Olly crouched in the door of his rickety shanty and poured himself a drink, bottle clinking a bit too hard against the small clay cup. The cheap liquor burned on the way down.

  He was almost out.

  He’d come to this place to change his life. Why break his back on the farm every day when he could make a life for himself in the city? Instead, he broke his back every day hauling processed lumber at the sawmill. For coppers. It was a pauper’s wage, but it was all he could get. He was just a runaway farm hand, and unskilled workers were like fish in the sea.

  This shanty wasn’t even his. Or, it hadn’t been. He’d just stumbled into it one night when he was piss drunk, realizing only the next morning that it was actually empty. So, he’d stayed. This was it – the grand city life he’d always dreamed of.

  The gods hated him.

  Well, if they thought he’d take it lying down, they had another thing coming. They’d see – they’d all see.

  He took another drink. The last one. Olly peered down into the empty bottle. He didn’t have the coppers for another one. He would have to go and break his back hauling more stupid lumber. For a godsdamned drink.

  A blurry figure dropped out of the steady shuffling flow of traffic and approached him. It resolved into an oddly pale dwarf with black hair, wearing a robe of all things. The damned rock muncher stopped in front of him, looking down on him with a sneer.

  “‘...the fuck do you want?!” Olly snapped. Little shits taking everybody’s jobs. They said that in Madzhur, regular people could be smiths and masons. Not here. Nope. Humans didn’t make things anymore. Here you hauled lumber, or you worked in a field. That was it, unless you got born lucky.

  The ugly creature leaned down and its eyes filled in with solid color, completely black. Olly blinked in inebriated surprise.

  “Wha..?”

  “Hail the Devourer, mortal.”

  Olly jerked back as if he’d been hit. This was it! It was time. Finally. He pressed his forehead to the ground.

  “Deeply he drinks from the well.”

  ***

  It was evening by the time Bernt and Uriah left the library. They’d stopped to grab some lunch earlier, but they’d mostly waited to share their findings. There was time to talk later, but they only had today to read.

  Bernt’s reading material had been interesting in general, but not especially helpful in terms of helping him find something that might work as a bridging material for his third investiture. Still, he’d taken down some notes, recording plants and animals that existed in the Phoenix Reaches that hadn’t been in the books back home. There was also a crude map that showed a few landmarks in the northernmost part of the place – the area closest to Gobford and along the mountains that bordered Besermark. Not that he’d have time to explore them.

  Uriah, as it turned out, had better luck. He pulled out a sheaf of notes as they left the guild and waved them at Bernt.

  “So, there’s obviously no existing research about how to wrangle a hybrid mana network, but there’s actually a lot here about how sorcerous spirits develop over time. A lot of the experiments failed, but one of the wizards here recorded the elemental development of a juvenile fire salamander about a hundred years ago. He tried to feed it different magical materials in hopes that he might be able to control its growth, or manipulate its specific abilities. He thought he might be able to make some sort of elemental war beast out of it.”

  Bernt blinked at Uriah in surprise. “And that worked? What happened?”

  The hydromancer shrugged and frowned. “Sort of? No. I mean… just look at this!” He handed Bernt a page of notes. He took it and started to scan the list, but stopped almost immediately, coughing in surprise at the materials listed.

  “A red dragon’s scale? Live inferno flies? Who can waste that kind of gold on an experiment?! And all of these just say ‘refused’ or ‘no results’.”

  “Not those,” Uriah grumped, “look at the paragraph at the bottom! It did work, just not when he thought. The salamander evolved. It ate some of the materials, but not others and eventually it transformed. It started to secrete burning plasma from its skin at will.” Uriah handed him another page. “Look over here. He immobilized the subject in a diagnostic circle and mapped its mana network. You can see the investiture the creature is using. Except it’s not really an investiture at all. It wasn’t derived from the specific properties of any of the things it ate, except maybe that it’s still pyromantic. So, it wasn’t really ‘invested’, it was grown, just like you said about the savage sorcerers in Miria. There should really be a different name for it.”

  “Huh…” Bernt said, mind racing as he considered the implications. “So, it’s not using the spellforms of the materials at all. They just... eat it. And that works, apparently. But how?”

  “The author writes that he thinks it has to do with how materials reinforce our own mana networks during the investment process. I can’t guess why he thinks that, exactly. I never really cared that much about magical theory – I wanted to work in agriculture. And I didn’t have time to look it up.”

  “Yeah, no. I get that part. He’s talking about magical potential.” Bernt clarified. He’d studied the investment process in detail back in Halfbridge, at Pollock’s insistence. “It’s the metaphysical, magical "substance" of a material – what allows it to retain mana and have magical properties in the first place. It's what we absorb at the end of the investment process to reinforce the spirit and get more powerful. I guess you could almost think of it like a more primitive version of a spirit, but for things instead of people.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Bernt stopped and cocked his head, thinking. “You know, to extend the metaphor, you could argue that we’re actually grafting a sort of proto-spirit into ourselves with each investiture. This would mean that sorcerers sort of... digest it, instead. That's what's confusing about all this. How is it supposed to work?”

  Uriah gave him an exasperated look. “Why are you asking me!?”

  Bernt grinned, ignoring the hydromancer’s lack of enthusiasm. “Just thinking out loud. It ate the kinds of materials we use for investitures. But instead of doing an investment procedure, it processed and stored their magical potential to fuel the growth of its own mana network. My guess is that’s a natural function of a physically manifested spirit – something normal mages can’t do.”

  “But you can?” Uriah asked, looking doubtful.

  “I don't know. But just think of what it means if I can figure it out!”

  The hydromancer made a skeptical noise. “You can’t even try most of the materials listed here. Last time I checked, you weren’t fire proof. Maybe the red dragon scale, but good luck finding one, never mind buying it.”

  That was going to be an issue. Fire materials were often… well, on fire. But Bernt needed to understand this process. It could be key to understanding the difference between sorcerous and normal mana networks, and how they could be properly melded. If he could work it out, he might also learn how to form an augmentation with his two heterogenous investitures. Or it might offer insights for Uriah on using sorcery as a way to work around his malformed mana network.

  He would start with some of the gentler herbs that grew in the Phoenix Reaches. Those should be easy enough to find, and they couldn't be on fire, right? Maybe they’d be spicy?

  ***

  The mood was subdued back at the inn – everyone knew they’d be going back out on the road in the morning, and this time it would be nearly two weeks before they could hope to reach the next proper city, Goldwater. The road ran through rocky foothills at the base of the mountain range that marked the northern border of the Phoenix Reaches before descending into a valley at the headwaters of the Kusher River that ultimately led to Norhold and the border to Madzhur.

  They spent the evening stocking up on supplies, packing, and mentally preparing themselves. Regin muttered about bad omens every few minutes, which didn’t help the general mood. Even Torvald seemed on edge. They all knew that the demons would be coming for them on this leg of the journey. There was only one main road, and the entire region was sparsely populated. It would be easy to prepare an ambush, and difficult to reach any kind of help.

  Estrid and Ina popped by near the end of the night to see if anyone wanted to have a pint down in the common room. The others were glad for the distraction, especially Nirlig, who practically floated after the other goblin, but Bernt declined. He wanted to take the opportunity to read over Uriah’s notes in peace, and this was probably the last opportunity he’d get for at least the next ten days.

  Bernt studied late into the night. He slept poorly, and rose well before dawn.

  A bad night of sleep was annoying, but at least it mean that he had time now to drop by the Mages’ Guild before they left. Maybe there would be some news about Teres, or Iriala might have sent a response. He’d checked the day before, to no avail.

  He got dressed and headed out into the cold, foggy streets. Predawn was just beginning to break, so he had nearly an hour before the sun rose properly.

  While most of the guild closed overnight, the scryers worked at all hours, monitoring the various communication rooms all around the country for emergency messages. Considering that the country was at war right now, they’d be even more vigilant, with additional scryers on the night watch to check in with other guilds and the occasional military communication station more often.

  The office was quiet when Bernt got there, but he could see light shining out from underneath the door behind the receptionist’s desk. He cleared his throat and knocked on the polished wood surface.

  “Coming!” someone called from behind the door. A second later, a grumpy-looking bald man in early middle age appeared, striding out energetically.

  “Can I help you? Do you know what time it is?”

  Bernt cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry. I couldn’t really make time later.” He pulled Iriala’s chip out of his pocket and held it out. “I wanted to see if there were any news about Teres, and whether there are any messages for me from Archmage Iriala in Halfbridge. I already asked them to forward it to Goldwater, but I thought I’d check one more time before I go.”

  “Ah,” the scryer accepted the token and peered at it, probably probing at it with his mana. Satisfied, he handed it back. “We did get something last night.” He bent down, pulling open a drawer in the desk and shuffled a few papers around. “Teres is doing fine, by all reports. The fighting has stopped, and the Duergar are in retreat for now. The army disengaged and let them go. Probably didn't want to walk into a trap or overextend their supply lines or something. Ah, there it is.”

  The man handed Bernt a single sheet of paper. It was only a few lines of text.

  “Hmm,” Bernt hummed, accepting the note, glancing at it only briefly. “They’ll be back. I hope they studied our fight down underneath Halfbridge. Those bastards can be clever, and they probably have cultist infiltrators all over the city already.”

  The man made a vague noise of agreement and disappeared back into the other room, clearly eager to not deal with any more nosy questions. Bernt turned around, heading back down the stairs and reading the note one more time.

  Legitimator Bernard,

  If you’ve already spoken to Jori, this note may be redundant. I’m sending this message now in hopes of reaching you at the earliest possible time. Your familiar, with the help of her new associates, has managed to positively identify the other demons leading the attack against yourself and the expedition as a whole.

  They are a hag and a shade, both of whom your report suggests you have already met. Should you be provided with further opportunities, Archmage Thurdred and I urge you to target these demons and bring them down as soon as possible. If you do, please contact either me or your familiar directly – Archmage Thurdred will then attempt to find and eliminate them permanently when they reform in the hells. For further questions, please contact your familiar.

  Archmage Iriala

  Bernt shook his head, trying to make sense of it. They’d talked to Jori? Were they working with the Solicitors? How was Ed going to kill them permanently? Was he back in the hells? Worse, how were they planning to hunt down a shade and a hag when Jori was in the third hell? Wouldn't they be in the fourth and fifth? How would they even find them?

  There were too many questions to even begin to guess at the answers, but he didn't have time to find a quiet spot and contact Jori now. He needed to get back to the inn. It was time to go. Maybe he could arrange something when they stopped for the night – assuming they weren't ambushed again.