Seybasha 7, 346 AOR
Beneath a blood-soaked full moon, bathed in blood not our own and doused in a torrent of rain, death was inescapable.
They didn’t know that only two of the six would survive the night. They didn’t know that the other four would perish in ways one would not wish on their most hated of enemies. They didn’t know that their enemies would be demons disguised as humans, their desire to kill more palpable than the blood that painted the party of six’s bodies red.
They didn’t know.
It was a simple mission: Investigate a group of bandits who were causing problems in the western sector of the Throle Woods, where a handful of citizens went to gather ingredients for medicinal herbs.
Because of the village’s lack of militiamen at the time, they held off on looking into it, but after Mr. Lee had been murdered, they couldn’t hold off any longer.
The six hadn’t even planned to engage, simply observe. Unfortunately, the night before they were set to return home, they were ambushed at their campsite, forcing them back into the woods as the bandits had flanked from the Southern Fields.
Lyka had died first, and it was his scream that awoke the rest. Seconds later, they were surrounded by over forty enemies, each craving to get their bloodied hands on the militiamen. Cal was separated from Damian and Dirah, forcing him to fight alongside the two rookies who had begged to join the simple reconnaissance mission—Revoul and Fana.
Revoul was a boy, fifteen years old—one year older than Cal at the time—and only with the militia for a month. He’d been ecstatic to join the ragtag defenders of Markstead, Damian his inspiration.
Cal liked him because of that.
He was the second to die… an arrow just above his heart, followed by the amputation of both his arms by an axe-wielding fiend. Cal could only blink away the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes. Revoul wasn’t the first ally he’d seen die, but he was the first one that Cal felt he had some sort of connection to, one founded on their respect and admiration of Damian Gray.
Given enough time, he might’ve been Cal’s first friend.
On the other hand, Fana was a mother of two who joined the militia after her husband passed away from pneumonia just two months prior. She claimed she needed to be strong enough to protect her children—the youngest five and the oldest twelve—in place of her husband.
It was admirable, but she would sadly meet a fate far worse than Revoul.
The party wouldn’t figure it out until the second night of the mission… Fana was pregnant with her third child, four months along.
When Cal saw Fana get impaled by three spears from a horde of the enemy, he felt his soul perish. She would die… as would her unborn child. It couldn’t be a worse situation… or so he ignorantly thought. It was childish—immature—of him to honestly think these people would be satisfied with merely killing her.
It was while he was defending himself from a group of bandits that one of the others—a woman—shouted that Fana was pregnant, hunger in her dilated eyes.
They were demons. Demons who killed a woman then proceeded to cut her baby out of her womb and throw it to the ground.
He… still can’t forget what followed.
It was that sight that engraved the desire to kill in Cal’s heart and soul.
He had killed before—plenty of times, in fact; however, with each swing of the dagger, each life he took, there was a sense of remorse in his actions.
But, as he watched men and women alike violate a dead woman and parade atop her unborn child in the pouring rain of that night in Hell, Cal felt the piece of his soul begging him to stay righteous—to stay sane—break off and become engulfed in hatred.
The hatred he held for those who were evil was unmatched. He hated those who killed for sick satisfaction, selfishly believing they could take that which they did not possess—one’s life.
He vowed then to kill them all. Every evil person who harmed that which he cherished. He would kill them all without a second thought. That’s what he vowed to himself that night. Maybe it made him a hypocrite, maybe it didn’t, but Cal knew that his actions were backed by justice, not some sick satisfaction.
He was different than them. They were evil. He was not.
The bloodlust and adrenaline he had felt was the only thing that allowed him to come out alive. Of course, it wasn’t without injury. He sustained many wounds: his left shoulder from a sword that punctured right through both sides, his back from a slash that went from his neck to waist, and his leg as it had been broken by a man who stepped on it in during a frenzied altercation with three other enemies.
Cal’s fury and abhorrence drove him forward, allowing him to kill fifteen people, none of which left the world under warm, comforting eyes. They died cold, miserable deaths.
He had walked then, practically stumbling, to find Damian and Dirah. When he did, they were in worse condition than him.
On top of losing his eye, a large laceration marred his chest, running diagonally from his left rib to his right shoulder. His right arm was clearly broken, and his left ankle was not fairing any better. Yet he still swung his axe with his single good arm. On the other hand, Damian—dark brown hair matted to his head and green eyes half-closed as blood seeped into them—had lost his left arm, meaning the shield he always carried was irrelevant. His right leg was also shattered, leaving it useless to even stand on; however, driven to see the morning suns once more, he still stood.
When Cal neared them, there were still a dozen enemies across the way. Cal’s adrenaline had worn off, causing his body to burn in pain as he unsheathed his right dagger. He would not run from the fight. Even if he were on the brink of death, he wouldn’t allow his father and Dirah to fight alone.
He’d be strong.
That’s what he was taught, after all.
But he wouldn’t get the chance. His father shared a look with Dirah. No words were spoken in the few seconds they stared at one another. However, when Dirah nodded to Damian and began to back up toward Cal, he understood what was happening.
He tried to run around Dirah, but the veteran was faster and stronger than Cal, even in their injured states. Unable to escape Dirah’s clutches, Cal slammed down on the former’s clearly broken arm. Dirah didn’t budge as Cal shed tears like a baby crying for its mother. He begged and begged for his father to come with them, to stop with the heroic bullshit. Despite that, Damian merely turned around, smiling as he always did, and said the words that became a mantra in Cal’s mind ever since.
“Only you… can bear the burden of it all, my son… I love you, forever and always.”
After that, he turned to the enemy—sword raised and a roar escaping from the depths of his soul—before charging the hoard.
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Asabasha 20, 350 AOR
“You’ve yet to tell me why you’re doing this, or how you know about my father…” Cal said, the duo’s trek toward the Arclyde Mountains well underway as they walked a dirt road surrounded entirely by waist-tall grass.
The forest technically started within Markstead, near the training ring, but it wrapped around the northern point before meshing into the larger part of the thick, shadowed woods, meaning the most efficient route was a four-hour walk through the Southern Fields, followed by two hours of traversing the forest to the place Cal had last seen his father. He’d have to deal with Airetore for at least twelve hours… all without sleep.
Following Cal’s annoyed sigh, Airetore hummed. “I’ve told you that my desire is to rid this world of darkness. Regarding your father, however, I don’t know him. The only reason you and I stand where we do today is because you two were unfortunate enough to run into what could possibly be Dark Magic. Had it been anyone else, we would have never met, and I would have been following the other few leads I possess.”
The sounds of nature surrounded them as Glowders flew in and out of the tall grass like a fish in water, the light atop the button-sized bugs’ antennas flashing rapidly, but faintly. Cal eventually responded.
“Was this one the best?”
“Best lead?” Airetore clarified before inhaling sharply. “I suppose. If you want me to be honest, there were some hints in Kroath and Volmier. The former is impenetrable, however, because of the witches’ superior aptitude in the Magic Arts, and the lead in Volmier is simply too small compared to this one.”
“So you can be humble?” Cal said. “And here I thought the Sixth Sage was unstoppable.”
“Your mouth is as fowl as your attitude, brat,” Airetore quipped. “The strongest men are capable of knowing when they’ll be bested, and rumor has it that one of Kroath’s witches is an Archon. I‘d rather not partake in a contest with whoever that lady may or may not be.”
“That’s another rank, right? What even are they?”
Airetore snagged a piece of grass and twirled it around his finger, humming before responding. “Their classes created by the Firnmasha Artifesta.”
“The what?”
“The Firnmasha Artifesta, the foundation of modern magic, which was formed by the Licic O Furce—the Council of Ten—around four thousand years ago in the Age Of Magic. It essentially divided the twenty-six Magic Arts into six different classes from Class Six to One. This naturally classified monsters and Divine Beings as well,” he rambled, though Cal quickly interjected.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Wait. Wait. Wait,” Cal said as he looked at Airetore with furrowed brows. “You need to slow down. Licic O Furce? Divine Beings? What are you talking about?”
Airetore groaned but continued, slower this time. “Okay. The Licic O Furce is—was—a group of ten mages and magesses who were deemed the most powerful of their era. It was a secretive society that essentially regulated the Magic Arts, its teachings, and its rules. Four thousand years after their inception, they created the Firnmasha Artifesta, and less than two thousand years later, they vanished.”
“Vanished?” Cal parroted.
“Yup.”
“What do you mean vanish? How do ten of the most powerful mages and magesses just vanish?”
“It’s a mystery that’s plagued the magic world for centuries. No one knows. Some think they didn’t exist while others do. I’m a believer of the latter, but there are very few records of their existence, making it difficult to be one.”
“So why believe?”
“Why not? It’s an entertaining thought,” Airetore said with a shrug before cutting through Cal’s next question. “Now, the Firnmasha Artifesta came with some… side effects—so to say—as monsters and Divine Beings were included in the classification. The former, however, went from numbered classes to lettered ones. For instance—”
“The weakest creatures and animals are considered F-Class. It then goes from D to A before implementing S-Class creatures, which are the most powerful.” Cal stepped over Airetore this time, taking silent enjoyment in seeing Airetore falter.
The professor quickly scrubbed the expression off his face before looking ahead. “Right… How do you know that?”
Cal paused for a moment, not wanting to reveal too much. “My father wanted to be an adventurer, but with the lack of monsters or chances to explore, his dreams fell short. Still, he taught me all the tips and tricks of adventuring since most were survival-based anyway… I didn’t know the classes were tied to the Firnmasha Artifesta though.”
“Which then ties to the classification of the divine, omnipotent individuals that descended on Lumiriahn at the dawn of the Age Of Humanity, propelling the world into the Age Of Gods. Now, don’t worry about all that. You just need to know that as you move from Class Six to Class One, magic becomes stronger, rarer, and more difficult to learn.”
Cal sighed. “And this all connects to the ranks how?”
Airetore released an exasperated groan. “For such an apathetic fella, you sure like to talk… You’re not getting nervous about the investigation, are you?” the professor jibed with a grin.
“Shut it,” Cal sniped as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
He ignored the fact that with each step they took—closer and closer to the woods—his heart did in fact begin to squeeze tighter and tighter. The clamminess of his palms couldn’t be ignored either. Much to Cal’s relief, Airetore didn’t pester him any longer. Maybe a rare showing of kindness to ease Cal’s worries.
“This is where it can get confusing, so listen well, brat,” Airetore said, reminding Cal that the former was indeed a professor of international renown, supposedly. “Within each class, there are Arcane Ranks, which are earned by the mastery of a Magic Art within the class. The Elemental class’ ranks consist of Novice, Adept, Artisan, Expert, Master, and Paragon. Other classes have fewer Magic Arts, so the number of ranks decreases as you go up. But for instance, if you were to master Fire Magic, you would be considered a Novice Elemental; of course, if you then mastered Water Magic, you would then be promoted to an Adept Elemental. Are you following me?”
“Every mastery of a Magic Art, you get promoted?” Cal simplified.
Airetore nodded curtly. “Precisely. Every mage takes pride in their rank, so many go by their title. This also means that a mage or magess can hold multiple titles.”
“None of those mentioned the Sage rank, so where does it come in?”
“Great question, brat. That is where Paragon Ranks come in. Anyone who becomes a Paragon of a class earns that title; however, they also earn a title that proves their mastery of a Magic Class. In order, those titles are Proversum, Sage, Savant, Archon, Ascendant, and lastly, Erfum Mashum. It doesn’t matter which, any complete mastery of a class grants one the title of Proversum, and with each mastery of a class, you’re title grows.”
“That seems like a lot,” Cal muttered.
“But it’s the driving force of the magic world, forcing the magic world to evolve and become greater—to change and accept what’s foreign. When you can’t do that, you grow complacent, complacency that can then be perceived as being arrogant or prideful. And no one likes that, right?” Airetore stated with a raised finger.
Cal fell silent, glancing at Airetore until he eventually looked ahead, where the entrance to the Throle Woods soon came into sight. He withdrew his hands and tried wiping the sweat off of them, incapable of stopping his trembling heart or the cold sweat that drenched his nape like a storm of sleet. The hunger and drowsiness he had felt hours ago quickly dissipated, replaced by an emptiness in his chest that clawed at every inch of his being.
On the other hand, Airetore simply nodded, his eyes calm and frankly poised. They stopped at the wood line before the professor looked at Cal, either not seeing or not caring about his distressed disposition. “Well, you ready, brat?”
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Silence reigned within the Throle Woods.
Aside from the sounds of nature, the creek running parallel to the dirt path, the owls hooting in the trees, and the wind whispering through the trees, it was utterly silent between Cal and Airetore as they ventured deeper into the woods. Cal had never gone too deep into the Throle Woods, and in the few times he had, his life was in imminent danger, meaning there was not much time to observe. He chose to do so now.
The forest was full of many oaks with bunches of birch trees scattered throughout. There were also Orbidus Trees, their trunks long and coiled as their branches hung low like clinging hands, begging to grasp those beneath them. The Orbidus grew more numerous the deeper into the woods Cal and Airetore went, causing the path to grow thinner and less noticeable. This wasn’t helped by the thin, widespread fog layering the ground. Airetore’s confident steps were the only thing guiding him at this point while the summer night air cooled a considerable amount. Cal questioned if that’s why the hairs on his arm rose. Or maybe it was the inquisitive eyes watching him with amusement.
Something wasn’t right.
He glanced to the right. Nothing. Then the left. Still nothing.
“Airetore…” Cal called out.
He looked up. Nothing.
“Airetore,” he called out again. No response. He raised his voice this time. “Airetore!”
A rustle behind him caused Cal to freeze. Another sound, a shriek, cried out to his right. Cal grabbed one of his daggers, holding it in a reverse grip. The shaking from earlier returned, a subtle tremble that one would only notice if holding onto his arm.
“Aire—”
“A Leyleh!” the aforementioned cried out as he popped out of the mist, holding a small creature—the size of a house cat—that had tall pointed ears, a brown and cream-colored coat, and razor-sharp claws that were currently attempting to scratch Airetore’s face clean off.
The professor walked up to Cal, who was currently fighting off the part of his mind telling him to kill Airetore. Choosing the side of his mind that he often perceived as his wonderful mother’s influence, he sheathed the blade and ran his hands over his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” Cal sneered.
Airetore held out the Leyleh like it would answer Cal’s question. When it didn’t, Airetore frowned. “You looked rather petrified, so I thought I’d try and get this thing to help ease you. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve seen one of these. They’re adorable, aren’t they?”
Cal’s eyes pried themselves away from the professor, moving them to gaze at the Leyleh…
“It’s still trying to tear the skin off your ugly mug,” Cal bluntly stated.
Airetore scowled before setting the Leyleh down. The fog billowed where it ran off toward the creek. The Leyleh hopped over, coming out of the fog, just to fall back under, where Cal then noticed a pale seafoam-green glow beneath an Orbidus Tree.
Cocking his head in wonder, Cal walked toward the light, crossing the creek before standing above the strange light. Airetore joined at Cal’s side, and before Cal could properly examine, the professor conjured a pale green ball. He tossed the ball at the fog, dispersing it and revealing a bundle of bulb-shaped flowers that illuminated the base of the oddly formed tree.
Airetore hummed as he crouched down and brushed the bulb heads with his finger. “This forest just keeps on giving. And here I thought this region was useless.”
Cal’s shoulders sagged as he stepped next to Airetore and joined the professor in a crouch. “What are they?”
“Livta Fala, a flower that only grows in the Erah Isles… until now, I suppose,” Airetore explained. “They say the Erah Isles have a deep connection to Lucius—the God of Life—as humanity first formed on the world’s southmost point. The Livta Fala embodies that belief as it preserves the life of the dead, allowing Lucius to hold on to the souls of those departing from Lumiriahn and into Lady Death’s awaiting arms. In the New Language, Livta Fala simply means the Spirit Flower.”
Cal stared at the Livta Fala that spread through the forest floor, causing the usually shadowy woods to thrum with a wondrous luster as dozens of Glowders helped dot the forest. The Leyleh from earlier returned with a few others. Airetore gushed at the sight as the family of Leylehs showed off a handful of Borg Berries. Grimacing, Cal smacked Airetore’s hand once he grabbed one and nearly popped it in his mouth.
When the handsome man looked at Cal with a frown, Cal mirrored his expression. “Those are poisonous unless boiled for five minutes. Don’t eat them.”
“But they shared!” Airetore bleated.
“Because they can probably eat them as is,” Cal grounded out between clenched teeth.
“Brat…” Airetore muttered as he stood up, though not before petting each of the Leylehs and running a hand along the Orbidus in front of them. “Well… I guess you know more about these woods than I do.”
“Some things here are recognizable, but I didn’t even know what Leyleh or Livta Fala were since I’ve only been this deep one time,” Cal said as they returned to the path.
“When was that?” Airetore wondered aloud. At Cal’s silence, the professor looked at Cal before snapping his head forward and grimacing. “Right. Apologies.” When Cal still didn’t speak, Airetore let out an awkward chuckle. “Guess there wasn’t much time to sightsee, huh?”
This time, Cal did respond, though only with a murderous glare. Airetore immediately fell silent, pursing his lips and looking away before whistling a distracting tune. Cal exhaled through his nose with a huff before he jammed his hands in his pockets, clenching the fabric within. Airetore’s whistling continued for a moment, followed by a few short beats of silence.
“You’re scared.”
It wasn’t a guess, but an observation, one that Cal didn’t reply to.
“Fear is natural, you know? It’s nothing you should push away, but rather embrace. It’s rather prideful if you don’t, yeah?”
“How does rejection correlate to pride?” Cal queried.
“You never think do you, brat?” Airetore muttered, not giving Cal a chance to respond as he wagged a finger in the air. “Yes. Yes. Pride is the pleasure of accomplishment, and pride is the embodiment of the arrogant and vain, but pride is also the ego and unwillingness to change due to one’s self-image. For better or worse, those like us, prideful for all the wrong reasons, find it difficult to—”
“Those like us,” Cal repeated as he stopped in his tracks, the trembling of his body growing more apparent, and again, he couldn’t tell if it was from anger or anxiety. “You don’t know me, Airetore, and you don’t know what I’ve been through. So don’t think for one second that I’m like you. ”
Airetore had taken a few steps ahead of Cal, though he paused once Cal stopped his rambling. Once he did, he spun around, his head angled down, but his eyes firmly on Cal like a cat stalking its prey.
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Airetore calmly said as he took a step forward. Cal stepped backward. “Only someone so caught up in their own mind could speak like that. Is there a problem with it? Not at all—if you can shun the pride that holds back the truth. We don’t know each other—we’ve hardly been pleasant to one another—but it’s clear to me that you’re withdrawn, distant, and cold to anyone you don’t feel deserves it. Does that not sound prideful?”
Airetore took another step up, and Cal took another step back.
The professor continued. “Your ego is so diluted that you can’t accept anything except what you know, and though you build up these walls and try to act indifferent—” Cal’s back hit a tree as he was now cornered by Airetore, who loomed over him and snatched Cal’s shaking left hand from his pocket. “You’re utterly terrified.”
Without even thinking, like instinct alone guided him, Cal dug deep into his soul, finding the energy that made up his vitality. In his search, he found thousands of minuscule electric-blue orbs. The speed of lightning, the crash of thunder, and the desire to escape coursed through Cal’s body before a caustic sensation of static gathered around his right hand.
Before his heart could beat again, Cal threw his hastened fist at the professor, who easily caught the electric gauntlet that shrouded Cal’s fist and forearm. He twisted Cal’s arm to the point that the Lightning Magic Cal had summoned dissipated.
Cal slumped against the tree as Airetore’s grip noticeably loosened. Desperately, Cal tried calming his frantic breathing, which is when Airetore finally released him, and without wasting a breath, Airetore headed down the path they came from.
“Go home. We’ll continue when you’re not so useless.”