Asabasha 20, 350 AOR

Cal exhaled as he closed the door to Dirah’s office. Stepping into the dim room, its only light came from a large, round window opposite the door, and a lantern that hung above a wide table decorated with a world map of Lumiriahn to the right. Another map lay beneath it, displaying the continent of Lyzle where Wyze resided. To the left was also a wall of bookshelves, hundreds of books stacked neatly and securely into the shelves, courtesy of Bea. And straight ahead, bathed in the window’s sunlight, was a large mahogany desk. Atop it, dozens of papers and books lay scattered across its surface.

Dirah took his seat there as Cal and Bea moved toward the table. Markstead’s Maid stood with proper posture, back straight and arms behind her back; however, she still stood close enough to Cal to brush against his shoulder as he leaned against the table’s edge.

She was tense.

To Cal, Bea’s personality could flip at a moment’s notice: calm to annoyed, teasing to shy, happy to detached. She was a whirlwind of emotions, but only to Cal and the few she trusted wholeheartedly; outside of them, Bea carried herself in a distinguished manner, always reserved—always devoted. It was befitting for her role, but in situations like the one they found themselves in, that reserved disposition would crack—just barely.

With the appearance of this Julius Airetore, happening upon this town of little value, it was only natural for everyone to be disturbed.

“Julius Airetore,” Dirah said the name as if it were foreign to his tongue. “I apologize for the unwelcoming welcome, but given your timing, I hope you can understand our actions.”

“Of course, Lord Meld,” Airetore said, his gaze unperturbed as he stood with his hands in his pockets. “I came here on business—didn’t expect to see you reeling from an attack.”

“Very unsightly, yes,” Dirah mumbled before leaning back in his chair. The seat groaned, creaking in the silence that Dirah ended with a blunt stare. “But might I ask what favor it is you wish to discuss?”

“Business, Lord Meld,” he repeated.

“As you already stated,” Dirah leveled as he leaned forward and locked his hands together. “You come to my town following an attack that took fifteen of our people from us. Now is not the time for bullshit responses, son. Have I made myself clear?”

The man bowed his head. “Entirely so, sir.”

“Good. Then who are you?”

Airetore lifted his head, wearing a blank facade. “My name is Julius Airetore. Twenty-seven years old, born in the Erah Isles, and a professor of the Magic Arts. I came here to research a lead I’d been following, one that’s centered on the Throle Woods.”

Bea tensed up whilst Dirah glanced at Cal, whose gaze remained forward, directed at the side of Airetore’s face, watching for any signs of deceit or retaliation.

“You teach in the Magic Arts? You’re young for a professor,” Dirah pronounced.

Airetore nodded. “The average human lifespan lasts around a hundred years, so I choose not to waste mine chasing imperfection.”

“I assume you have a rank?” Dirah said while settling into his seat.

Cal’s eyes furrowed, unsure of what Dirah was talking about. Airetore, however, lifted his head just a bit higher. “I do, yes.”

“What would that be? Expert? Novice?”

“You underestimate me, Lord Meld,” Airetore said with a chuckle. “You’re looking at the Sixth Sage, a Paragon of the Elemental and Sovereign Arts.”

Dirah’s remaining eye nearly bugged out of his skull as he shot up from his seat. “Y-You’re a Sage?”

The professor nodded as he raised his left hand. On his middle finger was a platinum ring with two gems engraved into the ring’s gallery. Wrapped around the shank was writing that Cal could only surmise was the Old Language. His curiosity only grew. On the other hand, what was once wonderment and respect that flashed across Dirah’s features, now turned into harsh concern.

“Despite your title and the small amount of trust you’ve earned, that only raises my unease. Why would the Sixth Sage be in Markstead, much less interested in the Throle Woods?”

The professor fell silent, looking forward until his eyes drifted toward Cal and Bea. He looked back at Dirah. “This isn’t something I can speak of so casually, Lord Meld…”

“Good thing there’s no need to then,” Dirah quickly remarked as he nodded at Bea. “That’s my daughter… and that’s my second in command,” he said after pointing his head at Cal.

Airetore’s brows furrowed. “He hardly looks twenty. How’s a brat running this village?”

Cal’s lips nearly twisted into an unconscious scowl. Nevertheless, he remained silent as Dirah spoke. “Not the village, the militia… Cal might be eighteen, but he’s the best damn fighter in this village—aside from his mother and me. His youth makes him a better reason to head it, however.”

“You’re all soldiers.”

“Former Eldan Knights,” Dirah confirmed. “I was the platoon leader for the kid’s mother and father. He’s not a soldier by name of course, but he might as well be.”

“Papa…” Bea said, the look in her eyes silencing.

Dirah coughed into his hand. “Right. Back to the problem at hand… Why are you here and investigating the Throle Woods?”

The professor clicked his tongue before tossing Cal a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. “How deep is your understanding of Dark Magic, Lord Meld?”

At those two words, the room stilled as a sinking sensation equivalent to drowning in an infinite expanse emerged. The air was thinner, the walls felt smaller, and all of a sudden, the eyes that bore into Cal grinned. His arms uncrossed as he grabbed the edge of the table, spiders of annoyance crawling along his arms. In their wake were goosebumps whilst his arm hairs rose. A bead of sweat formed on his brow.

Dirah, nerved as he appeared, swallowed his concern and stared at Airetore with a hardened gaze. “Minimal. I remember what they taught us in the military, I know of its malevolent history, and I recall Sherman folklore surrounding it. That is all.”

“Then you know enough,” Airetore said as he placed his hands behind his back. “Dark Magic is the embodiment of cruelty and human suffering. The souls of the perished pray for the light, not because the God of Life is so kind, but because the Goddess of Death is just that much more wicked. Death itself pales in comparison to the sheer power and punishment Dark Magic instills, and it is my lifelong goal to understand this power—to keep it from destroying this already broken world. That’s why I took it upon myself to teach, to learn, and to track down the Dark Magic that litters this world.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“You can trace it?” Dirah questioned.

“Mages of my caliber can, but with each class of magic, it gets more difficult. As a class one magic—equal to only Light—Dark Magic is the most rare, the most difficult to control, and the most powerful. Even if they’re unaware of it, the average person can detect class six magic, but because of Dark Magic’s potency, it takes the most accomplished of mages to detect it.”

“How vain,” Cal muttered.

“Maybe so, but who else is going to detect and destroy Dark Magic?” Airetore snidely remarked. “You?”

Cal bit back the remark on the tip of his tongue; instead, he looked to the side, ignoring Airetore and the victorious smirk he wore.

“Anyway,” Dirah interjected. “Are you suggesting that there’s a possible connection to Dark Magic in the Throle Woods?”

“Possible?” Airetore snorted. “No, Lord Meld. I know there is. Problem is, it’s so small that I fear it might take too long to narrow it down. I can track Dark Magic, yes, but only within a certain radius. After that, it’s up to human observation to find it… and that’s why I need him.”

Cal’s brow furrowed as he stared at the lengthy digit pointing right at him. Dirah shared the same expression, utterly confused. “And why is that?”

Airetore’s arm dropped, his expression neutral. “Seybasha seventh, three-forty-six.”

As if frozen waters washed over the room, color paled from the faces of those who weren’t the handsome professor, their eyes wide and full of disbelief. However, where Dirah and Bea’s eyes seemed lost and uncertain, Cal’s were of what one would assume was anger, but at a closer look, would be fear.

He closed the distance between him and the professor, grabbing at his coat and yanking him down to meet his gaze. To Airetore’s credit, his expression didn’t change. This only caused Cal’s aggression to spike.

“What did you just say?” Cal seethed, tightening the hold on Airetore’s expensive suit.

“Get your hands off of me, brat,” Airetore said.

“Not until you tell me who you really are and how you know that date,” Cal hissed.

“Cal!” Bea shouted as she rushed toward him and grabbed his shoulder; however, as if appearing out of thin air, a sword of white appeared in Airetore’s hand as he placed it at the back of Bea’s neck, trapping her against Cal.

At the same time, however, Cal’s free hand grasped one of his blades before he pressed it to Airetore’s neck. Meanwhile, Dirah remained frozen behind the desk, his single eye wide as he couldn’t make a move in the situation. Stuck in a position he put himself in, Cal glared at the professor, who looked back without a shred of concern.

“Think carefully here, brat,” Airetore whispered as he pushed his face closer to Cal’s, incidentally cutting his neck with the obsidian blade. “You can try to kill me or she can try to back off my blade, but two bodies will drop here, regardless. That’s option one, but if you like, we can entertain option two.”

“And what’s that?” Cal demanded.

“We stop this foolish charade, and you help me uncover what happened in those blood-stained woods four years ago.”

The color in Cal’s face drained. “Wha—”

“In your eyes, I might be an arrogant ass who happened upon your town at the worst time possible, but at the end of the day, I know what happened four years ago,” Airetore said.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He continued, his voice rising. “I know that six people went into that forest, only for two to return.”

“You—”

“I know the people you fought were humans-turned-demons.”

“How do you—”

“And I know what happened after you left that forest—the years that followed!”

Dread washed over Cal, and as Bea’s apprehension bore into his back, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as if to hold him back or maybe give them some comfort, the last voice of reason within Cal’s mind crumbled as Airetore’s lips twisted into a smirk so full of amusement and authority.

“Damian Gray.”

It’d be impossible to tell if it was the anger or fear that drove Cal forward, but not a second after the name left the professor’s lips, his back was on the floor with Cal above him. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, Cal pulled Airetore’s face just inches from his own.

“How do you know that name?!” Cal shouted. The professor’s humorous facade only elevated his anger. “How the fuck do you know that name, you bastard?!”

“Cal!” shouted Dirah this time before finally being able to intervene and pry Cal off of the professor.

However, Cal’s rage could not be quelled as he failed to fight his way out of Dirah’s grasp. “Who the fuck are you?! How do you my dead father’s name?!”

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A light.

That’s what Damian Gray was.

Not to just Cal, not to his sisters or his mother, but to Markstead, and to all those whose soul he touched. If the world was enveloped in darkness, Damian Gray would be the last remaining light, fighting back to ensure the world’s survival. Such a scenario was too grand for Damian though, for he was a simple man, finding pleasure in the most minuscule things: helping the local farmers harvest their crops, lending the elderly an arm as they shop, or even training Cal to fight at a young age.

Damian didn’t just teach Cal how to fight, however, and that’s because he also taught Cal how to be human—how to be alive and to be kind. Then he died, and so did a piece of Cal.

From where he sat, his mind relentlessly pouring over Airetore’s presence and his knowledge of Cal’s deceased father, the world around him was vacant. The clean-up following the raid was an afterthought while the noise around him was muffled like he was underwater.

“Something happened. I… don’t think I can disclose it right now, but… he’s kind of rattled.”

That sounded like Bea.

“He’s probably just overwhelmed.” A familiar voice.

“Mm. There’s been a lot of stress weighing down on Markstead. We need to support each other more than ever now.” And another…

“Would you like me to help him home, Auntie Lisa?”

“That won’t be necessary, sweetheart. He’ll come around soon enough.”

Cal pinched his eyes closed and exhaled slowly before opening his eyes, instantly taking in the image of Bea standing next to two women in front of him.

The two women were his mother and older sister—Lisa and Lucie Gray—and had it not been for a few gray strands of hair sneaking into her flowing light brown hair, it’d be impossible to tell that Lisa was not Lucie’s identical twin. They shared the same round, hazel eyes, as well as the same tone jawline and pert nose. The only other differences between the two were the couple of inches Lucie had over Lisa and the light patch of freckles beneath Lucie’s eyes. Other than that, and Lisa’s few gray hairs, the two were practically replicas of one another.

“There he is,” Lisa sang with a smile. “How are you feeling, sweetie.”

Cal’s response was a grunt before he pushed himself upward, standing well above the two now as Lucie looked at him with concerned eyes. “What happened, Cal?”

It was hard to ignore Lucie.

She was stern—more so than Lisa somehow—and she often seemed to be the most level-headed of the household. When Damian died, while Lisa mourned and Cal fell into despair, it was Lucie who held strong, taking care of the house while making sure that her younger siblings were fine. There were nights when her muffled cries echoed through the wall separating Cal and Lucie’s rooms, but Cal had ignored her grief.

He knew more than anyone how horrible he was in the time following Damian’s death.

“What are you guys doing out here?” Cal muttered, avoiding Lucie’s question and causing her to scowl.

“Helping the cleanup,” said Lisa. “Ms. Lee’s flower shop got partially damaged, so Lucie and I helped her tidy up the inside. You know Eri would be devastated if she couldn’t visit every other day.”

Cal nodded, and Lucie sighed, used to Cal’s behavior and accepting his desire not to talk. Still, she walked up to Cal as she retrieved a cloth from her basket, which she then used to dab at the filth that Bea failed to clean before running it through Cal’s hair.

As usual, she could convey her anger all she wanted, but that would never stop her from taking care of those she loves. It’s why Cal admired her more than just about anyone else.

“Did you get hurt anywhere?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just some scratches and bruises. Nothing new, nothing major.”

She inspected Cal, circling him and prodding at the small lacerations running the length of his torso. He winced with each of her actions, but she didn’t care, her eyes narrowed in disappointment as she looked back up at Cal. Her mouth opened to say something, but she merely sighed and looked away.

Cal pursed his lips and looked up as the meeting hall’s door opened and Dirah stepped out. Behind him, Airetore followed, his hands in his pockets as he wore an indifferent expression. The anger Cal felt earlier returned, and this time, Lisa and Lucie noticed, turning to Cal with concerned gazes.

Bea stepped between Cal and Airetore before the two men soon stood before them with Dirah wearing a troubled expression.

Cal didn’t speak—no one did—but Dirah soon broke it with a leveled tone. “There’s not much to be said here. He knows what happened, and he wishes to investigate it. Regarding how he obtained such knowledge, he won’t say, but… he’s insistent on researching the Throle Woods.”

“What are you talking about?” Mother asked, her head tilted in confusion.

Dirah’s head turned toward Airetore, who then stepped forward. With his hand placed over his heart, Airetore lightly bowed toward Cal and his family. “My name is Julius Airetore, and I have reason to believe that Damian Gray’s death and the faction who attacked him are linked to something greater. I wish to uncover the truth, and I want you to help me, Cal Gray.”