"Alright, do you feel it at the tip of your fingers?"
He did feel it at the tip of his fingers – and then in his arms, his ribs, his head, magic humming through his muscles and winding them taut. It thrummed between his teeth, the taste of ozone permeating his mouth and nostrils and his lungs were cold with something he could only describe as power as it all seemed to build to a crescendo, black lightning sparking at his fingertips.
"Now release."
The energy punched out of him, filling him with a burning pressure as his fingers snapped outwards and released a sheet of lightning towards the target. There was a flash of violet light and the cacophonous sound of electricity surging, the smell of ozone and the sensation of heat in his palms. Cyrus barely had time to register what was happening, the sheer size of the spell crashing over him like a tidal wave and pulling more power from his bones than he had thought possible. For a moment the sizzling black seemed to cast his whole world into darkness, like the crack of a lightning bolt lighting up the night sky, only in reverse.
And then, for a moment, he didn’t see anything.
He heard the muffled call of his trainer's strained voice, his pupils slowly adjusting to the glare of sunlight coming through the branches of the trees above. Cyrus blinked, aware of the pain in his jaw as his tongue twisted painfully to say something, but nothing came out. He reached a shaking hand up to rub at his eyes and glanced around the garden as his vision returned to him.
Something was wrong.
The dummy was wrecked, sparks of violet still smouldering in its wooden core, its outer layers of insulation flayed wide open. Plants, unkempt but previously healthy and alive, had been charred to nothingness behind it, a swath of charcoal black and ashen grey smeared across the garden. Even the wall of the estate was still sparking, chunks of wooden eaves dropping one by one to paint the ground with ash.
"Sir, are you— Arkas!" Oswick's voice cut off with a hiss and a curse, diverting his attention away from the destruction and towards the figure in his periphery. The mage had one knee on the ground and was clutching at his spasming right arm with a grimace.
Cyrus stumbled to his feet and rushed forward, only for Oswick to grit out a "wait," that froze him awkwardly in place just a foot away. His tutor's face was drawn and pinched, a faint wisp of smoke rising from where the muscle of his arm twitched against the skin of his wrist. Cyrus swallowed heavily and dropped his hands to his sides to rifle through his inner pockets, searching frantically for one of the many potions Darius had foisted on him.
"No!" Oswick gasped as soon as he reached out to hand one to him, causing Cyrus's stomach to swoop and the potion to nearly slip from his fingers.
His mind was still reeling, thoughts stuttering and stalling while he tried his hardest to understand what and why and how, but he knew – this was his fault.
If he hadn't asked for an instructor, this wouldn't have happened. If he hadn't insisted on going outside the estate before he was better prepared, he wouldn't have been attacked. If he hadn't failed to defend himself in the marketplace, his lessons wouldn't have been accelerated. If he – if he had paid better attention, if he hadn't overestimated – underestimated –
Someone was injured and it was his fault.
"You shouldn't to-touch," Oswick coughed, unaware of the way his student’s mind was racing out of control. "The magic is still – hah – sparking, if you touch me it'll shock you too. Just toss it over, alright?"
The words "I didn't mean to" were stuck in Cyrus's throat, but he tossed the bottle anyway, the motion jerky and hesitant as his mind scrambled to grasp onto any explanation. The bottle landed short and knocked against the mage's knee; Oswick released his twitching arm in order to pick it up, popping the cork out with his thumb and downing the liquid.
Between the tears of his singed sleeve, the slightly charred redness of his skin faded rapidly until a pink, raw-looking blister was all that remained, nothing worse than a light burn. Oswick closed his eyes, face twisted in concentration, and quick gust of wind radiated out from him with the crack of a small sonic boom, small sparks of electricity exploding out from him in a rush.
Finally he tipped his head back with a long, wavering sigh of relief. Cyrus moved closer again, hands hovering uncertainly as his tutor stumbled to his feet.
"It's fine," Oswick said, holding up a placating hand. "I just – I don't think either of us were expecting that."
"I'm sorry," Cyrus blurted as he watched him crouch down and pick up a piece of debris from the practice dummy. "I didn't mean–"
"It's alright," Oswick rubbed his head as he sighed, grimacing as the residual static charge clung to his hand. "This was partially my oversight, I think."
He turned the debris over, poking at the warped edges of the rubbery hide and looking reluctantly impressed.
"Power without control isn't usually something people have to worry about," he laughed weakly, "since beginners can only fire off a few sparks. But you're not a beginner, technically – I should have expected this.
"These targets won't do for future lessons, then, but it's hard to find other substances that absorb lightning magic rather than reflecting it... maybe if we have them reinforced by the Academy's enchanters between sessions, or bring on someone skilled in shielding techniques as a buffer..."
Oswick's mumbling grew quieter as he shuffled towards the destruction with a dazed look in his eyes. Cyrus reached for his uninjured arm on impulse before he could move any further, but his tutor flinched as soon as his fingers met his wrist, and retracted his hand just as quickly.
"You don't have to keep working," Cyrus choked out, eyes darting to the scorched wreckage. "You should... you should take the rest of the day off. See a healer."
The way Oswick inclined his head gave the impression that he agreed, but the set of his shoulders and the wrinkling of his brow suggested otherwise.
"I have my duty to the Count," he hedged. "Incidents like this aren't unheard of when working with magic..."
Cyrus pursed his lips and forced himself to stand up straighter, chin raised in his best approximation of prideful nobility.
"You are going to take the rest of the day off, and that is an order." He considered it a victory when his voice only wavered the slightest bit.
His instructor nodded in reluctant acquiescence, a sad smile curving his lips as he stepped over to join Cyrus away from the ruined target.
"All right, then. Let's go back inside."
The charred remains of the garden could be dealt with another day, after all.
Cyrus let out a shuddery breath as he strode briskly back to his room, the clacking of his heeled boots reverberating off the hallway’s marble floors. The moment the door shut behind him, he pressed the heels of both hands against his forehead, breathing hard.
He'd resolved to take this world seriously; that even if there was the smallest, most minuscule chance of it being reality it was better to be safe than killed. The first few days had even been exciting, no matter how much he’d had to mask his curiosity and enthusiasm under a clumsy copy of the original Cyrus's aloof disdain.
But the longer he stayed – the more time passed without him waking up in his bed, at home – that chance seemed to grow alongside the cold pit of dread curling in his chest. And now his hopes of this being a particularly long and vivid dream had been all but shattered.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
People, places, new information; in the end he could still find reflections of them in what he already knew; could argue that his mind could conjure them if he really tried. But never, not once in his life, had he felt anything even resembling that terrifying surge of power.
So – this was real.
And if this world was real, what did that mean for him?
----------------------------------------
"I still think you should take someone with you," Darius fretted, watching Cyrus lay his traveling supplies out on the table. "Just one guard, come on."
The hovering was understandable, really, considering the number of incidents his brother had been involved in over the past week alone. It did not make it any less irritating, especially when said brother had no plans to budge an inch.
Cyrus had made it clear several times now that he was doing this, whether the fretful Count approved of it or not. If he was going to get acclimated to this world, if he was going to learn how to control the magical prowess he’d found himself saddled with without hurting anybody else, he was going to do it in the time-honoured tradition of every RPG character: by grinding experience against low level mobs.
"I showed you the wildlife survey of the area, Darius. If a muninhive manages to kill me I wouldn't have deserved to live in the first place."
Utility knife, short sword, dagger, secondary hidden dagger, and oh, that cloak won't do; too flashy. Was there anything in his wardrobe that didn't come threaded with silver?
"I don't care about the damned birds," the Count groused, sounding almost petulant. "What if there's thieves? Bandits?"
"Then I'll toss a coin purse and fry them while they're distracted. Really, what kind of bandits would operate next to such a dinky farming village." Cyrus rolled his eyes dismissively. "I doubt any of the villagers have ever held more than ten gold at a time."
Darius glared at the spread of supplies, scuffing the toe of his boot against the carpet. He was resolutely ignored as Cyrus reached deep into the ebony wardrobe to blindly feel for anything bare of embroidery and stitched-in jewels. Finally his fingers met what felt like plain worsted wool, which he pulled out with a triumphant noise.
Oh for crying out loud, it was still hemmed with metallic lace trim. At least the fabric itself was largely unadorned – he suspected that alongside the black velvet half-cloak he'd unearthed earlier this might well be the best he could do. He'd never had to expend so much effort to dress down.
"I've packed your travel rations, sir!"
The enthusiastic voice belonged to Lacey, who bustled through the doorway in the same busy manner as ever. Where the Count had worriedly responded to his travel plans with endless hemming and hawing, Lacey seemed to have channeled that same worry into actual help, directing him from one corner of the south wing to another so he could browse his "forgotten" belongings for weapons and enchanted artifacts.
"Thank you, Lacey, please put it on the dresser."
Her eagerness to help was particularly gratifying when she passed the Count with nary a glance to set down the hefty pack. Darius, for his part, seemed completely baffled by the lack of regard.
"Did you find the boots, sir? What about the map?" she asked, trotting up to his side to peer over the items on the tabletop.
"The boots and the map," he confirmed with a distracted wave. "And the sentry stone was in the western storeroom, the one with the peonies outside."
"I could have given you a sentry stone," Darius grumbled.
"I'm sure you could have," Cyrus mollified, draping the cloak over a chair. "But you were already so busy saddling me with potions, and if I carry any more bottles I'm afraid the clinking alone will drive me insane."
Despite himself, the Count snorted.
Having conceded in the battle to find a suitable travel cloak, Cyrus allowed Lacey to help him pack the bag for his journey. He had thought some of his supplies would need to be left behind, but through some wizardry in the way she rolled the clothes and balanced out the items like puzzle pieces his pack was even left with a little bit of room to spare. It was perhaps the most impressive thing he'd seen all day. Lacey checked every item twice as she arranged everything neatly, fiddling with the last buckle as she pinned the ends of the pouches closed.
"Oh, that's right – please take this, your Lordship!"
He placed a hand out instinctively, expecting another potion of some sort, or perhaps a lantern or other tool he'd forgotten, only to be gifted with a narrow metal cylinder. Looking up, he met her gaze with a puzzled stare.
"Right, so, there's only six of them in the case but I thought that would probably be enough – for emergencies, of course," she hastened to add. "It takes maybe a minute to take effect, so if you accidentally catch yourself on one – please be careful – then in the bottom compartment, right here, there's an antidote vial, but these are usually for professionals so there's only one dose."
"A – an antidote?" Cyrus repeated blankly.
"For the poison needles, of course," Lacey clarified, her eyes wide and innocent. For a moment silence seemed to descend on the room, both men staring at her in bewilderment.
Cyrus popped the cap at the top of the cylinder and peered in – at the six silver needles holstered inside. He immediately snapped it shut.
"... Of course. How silly of me," he replied hoarsely. "Where did you get these, exactly?"
"Oh, you know," came Lacey's vague response, having already moved on to arrange the potions in her Lord's pouch by weight and purpose. "I thought, if you ever found yourself fighting wild animals in the forest – well, you can't always rely on magic, and sometimes they're just so big... Anyway, better safe than sorry!"
That... wasn't really an answer to his question. He met Darius's eyes across the room, who gave him a dazed look and a one-shouldered shrug.
"Er... Thank you.” He offered his gratitude with an awkward smile and received a beaming grin from the maid in response.
She closed the final pouches, brushed her hands together briskly, and then held the bag out by the strap with an expectant look.
"Are you ready to go, then, sir?"
"I suppose so," Cyrus replied, shrugging on the worsted coat and reaching out to take the bag from her hands. He fastened it around his waist and thigh, the leather conforming to his leg's contours like a second skin. Finally he took his pack and slim bedroll from the table and slung them over his shoulders.
Darius began to shake his head, opening and closing his mouth as though to fuss over him one more time. He stopped, though, and simply sighed. "Hold on, don't leave just yet."
The exasperation in his voice rang of defeat, so Cyrus felt safe in pausing in his departure. Darius ran a hand through his hair with a resigned sigh.
"Here," he said, sliding something out of his breast pocket. "You weren't planning on taking a carriage all the way there, were you?"
The item he'd plucked out was no larger than a coin, which he tossed in Cyrus's direction – who almost fumbled the catch but recovered it before it could hit the ground. It was a half-disc, lilac and faintly translucent, probably carved from some sort of precious stone. Running his thumb across the sigils engraved on its smooth surface caused it to hum ever so slightly in his hand.
"... What is this?"
Darius smiled ruefully at him. "You're really not inspiring much confidence, you know. Fine, fine; it's a key to the Gate. We only have the two of them, so don't you dare lose it.
"The closest one is still around a day or two's walk from that little spit of a village you want to visit, but it's a damn sight better than hitching rides from carriage to carriage. Honestly, were you going to leave without the keystone just to prove a point?"
Cyrus would have bristled at Darius's accusation if he wasn’t so busy tamping down his excitement. He hadn't factored the Gate into his travel plans at all, not out of pride, dislike or anything of the sort, but simply because a license to use it was prohibitively expensive, something only ever used by kingdom officials or the absurdly rich. Somehow he’d failed to process the fact that “absurdly rich” was now a category that included him too.
Cyrus suppressed his bubbling excitement and slipped the keystone into his inner pocket, smiling at Darius in thanks. He received a harrumph and a reluctantly fond expression in return.
"Go on, get out of here before I change my mind," he grumbled as he crossed his arms. "Be back within the fortnight, got it? Don't think I won't send out a search party if you're late."
Oh, Cyrus didn’t doubt it for a minute.
"Don't trouble yourself on my account, your Lordship," he chuckled.
"Really, though." Darius dropped the levity from his tone as he continued, staring Cyrus directly in the eye. "Memories or not, I only have the one brother. If anything happens to you..."
The leather strap of his pack creaked under Cyrus's hand as his grip tightened, guilt pooling in his stomach.
"I know. I'll be fine, Darius."
Finally satisfied, the Count gave him a nod. "Alright, get out of here; go have fun doing whatever it is people do in the wilderness."
What would be worse, Cyrus wondered as he adjusted his pack; the Count never knowing his brother was gone, or finding out that his brother had all but died and his body couldn't even be buried, since a stranger had stolen it instead? He affixed a stiff smile to his face and gave a nod to Lacey and the Count, finally moving to depart.
"Good luck, my Lord!" Lacey called after him as he left.
"And don't forget your homework!" Darius added, shouting in jest.
With his back to the people seeing him off, Cyrus let the expression slip from his face and sighed, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. It was going to be fine.
As long as he laid eyes on the Hero at the village of Goldacre, he'd be able to confirm once and for all that the life he did remember was real too, and not the delusional byproduct of illusory magic having fractured the previous Cyrus’s mind.
And no matter the result, he was going to get stronger.
----------------------------------------
Days later, the dampness of the earth soaked into his knees as he knelt on the mossy, packed-dirt path, oaks rustling overhead as the cold light of early dawn peeked through their branches. Cyrus's dagger wavered over the old monk's body before he finally lowered the tip to rest over the man’s chest, the red of the body's eviscerated abdomen becoming more vibrant in the morning light for every moment he hesitated.
If he didn’t do this the old man would have died for nothing. He'd already died for nothing, but at least this way Cyrus might be able to make sure his purpose was fulfilled, might use the monk’s abilities and complete his story on his behalf. And if he didn’t, everything would be ruined.
The noise that escaped him could be either a sob or a laugh; Cyrus didn’t care to figure it out. Bracing himself, he tightened his grip on the dagger and drove it in.
When he'd decided he needed to get stronger, this wasn't what he’d meant at all.