

Well aware that the price was a mockery, Sylvia added another mark worth to the pile without hesitation. Yrian watched her for a long moment. Sylvia held his gaze. If he could at all be persuaded, she was determined to know his secret.

Yrian sighed into his beard and lay down the leather band he was braiding. “Okay. For this price, I will show you.” He motioned toward a table in the back of his shop. “Get me the wooden knife, would you? And a stone for demonstration.”

Leaving Afi at the door, Sylvia walked past the old man. She retrieved a small blackstone from an open box, as well as the silverwood knife which lay beside it. It looked like an overly fancy letter opener, all wood, and neatly carved. She turned it over in her hand and noticed a slight shimmer dancing over the edge. It was definitively more than a toy. Giving the implement to Yrian, she pulled up a stool and sat down beside him to watch.

Getting a good firm grip on the hilt of the knife, Yrian put it to the side of the little stone and shaved a piece off. He turned the stone and repeated the motion, letting another thin strip of stone fall onto the table. Eyes glued on his knobby hands, Sylvia watched him strip more and more off the sides until but a slender cylinder remained, no thicker than a cord. He sharpened one end to a tip and pierced the other with the tip of the knife, creating an ear. Holding the pitch black needle up demonstratively, Yrian turned his attention back to Sylvia.

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He did not get the astounded expression he had hoped for. Sylvia all but glared at the needle in his hand, her mind reeling to understand what just happened. She picked up a sliver of stone from the table. She felt its rigid unchanging structure under her fingers. Then, her gaze fell on the wooden knife still clutched in Yrian’s hand.

“You are channelling magic through the whisperwood to cut it”, she concluded.

“Why yes”, Yrian confirmed in surprise.

“Can you teach me?”

“With all due respect, Fri, but magic is not simply taught.”

“I have affinity”, Sylvia said.

Yrian raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

Sylvia scanned the room. “Afi. The door.”

Afi came inside, pulling the wide doors shut behind himself.

Deprived the natural light of day, the room dimmed around them. Yrian’s small eyes followed Sylvia with all the curiosity of a child when she walked over to the furnace. Her face tinted yellow and red from the fire, Sylvia straightened her back. Holding out a hand and taking a deep breath, she focused on the heat of the flames threatening her skin. She could almost feel the pain of the sticky fire burning on her palm again. Just as she had done it back then to ignite the weapon, she focused on her anger. She stared into the coals and brought back memories of her home, of the burned stables, the ashes. Clenching her teeth, she lifted her hand and the fire followed, flaring up and lashing for her fingers. Her shadow danced across the walls and heat billowed through the workshop. Exhaling slowly, Sylvia let her hand fall and the fire sputtered momentarily, before easing back into its bed.

“You do indeed”, Yrian commented. “I would be honoured to share what I know with you.”

Sylvia’s face lit up. “Thank you.”

Yrian motioned her back to the stool beside him. Sylvia took the blackstone and the knife she had purchased from him. Curling her fingers around the hilt, she gave him an expectant look.

“Blackstone is unique in its uniformity”, Yrian began. “It is always smooth and contains no impurities. For all intents and purposes, it is a crystal. The exception is that it can withstand incredible force. You cannot chisel it. You can, however, use intent to alter it.” He picked up one of the blackstone slivers littering the table. He placed the edge of the wooden knife against it, and a shimmer travelled from his hand to the tip of the wooden blade. “I intend for the stone to be soft and pliable. This, I channel in order for the blackstone to yield.” He made a small indentation.

“What is the purpose of the whispered knife?”, Sylvia inquired.

“It is easier to channel magic through it, but it is by no means a necessity.”

“What feeling is associated with making the stone pliable?”, Sylvia asked.

Yrian chuckled. “I see you have not had any formal instruction.”

“No”, Sylvia admitted.

“Emotional casting is often where a young mage begins, but it is not very efficient, and it is dangerous to your soul to relive certain things. Asking for someone else’s emotion also does not work. If you use emotion to cast, you will have to identify each and every thing for yourself. If, however, you learn to cast with pure intent, you can pick up skills from other mages and control magic with precision.”

“How do you do that? What is pure intent?”

“Do you ever pray?”, Yrian asked.

“Yes. We had a god in Nyberg.”

“I know”, Yrian smiled. “Do you feel emotional when you pray?”, he prompted.

“Not usually”, Sylvia said. “And prayer is also magic”, she added in understanding. “I thought emotional prayers were more powerful?”

“They are. But they are also volatile.”

“How do I focus a prayer? How do I make it…not just swirl around in the air?”, Sylvia asked, motioning a circle over her head.

“That is what a priest does, directing the prayer of others. A mage is only marginally different. A mage directs their own magic.”

“But how?”

Yrian grimaced. “How to explain that?”, he mumbled. “How did you direct the fire just now? It reached for your hand, did it not? Why your hand?”

Sylvia turned her hand, showing him the discoloured scar tissue. “I felt the warmth in my hand before I cast.”

“Exactly”, Yrian nodded. “You sensed the magic. You channelled it to your palm before you cast.”

“I think I understand”, Sylvia nodded.

“The knife is no different. Focus your intent on it, through it. Feel the knife. Feel the stone yielding to it. Then cast.”

Sylvia tried to follow his instructions. She focused on her intent to shape the stone, prayed silently, but also tried to force the magic along the knife in her hand rather than letting it swirl around her head. It was an elusive process, but at the same time a highly instinctual one. At times, she simply got it and it was the most self-evident thing imaginable, and at other times she did not understand at all, and the entire thing seemed dubious at best. Yrian watched her work with placid patience even though she only managed to make a single dent in the blackstone. They kept at it until lightning brightened the sky.

“We should return before it is over us”, Afi urged.

Sylvia nodded in agreement. Turning to Yrian, she asked, “Before I leave, I would like to ask. You made more of those heart pendants, right?”

“If you are asking, I assume you have one?”, Yrian returned the question.

Sylvia reached into her neckline and pulled the silver chain up.

Yrian took a close look at the pendant and hummed. “I see she grew into a beautiful woman. So you are the one she chose.” Meeting Sylvia's eyes, he wondered, “Have you been sleeping well?”

“You could say that. I thought it was much too vivid to be just a dream. I could not explain it. It is magical. Literally.”

“I am glad it works.”

“I am confused about one thing”, Sylvia said. “I first dreamt of her before I found the necklace. She had intended it for me, but she never got the chance to give it to me.”

“Were you close by?”, Yrian asked.

“Somewhat”, Sylvia answered. “A few hours by horse.”

At that, Yrian frowned. He looked between the pendant and Sylvia. “Interesting. I am afraid I cannot explain that. You may have a more keen affinity than you realise.”

Sylvia hid the necklace under her clothes again. “Thank you for all of this.”

“I wish to ask you something as well before you leave here. Are you serious about crowning a new king?”

“We are”, Sylvia confirmed.

“No. Are you?”, Yrian asked again, pointing at her.

“Do you not think it would be for the best?”

“That does not answer my question”, Yrian insisted.

Sylvia straightened her back. “I lost everything at the hand of Wolves. I will stop at nothing to drive back those bandits and make Sev into the safe and beautiful country that I have read about in history books. Currently, I believe the best way to do that is to crown Oskar AudOlafsson.”

Yrian took the knife Sylvia had purchased from her and gave her the wooden one in its stead.

“Are you sure?”, Sylvia asked.

“I still have a little whisperwood. I can make another”, Yrian confirmed. “Keep practising, but be careful not to overdo it. Casting does strain the soul. Controlling your intent is crucial.”

“Thank you. I will heed your words.”

Sylvia pocketed the knife and the stone, making sure they lay secure and hidden in her jacket.

“You are not headed for Anderjärn by any chance?”, Yrian asked.

“No, but if everything goes to plan, we might be travelling there next year.”

“If you do, see Andreas and Lennart. Give them my regards and ask about their ring. You may find it helpful.”

Sylvia bowed low in gratitude.

Yrian smiled. “Be safe.”

“You as well.”

Leaving the workshop, Afi and Sylvia hurried back to the LiljaKnut estate. Back inside the grand hall, Afi shook the rain off his clothes. Sylvia was breathing hard, resting a hand over her chest.

“Are you okay?”

“I am fine”, Sylvia sighed. Feeling Afi’s worry, she smiled. “I am just tired.”

“Good thing we have proper beds tonight.”

“Oh yes. A mattress and a pillow. I cannot wait.”