A day had passed since Hagan had left Selriph at the forest lodge nestled deep in the Shera woods. The woodsman had likely set off to pursue old contacts, chasing any rumours on uncovering the fate of Vick, or Vickthar as he knew him.

  Their parting had been anything but amicable. The argument between them had been bitter. Before he departed, Hagan had insisted on taking Selriph’s tome—the one Vick had granted to him during his training in the Ratways. It was insurance, alongside the rest of his belongings, a guarantee that Selriph would not run.

  Selriph found himself alone, seated in a loose patch of stone and uneven earth, the ground beneath him bearing unnatural indentations. Dirt clung to his boots and hands. Shallow channels in the soil. The forest loomed in watchful silence.

  Nearby, perched on a rock, was Emmett. The Dire Wolf studied the boy intently, a mixture of curiosity and wariness in its eyes. Its presence was a comfort, but it also gave the boy a disquieting sensation of being under scrutiny. After all, Hagan had ordered the Wolf to monitor him; it had clung to him persistently since yesterday, every time he left the lodge.

  Of course, he had no intention—rather—means of running. He simply couldn’t, not without any supplies or weapons. Somehow, he knew the bestial intelligence would sense if he attempted to scavenge anything from Hagan’s belongings, almost certain to be met by a protest from Relia.

  The emotional sting of their confrontation two nights prior still clung to him. Selriph had spent much of the previous days in a dissociative haze, as if he were watching his own body go through the motions from afar.

  The memories of absent-mindedly going into the woods, scavenging for mushrooms and berries; in a dangerous obliviousness to his surroundings.

  What broke him out of it was the crunch of bones that came behind him as he was bent over a colony of fungi, Emmett biting deep into the flesh of a wandering bandit that had snuck up on him.

  That had shocked him out of his trance, though the rest of his memories were a fog, running back to the lodge. As far as he could recall, he and Relia had not exchanged a single word during their meal.

  Now he sat in the forest, his mind still turbulent as he turned to the only thing that could provide comfort, the one thing Hagan could not strip him of: his magic.

  He knew it was risky, doing this out in the open, with Templars likely already searching the confusing Shera Woods. But pragmatism dictated his actions: he might as well work while waiting for Hagan’s return. Hiding wouldn’t help, and he could still practise magic, even without the book, using what he remembered.

  His vision took in the surrounding scene: the result of his experimentations laid out around him was the chaotic aftermath of his attempts at basic terramancy. The memories of Vick’s displays against Thorne and Varos played in his head like a crier’s bell, acting as fuel for his self-directed spellwork.

  Working on Terramancy seemed logical. While it was partially driven by the need to show ‘justice’ to Vick’s memory, the utility of Terramancy did not escape him; there were sure to be many instances where it would benefit the coming infiltration. Far more than simple arcane constructs, flame and spark could do.

  He nearly had the basics down. He just had to resume his work.

  Selriph exhaled, and he stood back up, his feet firmly planted in the soil. He opened his palms as they faced the flat earth, and he grounded himself in stillness. An image flickered in his mind: earthen particles in a rigid and sturdy formation. He drew upon his well of arcane energy, and it coiled into his hand.

  An orb formed, brown, smooth, yet rugged. Humming with Terramantic energy. The orb’s surface pulsed as it slowly solidified. The collection of mana coalesced into solid brown as Earth took shape. It grew denser, its glow fading as it gained mass, eventually forming a solid mass of rock, rough like pumice that hovered underneath Selriph’s outstretched palms.

  The conjured rock vibrated faintly as Selriph muttered: “Okay… good, now for the next step.”

  He gestured upwards with his hands as the rock was willed to rise. The conjured stone lifted, hovering silently in the still air. Emmett had sat up, its canine gaze fixed on the spectacle before him.

  His grip tightened as he launched the earthen projectile skyward. The sudden movement created a pulse of air and arcane energy that faintly buffeted his chest, as the rock streaked upward in a straight line, fast as an arrow.

  Selriph then readied his hands again as the earthen projectile reached the apex of its trajectory. Flame and sparks formed in a split second, one in each hand.

  As the rock came flying back down, Selriph inhaled sharply as he sent two small projectiles. Flame and lighting, controlled, precise and reserved. Just enough to break rock, no more, no less.

  Bang

  The three elements collided mid-air, and loose dirt rained down. The air above him stung with the sharp tang of ozone and the acrid bite of burning rock.

  Selriph paused as he surveyed his handiwork, a small smile tugging at his lips. The first time he had done so in days.

  “Right,” he said to the empty clearing. “Let’s try something a bit more... ambitious.”

  He turned, surveying the battered terrain—scattered mounds, shallow trenches, and craters from earlier failures.

  Finding a patch of undisturbed earth, he knelt again and extended both hands, fingers splayed wide as if ready to grasp the land itself. His mind flashed with the image of Vick’s spellcasting, the pillar he had conjured from the wall, like a sucker punch to Thorne’s loathed face.

  This time, he reached deeper—not just to the earth, but deep into his pool of magic. He could also feel the inert earth under him. His magic and awareness merged with the earth, seeping in like rain into parched soil. The image in his mind became more lucid as he concentrated on the image of a column just below the surface. Ready to surge upward, a battering ram of stone about to shatter the surface.

  At first, nothing happened, but then the faint vibrations travelled into his feet, slowly growing into a tremor.

  With a groaning crack, the earth ruptured. A pillar surged upward, wide and unstable. Roots tore free, loose rock and dirt tumbled down its crumbling sides. It was wider, no… higher than he had intended—far too large now.

  “Gods.. too big. Won’t be useful.” Selriph muttered, stumbling back. “Need to control it… again..”

  The pillar wobbled as his concentration faltered. With a deafening crack, its base gave way. The entire structure collapsed, a rain of soil and rock cascading in all directions. Selriph raised a translucent barrier instinctively, deflecting most of the hard debris, although the finer particles caught in his nostrils. He coughed them up as dust billowed across the clearing.

  He closed his eyes as he coughed into his sleeve. Pacing over to the waterskin, he had left on the rock next to Emmett. The wolf, by now, was standing at attention.

  After the coughing had subsided, he dropped the waterskin with a plop next to Emett and returned to the spot, where the pillar had erupted now, a mess of dirt, rock and loosened roots.

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  “Let’s try this properly,” as Selriph took a deep breath.

  Drawing a slower breath, he steadied himself. The magic within him was potent, alive, and concentrated. This time, however, he focused on his breath, as he shaped the image with care, like a sculptor working on fragile clay, rather than the brute force of a miner.

  He whispered the incantation, using it to guide his imagery.

  The earth rumbled again—but gently this time. From a fresh patch of soil, a new pillar slowly emerged. Waist-high, rather than chaotically erupting skyward.. It rose smoothly and held its form, a gentle brown hue around it. Its edges were jagged. A crack ran down the side, but the brown magical energy held its structure.

  Selriph opened his eyes, panting slightly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. A small flicker of pride on his face.

  He slowly dispelled the magic, as the pillar lost form and crumbled back into loose rock and dirt on the ground.

  It wasn’t perfect. But it was a foundation.

  He simply turned, picking up the waterskin along the way, walking into the long shadows of the trees, the vigilant wolf pacing behind him.

  A soft tapping sound permeated the lodge.

  Selriph blinked awake. His muscles were heavy and lethargic, and the lodge was lit up by the dark blue hue of early dawn.

  Through the haze of his roused consciousness, he saw someone ease open the lodge’s front door, a soft creak of the hinge accompanying the action. He sat up sharply, instinctively reaching for the blade as his side– it wasn’t there. Neither the tome nor his pack.

  A silhouette stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered, sickle-shaped instrument at its waist. Familiar, yet not necessarily a welcome sight.

  Hagan.

  Cloaked and smelling faintly of flowers and green. The figure entered. His face was impassive, jaw clenched, but his stance, though steady–was as if he were prepared for a hostile welcome.

  Selriph rose slowly. Fingers clenched at his side. Cautious but not confrontational.

  “Back from your scouting trip?” he asked, the youth’s voice low and slightly raspy.

  Hagan didn’t answer immediately. He shut the door with care, then reached into the large burlap sack strapped around him. He withdrew a pouch from it, then a blade, and a tome and placed them on the table.

  Selriph’s gear.

  He sat in the chair at the table as he subtly gestured to the items splayed out.

  “Didn’t feel right holding onto it any longer,” he said. Plainly.

  What is this? Why return my items now…?

  Selriph cautiously walked over to the table, as if expecting the items to pounce on him. He cautiously grabbed the hilt of the estoc as the familiar feeling settled back in his hands. He carefully opened his pouch. All his belongings were there as far as he could tell. Importantly, the oilskin pouch remained untouched. His diary and the rest of his meagre supplies accounted for.

  Selriph refused to look to his left. Although he knew he should express some gratitude at the return of his items, his lips remained sealed, unable to utter a simple word of gratitude, as if held by invisible chains.

  The sound of Hagan’s voice eventually broke the silence, hitting his left ear. “Met a contact, Kera, resident down in the ratways. Walls were twisted, and loose debris was everywhere in the corridor. Blood, sword and blade marks.”

  The muscles around Selriph’s chest tightened, braced for whatever came next.

  Hagan’s head did not shift, but his eyes drifted to the boy, who stood stiffly before him. “Dragged someone off, probably to the main Templar Prison complex in the upper district.”

  Selriph’s stomach tightened. “So…Captured? But… alive?”

  “Probably, for now…” Hagan said grimly. “Someone like him? Once they… coerce any information out of him. Probably will get a public execution, but it won’t happen until after the Festival of Mikus—harvest is nearly upon us. That’s our only lucky break.”

  The Festival of Mikus, the god of abundance and harvest. A minor deity, only brought to light at this time of the year.

  Hagan looked out towards the window, Emmett in view, asleep near the porch. “The prison complex is tough; he is likely in a reinforced cell, built for people like him. The only way in is a side entrance, or maybe the sewers below it.”

  Selriph’s gaze finally landed on the man, and he understood why his gear was before him.

  “I assume you want me to come along, not just for moral support?” he said, and his pointer finger stroked the hilt of his estoc.

  “I need your magic,” Hagan said bluntly. “Your mind, and most of all. Your responsibility.”

  The muscles in Selriph’s jaw clenched as he heard the last word.

  “You learned from Vickthar. He taught you, he trusted you. If anyone is going to help pull him out, it should be you. I could probably make quick work of the guards, could probably do it without a noise. But I cannot memorise an escape route, I cannot navigate a city I have never set foot in. I cannot melt steel with my hands.”

  Selriph’s gaze immediately shot to the small leather-bound book he had in his pouch.

  Damn bastard. That was not for your eyes.

  “And what makes you think I can? After all, I am a kid. No?” Selriph said, his voice intoned with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

  “You’re the only one I know who might,” Hagan said. “He risked his life to get you out. Time for you to return to favour. Starting with this, how did you get out?”

  Selriph looked away for a moment. The lodge felt colder, quieter. Then he spoke, steady but firm.

  “The way I escaped... It’s not usable. I came out through a network of caverns connected to the ratways. But there… were unsightly things down there. Not an ideal route. Near the end, the tunnel collapsed behind where I came. Even if I remembered the exact route, which I do, we can’t go back that way. Won’t work.”

  Hagan nodded slowly. “I figured as much.”

  Hagan gestured for Selriph to sit, as he pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment: a rough map of Caer Eldralis and its outskirts.

  “That just leaves the sewers,” Hagan said, his finger pointed towards the southern suburbs. “No templar and guard patrols. The muck and vermin won’t be the main issue, though. We need an updated map of the sewer and tunnel systems; we don’t know which parts have collapsed or been repurposed over the years. Need something recent, and a route that gets us under the prison without running face-first into the templars.”

  Selriph looked at the map; he restrained himself from protesting. The plan was too simple; it wouldn’t be a matter of simply going under the prison complex and appearing in Vick’s cell.

  Selriph frowned. “That’s going to mean infiltration. Tools, maybe even obtaining the prison complex’s schematics, finding out which cell block he is being held in.”

  “Exactly,” Hagan said. “There is a lot we need, but we start with this: a supply outpost a day out–run by resistance sympathisers. One of the merchants there, Tamros, runs with smugglers in the city. He’s discreet. If anyone has the recent sewer map or a route into the prison, it’ll be him.”

  He walked over to one of the cabinets by the hearth and pulled out another crude map, this time of the Shera woods and the surrounding roads. He set the parchment on the table as he sat back down; the chair creaked against the wooden floor.”

  He tapped a marked spot on the map, a small dot near the road that ran east along the southern boundaries of the Shera Woods. “We head there. Get a map. Supplies. Information. Anything else we might need for the infiltration, climbing gear, potions, runestone explosives.”

  “And then what?” Selriph asked quietly.

  “Then we come back,” Hagan said. “We find a way in, and get Vickthar out. Before he loses his head.”

  Selriph finally gazed upon Hagan’s face in full. Gone was the fury, the grief from the previous night. It was something else, a face of focus, but underneath it, there was a tinge of uncertainty, or rather, fear.

  Selriph spoke clearly but carefully. “First of all. You’re sure we can trust this Tamros?”

  “No,” Hagan said plainly. “But I’m sure we don’t have a choice.”

  A pause passed. Then Selriph let a sharp exhale through his nostrils. “Alright. Let’s gather what information we can there and get what we need. Then we…go save him.”

  Hagan held his gaze. “We do.”

  Hagan pressed his hands on his knees, and he lifted himself out of the chair, heading towards the kitchen area. “Pack light, but bring your wits and your gear. Bound to run into some trouble on the way. We leave within the hour.”

  Selriph stared at the two maps before him. An uneasy feeling settled over him. He was going back into the maw he had fought tooth and nail to escape from.

  He hadn’t meant to go back. Not for this, not like this.

  Barely any time, barely a plan. Just the weight of his responsibility.

  Guided only by the mutual desire to save someone.