《Salt the Fields of Gold》 An Excerpt from the Auvereanath Excerpted From the last translation of the Epic Poem, The Golden Wreath, as penned by a Scholar of the Averneum tradition. ` O Chronicler! Praytell what became of the Land of Gold. What word of its Empire, laced in wreaths? Its Crown, forged of gold and silver? What news of its deep roots, drinking deep from the cup of nobility and history? Its spires of ivory, home to the most learned and wise of the Eldars? It fields of rye and wheat, reverberating with the song of the sun''s blessing? Its centurions wrapped in honor and brilliance? Its immaculate halls echoing with the finest of dances, dresses and wine? What became of its glory? What became of its history? "Listen now, learned scholars and blessed acolytes, and I shall answer your most worthy of queries with the words of the last Emperor of Gold. For high beyond the ruin of his legacy, he watched, and he listened. And upon my arrival, he begged of me to share what remained of his glory, so it may not be lost to time. "''O Sage,'' he begged of me. ''Listen well, and you will see... in all things present and past I am beyond reproach. Beyond blame. I take to my grave not the shame of a man possessed by war and rage, but a king who was far too poor a father. Rich I was in the love of my children... yet miserly I was in my responses. Indolent I was, blinded by the love I had for my children, their brilliance tainted by a greed and envy beyond my ken. Listen well, oh learned one, wise in the scriptures I devoted my youth to, yet failed to truly elucidate in my age. Pay heed to my foresight, and know you shall find me blameless in all things. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned that Duke Verduryne, noble and wise, a leader in all things, pledged an alliance with my third queen, a healer of both body and soul. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned the my Son, the resplendent Prince Survarath, adored by gods, challenged his siblings to a game of cunning, rigged in his favor. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how my childrens'' games, innocent as they seemed, summoned the wrath of the great Evernian Drake, great and horrible in his blinding wrath. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how that dragon broke the houses of Birch and Verduryne, robbing my land of their vitality and enduring friendship. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how my sons made a mockery of a funeral, preying upon the last sons of both houses and driving them against each other. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how my Daughter, The Third Queen''s most precious gift, lost her mother and home to her uncle''s guile, though her most ardent defenders were in attendence. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how She wreathed in Gold stood upon the paripet of the Kingdom to the South, righteous and pure, and declared to all who gathered her home a place beyond salvation. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how my sons, despite my sage council and indulging upon the riches bestowed upon us by the gods, pursued a path of science beyond the sight of any council. Stolen story; please report. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how the last Son of Birch raised his arms in defiance of his treacherous lord, unashamed and righteous in his indignation, only to meet his shame at the hands of his own sister, gifted and learned in the arcane arts. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how, drunk upon the victory they had, the Mages of Byrnvathon claimed manor of Birch, once lauded as the pinacle of Aurean design, as their own castle, and undo the years of service they commited to Our Empire. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how my sons reacted, so betrayed by both friend and family, driven by righteous indignation to steal away that illustrious Lady Birch and the Stave of Candavyrious, blessed by the gods themselves. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how gifted She of Birch and Mana truly was, her words and wand warp and twisting the very flesh of the most loyal of men, the filial Dogs of Wargris, into beasts of war at the behest of my honorable of sons. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how, so thusly scorned by my sons, my Daughter roused the might of the Holidom, the most hallowed of reliquiries, against her own kin. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of the armies that gathered between the Empire of Gold and the Holidom of the Divine, in those plains that once drowned in an amber ocean of grain, beneath the gaze of heavens - o those Fertile Fields of Amaros, never to grow a crop again, salted by the tears and blood of the very babes she fed. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace even when I learned of the men that stood by my Empire''s side- The great Teacher Sterioros, blessed by the stars with an imagination both great and terrible; The Immortal Synderos, who rejected the crown in service to a greater good for centuries, ageless and wise; the peerless Hawk of Yndara, whose arrow could silence a mere gnat a league away. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how Ylithya, the voice of the Goddess herself, stepped along side of my Daughter, wreathed in Gold, blessing her with the gifts she granted through the graces of Divinity. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how the gods themselves blessed the warriors of the Holidom- Bertrandal, gifted warrior and son of the great god of wind; Kivadraya, a sterling soul that rose from the ashes of a most profane diety; The Black Knight Ferdinand, peerless in blade and character yet bereft of the position his history earned him. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how the war began, howls of men and beast rupturing the skies and driving all the Celestials to weep, the very heavens shaking with the cacophonous chorus of death. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of how, standing before her Brothers, her Sisters, her teachers, her peers, the Princess I once knew as sweet trembled with moment of doubt, only to be held firm by the word of Ylithya, who some claim spoke with all the authority the Goddess herself. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of the mayhem, the chaos of my Sons and their war- the merciless tricks they used to pull Ferdinand into their unbreakable Vortex formation, the cruel words of the Byrnvathon mages that incited the wrath of the Evernian Drake once again, the attempts made to kidnap and slay my Daughter and all her friends. "''O Sage! I held no hope of peace when I learned of their deaths- of Malloveth the Mighty, of Rakham the Bold, of Kolivar the Cunning and yes, of the Crown Prince Survarath- my sons, one by one, lain in the very field they promised to claim as their own through glory and strife. "''O Sage! What hope of peace could I have when I learned of how, in the midst of battle, our most brilliant minds of past and future, lay their lives upon the soil they could have tilled, and chose to salt instead? What worth can peace have with a price so grand? "''O Sage! I had seen these events and despaired, weak as I was in my love for my sons and daughters, and watched my Empire fall, consumed by monsters of their own creation. In this I am blameless, yet I bear the greatest guilt of them all. That I still rule to see the end of these golden days, that I still breathe? Had I a hundred children, would I bury them all before I know peace at last? "''O Sage... if I had but a chance to do it all once again... would the gods grant me the strength to overcome it all? ` Chapter One: A Suckling Pig The flesh was boiling off his bones. Each muscle, each vessel, each individual pore of his skin bubbled and burst about him. But Touslaine Verduryne could not deny a simple fact at the core of his suffering- he deserved this. He made the compromises, he made his horrid, wretched choices, he chose to abandon the very principles that should have compelled a man of the Verduryne name. The envy that burned at the pit of his wretch soul had spread, a cancer he refused to cut out. How could he, when all else paled in comparison to the dream that it spun? Of crowns and cake, of champagne that flowed like rivers and a place that glowed with the golden light of the blessed. And an embrace he long awaited, a final reward at the end of a long, hobbling road. No arms were here to take him. No song to comfort him. All he had to his name at the end was a blade this throat, and two worthless words. "I''m sorry." Words are weightless, pithy, cheap. What good would those two words do to the dead? What good were they to the living? And yet still they escaped his lips. One last crow perhaps, forced from the pierced breast of a knight long past pride? Why did he even question this, as his form finally disapated into the void he now envied? Touslaine Verduryne had lived his life. He was content with this outcome. His last sight had been of... A sensation bloomed upon his forehead. A thick piece of cotton, soaked in ice cold water. It drooled and sluiced down his face. But something was off. He twinged, as if expecting his scar to smart beneath the water''s cool touch. But the bite never came. Instead, rivulets that cascaded down his cheek seemed to run... short. He tried to compel his own hand to move, but the sharp sensation of torn mucle ricocheted up his arm. "Mother, he''s rousing." The voice. It was a young still, but a refined gentility resonated through it. He knew it, though when last he heard it... He raised his hand, pain be damned. The fingers that rest upon his throat were stubby, small, fatter than he knew. His eyes flew open, that familiar light burning into his retinas. He did not quite know how he reacted- he only heard a shriek of surprise he twisted body. His neck was still there, his head still attached to his body. His body was weighty, ungainly, unresponsive. Touslaine''s body rolled across the ground beneath- no, this was not dirt muddied with the ichor of his allies. This was soft, downy, a sparkling sheen of white. This was... a bed. He knew the shape. He knew the word. But the years had robbed him of the sensation. The comfort. And this covering rolled with him, wrapped him in its soft embrace- a blanket, filled with down. His limbs tangled themselves in the heavy folds of the cloth as a pair of hands pulled at the hem. Like a fish caught in a net, he was reeled back towards those hands, towards that voice. "Stay... still!" its golden tones stang with a certain frustration as footfalls reverberated through room, echoing from an empty hall. Touslaine spun, freeing himself from the haunted grip of his heavy blanket, his blood pumping through a head he was certain he lost. And yet from that phantom mouth an acrid taste tinged his time. He barely had the time toss his head over the side of the bed, and expel what was left of his stomach. As the floor was cleaned of his sick, Touslaine could not help but marvel at the contents that had once called his stomach home. Bits of bread, the sickly green of a pea meal soup, bits of collard leaves. Past the copper that stained his tongue he could still taste the salt and herbs that were poured lavishly upon the last meal his body had consumed. His soft, unwieldy form that sparked with broiling veins and molten muscles did not feel like his own, and yet... the gnawing sensation clawed at the back of his mind. A familiarity, a deja vu that gnashed against his sanity. And worst of all were the hands that pulled him away from the edge. "Settle down," her voice cooed. It was wrong. Alien. Her voice was light, dainty, like faebelles in the summer wind. His eyes lingered down, afraid of what he would see if he allowed his gaze to tarry any higher. It could not be her. Touslaine desperately prayed for anyone else to be there. Instead, all he received was a stark reminder of just how wrong he was. A pair of smooth, warm hands wrapped about his own, pulling his attention to her. "It''s ok. You''re ok. You''re here." Beside him sat a slight girl, barely ten years of age. Eyes that sparkled like the sun reflected from within, hair light as asp. She smiled, and it felt as though the meadows had bloomed through the bleakest of winters. Touslaine''s heart hammered wildly as he took her in, as though she were a statue carved immaculately from the most gorgeous of marble. But when she was that age... He had been but eight. "Where... what...?" his tongue was heavy, his every breath squeezed from a throat too tight. Was this the vision he was allowed before death? One last dream before he was swallowed by the void? "You''re home," she insisted. "The Verdant Manor," she squeezed his hand tighter. Anchoring him in the moment. Eyes clear and arresting. Back straight, posture perfect. And yet he still could not bring himself to breathe. Titles, words, all assigned upon her by years of memories he had harbored close to his heart came to him in a rush. If his stomach were so painfully absent, perhaps he would have spewed once again. The sounds that lilted off her tongue stabbed his mind with unerring accuracies, summoning emotions he had thought buried. He could have lived in the moment. He could have lain there, accepted this as the finest end. All his life he dreamed she would gaze upon him like this... yet this was not the woman he knew. Her voice was too sweet, her eyes brimming with worry. No, this was wrong. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. The girl seemed to say something. He tugged his hand away. No, perhaps it was trap- a temptation to drag him back into the vortex of life and death he had been on cusp of escaping. He knew what the real Princess thought of him. She swung the blade after all. "What are you... doing... here?" Was that truly his voice? This reedy, wretched strangulation of air through his vocal chords? No... it was as though he were forcing his words through... The girl shrieked as his stomach summoned something despite his spew. In her retreat, he could not see what become of her, as she pulled away with far less polite a vocabulary. He felt an apology bubble up from the pit of his stomach, only to feel that acrid sensation drown his tongue once again. He attempted to choke to back down, as he began to shift in his bed. "Don''t," the void of soft dew attempting to coax him into silence, but a new pair of hands descended upon him. They pinned him back down into the embrace of clouds, his head cushioned and sinking deep into an ocean of luxurious down. "You need rest, young lord." The face that met his eyes glowed with the same resplendent light, though her eyes were grew and hair the shade of gold one would associate with an ocean of wheat. Rippling waves of amber and sun, bound in a ball behind her head. Lines were etched deep into her features as she pressed him upon the bed, waiting for him to sleep. And as the void consumed him again, Touslaine felt the names of those around him drift upon his tongue. "Queen... Aureum..." In the depths of unconsciousness, things began to realign once more. He could dismiss what he had seen as a dream- a vision of his past. Yes, he had been sick like this before- his veins ruptured, his body sluggish, weighed by fat. He had almost forgotten that saga, but there was a pleasant nostalgia to revisiting those days. Life had been so much simpler back then- no wars, no Monsteurs, and Magic was just a dream in the back of his mind. Yes, a pleasant reminisence at the end of a long, wretched road. He could not find fault in the remembrance. He even got to see Her again, before the ice of apathy and dulled the sun in her eyes. A pleasant... little... Touslaine''s eyes opened once more. He could not tell what he was looking it- a melding of warm hues stared back down upon him, his head still buried in that soft cloud of comfort. He groaned, and began to twist his body. Muscles protested, pain lanced as if his veins were composed of glass. He felt the information flowing off his tongue, his memories flooding back to him. "A forced expulsion of mana," he began, finding comfort in the mere act of simply knowing something in this soupy mess of a set up. He gripped upon that vein of knowledge, repeating what he could from the diagnosis he memorized. "Often lethal, the process can result in ruptured veins, and a compromised response system to additional diseases." He winced as he turned to his right, a hand finally passing in his view- his own. The palm was smooth, though red and peeling from the boiling of his skin. He once recalled his brother referring to him as a "boiled lobster" in this state. The flush to his cheeks indicated he did not particularly disagree with the embarassing state of his own body. "A succinct summary." The voice cut in from behind him. At first, he attempted to spin back, but as he flopped upon his back, he whinged, electric sparks of miserable pain lancing through his mind as he attempted to bury his own vocal response to his suffering. His eyes moved instead- thankfully, their movement was free of the spikes and needs that accompanied the rest of his body''s twitches. The woman with dirty blond hair was there, a book in her hand, her free hand rising up and adjusting her reading lenses. He could recall her name properly now. Magdelyne Vernaniam Aureum- third queen of Orneum Empire. At least... she would be. When did the Emperor take the throne again? "Don''t move too much," she raised a hand. Touslaine paused- he had not even noticed how his body straightened, his hands flattened, and how his neck tilted in deference. Nothing about the woman seemed remotely... regal to his eye, but still shifted to greet her properly. As if it were an instinct, deeply engrained into ever muscle of his body. "You''ve been unconscious for four days," she explained, setting her book aside. "Thankfully, through the grace of the gods, you''ll make a proper recovery... so long as you don''t stress your body like last night." "I... died?" The words that left his tongue felt foreign, and yet they were the foremost notion on his mind. He had... died hadn''t he? His head should have been hewn from his shoulders. His body dragged before a jeering audience, as a new sun rose upon the Empire he fought to defend. He had... done that, had he not? The woman by his bed seemed to gaze upon him. With what look, he could not discern. Instead, she slid her seat closer, her hand reaching out and grasping Touslaine''s own. Her other hand reached up, and clasped down his hand. It was... warm, the needles tracing up his arm. "Hmm... this does not seem to be the hand of a cadavar, does it?" she asked him, her fingers twining between each other and hold his hand in place. "The warmth? The texture?" she intoned, her eyes gazing into his own. How many had she seen like this? How many foolish young men, women, found themselves there, in the hold of a healer with her talent? "The dead don''t normally get the privelege of touch you know. Their fingers don''t twitch, and they certainly aren''t this warm. No, in my professional opinion, this hand belongs to a boy who is very, very much alive." There was a conviction to her voice. If he had been despondent, or lost in his death, perhaps he would have cried. Instead, the murky fog in his mind only intensified. Boy? Alive? "Mir... ror?" he asked, his eyes unable to pull away from the woman who so adamantly insisted he was alive. Was it the glow of her eyes? The genteel smile? Gods, he wished he had remembered such things before. If he had, perhaps he could have avoided... The woman shifted her chair, slowly extracted her hands. She seemed aware of just how painful it was to feel something drag across his skin. From behind her, a familiar form approached- her hair was longer than he remembered, her face chubbier. Magdelyne''s daughter... his eyes watched her, and raised up an ornate piece of silver and glass. As she held it up, Touslaine found himself disappointed in his brother''s analogies. He seemed more a suckling pig like this than a boiled lobster. His face was bloated, perhaps a result of the violent reaction to his mana burn, but he could still see the fat. His hair was shorter, a rusty shade of iron tinting his follicles as the thin strands came to abrupt ends. Touslaine could see, through the scrunched up vestiges of a face so fat and bloated, he eyes and nose- this was indeed his face. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, a sigh escaping his lips. Rusty red hair. Eyes as green as a rose''s leaves. His face a bit splotchy... that''s right, he had once been rotund. It would only take a moment for it to truly register in his mind that he was indeed Touslaine Verduryne. The girl that handed him the mirror seemed hesitant to trust it his hand. She held it aloft, though she pointedly kept her distance. Touslaine''s eyes darted just once to her face... but it was not a face he wanted to recall all that well. "Thanks," he subtly exhaled. As he said, he found his hand buried in the folds his sheets once more. "What year... is it?" his voice quivered as he gave voice to that niggling whisper in the back of his head. "753 by the Avernean standard. 953 by the-" "Adden Dynastium," he completed the words. Yes, the 200 year schism between the holidom''s recording of time, and the Empire''s. Scholars could spend years to debating the source of such a gap- All Touslaine could do was chuckle. For all the ego of the Imperial family, they could not see their empire through eight hundred years. The point was, he would die in a mere seventeen years. In a forest just south of his old home. At the hands of the same girl who now subtly glowered from behind her mother. An Amber Acolyte. A Holy Healer. A Resplendant Royal. The Princess Wreathed in Gold. The unclaimed Princess of Aureum hid behind her mother, as if hiding from the gaze of all the world. The girl who would shattered the Empire was still splattered in his sick. Chapter Two: A Notion of Reality In the City of Andavar, known best as the City of Mages, there was a common refrain amongst the burgeoning apprentices. Mageorem seth eret- Magic is cast in Ink. Once a magic is performed, it becomes as fact. To try and retract it would be the devil''s work. Practically speaking, one could cast another spell to mitigate or even reverse the consequences of the initial casting... but the fact will forever remain that it was cast. This made the City of Andavar a place of very careful rules, as ever action taken on its streets would be recorded in history, documented with excrutiating detail for only the most precise of automatons to delve through. In time, the City became a mecca of education and its core lay the College of Arcane Studies. It was here that a certain symposium was held, one that held a certain son of Verduryne captive. The Formation of a Mage. "The development of a proper mage requires several key things to align," the pen of Sandevarian proposed. "First is the innate ability to cast magic. For years Mages have attempted to determine the conditions that assure their continuity, but to date, they have at best increased their chances through lineage and the application of rare, mana-infused gems laden upon the mother''s body during gestation. Even then, the innate capability of the resulting child cannot be assured through either of these methods- instead, the second element a mage must expand is their vein capacity. In order for magic to flow, a mage requires veins that allow magic to flow. This shall be the focus of our discussion today- the enhancement of one''s capability, and the risks associated with it. But before we delve upon our focus, let us first establish the boundaries of where the concept of self-burnishment lie. "For instance, one can introduce additional tinctures or even raw ingredients to their diet to improve the development of their flow. This could be considered an enhancement of the process of self-improvement, but by some definitions, ones we must acknowledge in the interest of academic pursuit, would define these as external influences. The concept of incorporating the environment in a Mage''s process of self-development. For the sake of this argument, however, will consider these substances as a part of the individual''s form, as diet has always been a crucial component in any human being''s life, and provides the additional energy needs to better form these paths. "Now, through this logic we can establish a few set rules for this process- the mage can consume food for the purposes of replenish calories, yet may also choose to abstain to keep their focus upon develop of their circuits. These circuits should be able to mitigate the build up of excess energy, but should the individual fail to account for, or simply lack the ability to regulate, the flow of mana through their body, they might experience a rupture in their veins. "Now, for the sake of recording, I will briefly summarize the consequences of such a failure. "First, the veins of the victim''s body begin to boil. The mana in the victim''s form will attempt to break free. This is usually the only chance a mage gets before something irreperable occurs. "Next, the veins begin to rupture. Most mana that escapes from this damage will suffuse the skin, and convert to the next best source of energy- heat. "This causes the third step- a broiling of the muscles and skin of the individual. Survival is rare, and recovere rarer still. To date, no victim of this process has successfully reclaimed whatever magical career they possessed before they chose this path... and even fewer still possess the ability to cast a spell. "For future reference, we will refer to this event as a Mana Burn." Touslaine already knew his chances of recovery were slim. He was even more aware that his ability to cast magic was all but gone for good. But the resentment sat upon his soul as if it were fresh. Before, he had only one git to blame- his own ambition to match a brother he rarely met blinded him to the risks of his attempts at self-embellishment. He had already spent one life drowning upon his regret. Imagine the lives he could have seved. The people who would have brayed for his attentions. A mage free of the Byrnvathon Order, yet loyal to the empire... such creatures were rare. His feelt his skin scretch and crawl over his knuckles, the itch intensifying as it drew his eyes away from the written word. His hand felt as though it were being bitten by a thousand tiny gnats, and yet all he could see was his own reddened skin. He set his book aside, as a knock echoed through the stately space he called his room. Even now, he found it... uncomfortable. He understood, to some extent what had happened to him. He was caught in a mirrored section of his memory, perhaps, or perhaps this was purgatory, and this was a test. It was cruel to throw visions of her at him, but Touslaine could not help but feel like this was on purpose. He did, however, need to consider what the gods would judge him on. The sheets his hands scraped upon were smooth and silken... his mattress tall and swallowing him. As he contemplated his situation, he turned to the door of his room, and marveled at just how... ornate a simple bedroom door could be made. It had truly been years since he allowed himself the privelage of living in the manor of his forefathers. As if responding to his thoughts, the door handle turned and the heavy wooden port swung open. A maid stepped, her apron a brazen white and dress an obsidian black. The ornate, ostentious collections of folds and embroidered lining communicated everything an outside party would need to know. She was a maid of the Verduryne house. There was even an emerald encrusted pin laid upon her bow to communicate with whose authority she acted. "Young Master, it is time to change the sheets." This was the hardest part of the illusion- it was hard for Touslaine to actually tell if this was a maid he knew in his past, or a fabrication of the gods'' jest. Still, if they wished to judge him... then he would need to act more penitent. Besides... Sleeping like this felt genuinely wrong. "Thank you," he started to slide his leg out. He winced as felt the nerves of his leg communicated a torrent of pain up his thigh. He winced, curling instinctually at the sensation as the maid seemed to surge forward. "Steady now, milord," her hands pressed against him, "You don''t need to move." "No," Touslaine resumed his moves, despite the maid''s protests. Her fingers were rougher than he expected, her age more visible with her so close. Her touch was delicate, feeble, as if she were afraid to touch him. In her defense, he did not make the most appealing vision. The book did not describe the true horror of the affliction he had pushed himself into. The sensation of skin boiling, lungs filled with fair, the sensations of the tongue all firing madly. He forgot the eternal hell that was living with his body in this time. Was that the purpose of the gods? To test the strength of his character when he was at his lowest? No, that could not be right- this was far from his lowest point. "I need... gentler cloth," Touslaine attempted to communicate as his foot fell upon the floor. The pain shot up his leg once again. "Like... cotton. Both blanket and sheets," he began to hobble towards the window. There was a loveseat there he could occupy, dressed as he wa- "Ah. My clothing as well." "Cotton?" the woman blinked. Yes, she did not... live through the same nights he had. She did not travel the world as he had, touched the same lives he had the misfortune of failing. How could she understand the thoughts he had, without even raising the topic of his looks. "Has Madame Magdelyne given you instructions regarding my clothing?" I asked, looking over my pyjamas. It was all I could wear, but the smooth material dragged and gripped his maturing layer of flesh like a thousand hooks gnawed at him. "No... my lord." "Cotton then. Maybe even similar to the threads used for the servants," Touslaine racked his brain to recall what the servants of his father''s manor were like. There was the cook, who he knew quite intimately. Yanns was the best at making savory foods, and on the coldest of nights, when Touslaine was at his most bored, Yanns'' kitchen was something of a haven. Would the dream include Yanns? Perhaps it was not that cruel a thing. But alas, his tongue could not taste the treats that Yanns could produce. He imagined even the pea soup would have tasted divine, but his body was too... broken to possess that trait. "And... tell Yanns to prepare me something simpler going forward... did the Healer mention anything about my diet?" The maid just stood there, his comforter bulging in her arms as she just found herself... staring, mouth agape. "Is something the matter?" Touslaine asked the woman. "No!" she rescinded her gaze, casting it to the floor as she shifted to move the bedding. "Just..." she paused. "You seem... better now." There was relief in the woman''s voice. I could imagine that was not the most pleasant patient one could have in this household. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. But in all honesty... Touslaine could not recall much about his youth around this time. Last he was like this, Lady Magdelyne had called upon her own magic to heal him. Sources both divine and arcane mingled within his body, aiming solely to save his life. He has always doubted the value of that investment, and the price his father paid in desperation was... less than pleasant. If he had simply been cast back just a week back, this whole disaster could have been avoid, and Magdelyne would never have come to the Verduryne estate. And if she never came... then he would have never met her daughter. Was that the preferable outcome? Touslaine could not help but think so. But this was the hand he was dealt. Perhaps he did throw upon the girl he would one day call queen. Perhaps he had made a sorry mess of himself. It was simply too hard to tell what was new and what was- "Young Lord?" the maid''s voice echoed from the back of his mind. The boy snapped himself awake. "Yes?" "Did you have an special... request for Yanns? If you want, I could sneak you a pastry," the maid seemed... close. Close enough to offer him so childish a reward. But alas, Touslaine was not so easily tempted. While his body was that of a ten year old, his mind was composed and resolved. "Perhaps... in the future," the boy sighed. His tongue could not taste salt, what hope could he have for sugar. Perhaps save it for the day he properly recovered. "For now, perhaps a porridge of oats will suffice. Tell Yanns my tongue needs to heal, but once it does... I''ll..." Could he visit Yanns? He barely understood how he came to occupy this room. Could there truly be a manor beneath him? A look from the window seemed real enough, his denial allayed by the life of the garden beyond it. "I''ll come visit the kitchens... on my own two legs," he conveyed a simple promise. One he could achieve... right? The most perturbing thing about this reversal of fate was the... fragility of his body. He had grown restless in his bed, and though his hands lacked the caluses for it, he internally longed just to swing a sword again. It was not as though he possessed particular talent- rather, the blade was pressed into his hand, and he adapted from there. Ironic, in a way, that he would desire the anguish of his muscles straining to this stagnation. Perhaps this stemmed from the lack of stimulation. Aside from his time with the healer or the one maid brave enough to actually serve him, Touslaine was left to recover in the quiet and opulent room he was afforded by virtue of his noble birth. Perhaps this drive to use his muscles for something originated from a need to test the limits of this... purgatory. How much of the world was he allowed to see? How much longer was he supposed to wait? Surely this was a period of judgment... but such judgment had to end for good or ill. The very least the gods could have done was allowed him to relive his memories as he recalled them- his father would have visited at some point, or his brothers. Perhaps his mother could have returned. He recalled a memory of her, looking harried, then horrified when she set her eyes upon him. Well, perhaps it was better that woman never saw him like this. The Queen- no, Healer was there, once a day. Her daughter stopped showing up- perhaps that discomforting meeting would set them upon seperate paths. Long, seperate paths. Ones that could cross again- A sharp pain rocketed up Touslaine''s thigh. His fingers squeezed the delicate flesh between them. It was a dream long since abandoned, he was telling himself. And his body''s reaction was correct. To covet something he could not have was the height of human folly. He turned back to the book. In another life, he would have spent hours, delving deep into what little records he had of mana burns. He would have sought any and all answers he could amongst their pages, sought the most maddened of healers, all in pursuit of a pittance of power that did little to assuage that meager desire within him to protect what little he could call his own. A tragic tale of a man moved entirely by a mistake of his past, who chose the blade in the end as his tool of protection. There was only one reason he chose to risk what scraps of magic he had access to in a maddened gamble. And now it lingered- the creeping sensation that he was wasting away his life, slathered in cream and subjected to hours of boredom. It was in that fugue, that mental stagnation that the thoughts began to creep in. What if the gods were waiting for him to do something? What if they had forgotten he existed? What if... this was not merely a dream? There was one to check the limits of the dream. He would have suck up what courage he had and abuse it for certain, but if he could at least try... Touslaine Verduryne was by no means a brave child. He vastly prefered his wits to his brawn. He never matched the height of his eldest brother Talys, nor could he ever hope to match the magical ability of his second brother Thenvard. Perhaps if he had returned earlier... And without any ability to channel the flow of mana, what else was he supposed to do? A book could only amuse him for so long- especially considering he knew every book his home''s paltry library had to offer. It was surprising how many miscellanious thoughts and facts came to his mind as he lingered in the sun, feeling its gaze rest upon his ski- "You shouldn''t spend too long in the sun," a now familiar voice cut through Touslaine''s ruminations. "Your skin will-" "Dry and peel, I know," the man stuck within the boy responded. He turned to face the healer, as his focus shifted from what he could do to burn away the time to the woman across the room. She held in her hand another bowl of medicine- the look of it was tainted by a miserable sludge-like texture, and though his tongue lacked the capacity to taste it, his nose more than accounted for its absense. In his youth, Touslaine had hurled upon forcing this foul concoction down his throat. But he was no longer that child. Touslaine stood from his seat and approached her, eyes flicking from her face to the muck. Magdelyne Aureum- the future Empress of the Orem Empire. Her hair already possessed the correct glow one would expect from a member of that extended family. She had a wizened look to her face, though by Touslaine''s ken, she was barely past the age of 30. He dared not voice that opinion though- the more he interacted with her, the more likely it was that her apprentice would enter. "What has you so worried? It doesn''t look that foul," the woman chuckled, a warm smile alighting her lips. Shakily, Touslaine took the bowl in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. Touslaine knew how to take his medicine, he would have sworn by it. But feeling the lump that pump past his throat, he felt the revulsion strike back with a vengeance. He threw his bowl down and struggled to choke the foul slime down, its noxious fumes additionally contributing to the squeeze in the pit of his stomach. His whole body seized up, as if it were trying to discharge the contents of his stomach once again, but he placed a hand infront of his mouth and did his best to hold it in. He won, but at the cost of his dignity. The healer patted his shoulder gently, as if trying to cajole him. Touslaine had to fight his surging instinct to push her off. "See, not so bad right?" the woman insisted. Touslaine was thankful his tongue was too boiled to taste it at all. Did his taste actually ever recover? How could he forget the sensation of taste upon his tongue? When did he stop caring about the flavor of his food? "Touslaine?" Magdelyne''s voice inbetween his thoughts once again. Touslaine shoook himself free of that thought-drowning fugue. "My apologies... Madame Healer. I''m fine," he insisted. Magdelyne smiled and nodded as if she understood... but she simply took a seat beside his bed. "Come then, let us have a look at ye," she insisted. Obediently, Touslaine did so. It was not that he was a particularly responsive yonung man- the idea of a check up provided a break from the mind numbing mundanity of his day locked up in this room. Settling himself upon the bed, the woman began to poke and prod at his skin, while attempting to document the results. "So, Sir Touslaine... you seem to be a bit of a reader." "Sorry, what?" he answered, before lamenting his decision to do so. Why had he engaged her, kept her rooted here in this room? He turned to his right and spotted the massive tome that he left there just moments prior. "Ah, yes, I suppose I am." "Perhaps you ought to teach my duaghter- she simply refuses to learn her letters." "A teacher can only teach a student willing to learn," the words bubbled up to the boy''s tongue, Touslaine shocked that he even slipped the quote off his tongue. It had come so naturally, so quickly that he barely noticed. The woman burst into laughter in response. She did not need to voice her agreement- it was clear she very much been the teacher in question many times. "What are you reading about?" she continued to push the boy for more... conversation. Now that she knew his tongue operated, she needed to see if there was any permanent damage. Touslaine understood this. That did not mean he found the press of her hand against his chest comforting as he answered honestly. "I''m reading about... my condition." "You could always ask me," she mocking huffed. "No, not my health but... beyond that." "... and what lies beyond your recovery, that has you so excited that even words would suffice?" Touslaine could feel it. The urge to answer. To share. He did not bring his eyes up to meet her face. It was easier to talk to her like this. "Magic." The man knew the expressions playing out upon the woman''s face. Sympathy, Pity, maybe even painful Empathy. He had known those looks in the past. "Not like that," he cut in, before she could say a word. He did not mean for his tongue to stab like that. Perhaps being a boy again brought it out within him. A bubbling mess of immature emotion. Logically, he could parse his emotions. But his delivery was stocattic, his tongue tripping over each word. He thought practicing with the maid could help... but she could relay his words easily enough to his father, or even his mother. "I meant more... its study. Methodology. Research." He knew a lot from his past. How politics flowed, how prices rise and fell. But how magic was recorded, conveyed or performed? He had run from it once before, ignored it as often as he could. Perhaps, if this truly was another chance then... perhaps... "Do you anything about magic, Madame Magdelyne?" the boy turned to the woman. The woman stiffened. Her brow furrowed. The boy searched her features, attempting to make out the true reaction she could have conveyed to him, but instead he was met by a wall. The woman''s lips twitched before she took a steadying breath, picking the bowl up. She stood and turned. And like that Touslaine was left alone with his thoughts. What was that? Had he asked broached a subject too personal to her? Had he trespassed where he did not deserve to? No, that would have indicated that she was indeed her own... individual. As if she were privy to knowledge that was her own. Thoughts, memories, philosophy, she would have had to be her own person. But if that were the case, then it likely held true for the maid. For Yanns. If he met any of his family, perhaps that would only affirm the truth. The sickening reality began to set into his stomach. No, this was not nausea- rather, it was a discomfort that ran into his very bones. If the gods were judging him, then his lack of action would have surely bored them. If he was suffering in a personally designed hell, then his every interaction with Magdelyne would have been based upon his own memory. The absurdest notion had always been there, lingering in the back of his mind, like a gnawing realization that he was not ready to accept. Had he truly traveled back through time? Chapter 3: A Queen must have a princess Historically speaking, magic had various ways of shaping both the world and society. Fundamentally speaking, the manipulation of mana is akin to the manipulation of nature itself. As such, no matter where in the world you go, there will always be a few set of rules. The Pull, for example, affects all living things- its what keeps us grounded, our feet planted to the loam we were blessed with. This is a universal property, present in nearly all communities that develop the notion of organized magic. But magic, as the manipulation of nature can be used to perform acts one could could consider a complete perversion of said nature. Facts can meddled with- even universal truths like the Pull can be manipulated with the right spell. Nowhere is this more evident than in the healing magics of the Holidom. The goal of such magic is to defy the nature of death, and coerce the body to heal in spite of it''s failing. Yet, in the holidom most other forms of magic are considered sacriligeous. Indeed, but most scriptures, the manipulation of the Laws is considered antithetical to the will of the gods. Such hypocrisy is necessary to maintain the illusion of power, however- for all things in nature were truly sacrosanct, they could not raise the stone required for their cathedrals, forge the metal of their buttresses. In a sense, to most priests of the Holidom, magic is sin, yet in other, it is a Holy gift. This dichotomy is what drives the wedge between Imperial Sciences and Holidom''s Theologos. Where do the lines cross? Where do they end? ~ A Letter sent by an unknown, beleagured Student of both tome and scripture ---- "You told me your child was slow." Thouslyn''s hand paused, his pen nib pressing into his parchment as he peered up from his writing. His beard, trimmed short than usual, teased up his features as he regarded the woman seated on the reclined couch, a cup of tea in her hand. Magdelyne, her hair shimmering gold despite the orange glow the lamp beside her, set her warm tea down, her eyes glancing towards the Lord of Verduryne as he finally lifted his pen and seated it in its carafe. "I don''t believe I used those exact words," the man finally said, dabbing the bleeding velum with a napkin, drying away the ink that the page had yet to sponge. "I believe I said that... he was hesitant in academic pursuits, preferring more... active engagement." "It seems in lieu of being able to properly exercise that option, he''s picked Sandevarian." Thouslyn''s brow raised. The surprise was difficult to deny. Sandevarian''s works were dry, terse descriptions of what happened in the City of Andavar on specific days. His work was often considered necessary documentation, but it made for onerous reading, even for the magically inclined. "The serialized work?" he asked. With the speed of his pen, Sandevarian''s work was often the first, best resource for new developments in the field of magic. "No, it seems he''s picked up an older collection. I did not dig too deeply in- Magic seems to be a difficult subject to approach... given..." "Dissuade him. If you can," Thouslyn''s eyes turned back to the page. "The boy can find other interests. Following in his brother''s footsteps is hardly a viable option any more." "He''s called me Queen." Thouslyn''s hand paused before it could lift his quill from the inkwell. He knew Maggy. He knew her as well as his own sister. The woman had always been a balm in trying times, able to find the light in any scenario. But when she arrived with her daughter, he acted swift. The woman needed protection, for herself and her child. But to look more than twice at the girl, once could tell there was something... different about her. Her hair seemed to float upon the wind. Her gaze was swift, and sharp. Even sullied, her skin still shone. And when she spoke, there was often a magnetic tone that rang with each tone. Worst were her eyes. Under the right light, he could see it- a ring of gold, wreathed about her pupil. He had only seen such traits once before, at a ball he had attended far back in his youth. A mere baron he had been, a lad of fledgling talent, blessed with the rare opportunity to attend a real Imperial Ball. Dressed in his father''s aging gambeson, he had been mistaken for a common soldier, and was thus relegated to the sidelines while the indolent crowds sluiced and bobbed with almost mechanical ease. It was in the midst of a drink that he found himself handing a flagon to a man whose fingers were studded with rings, his dress liced with golden lining. He beamed with errant delight, not seeing the implied slight of a commoner handing him a goblet. Instead, the Emperor of all Sun Blessed took a deep inhalation of the wine he had received, and clapped Thouslyn upon the back. Maggy did not need to say it. He knew, intrinsically, where the girl had come from. He did not need to know why, how such a thing had happened. He only knew she needed to be hidden. Safe. And Maggy beside her. He had never voiced his summation, never asked her about it. Yet somehow, his son knew. "Ballidor," the man barked, startling his old friend, her tea slipping free of its cup and lapping about her saucer. A knock resounded through the oak door, a timbre resonating through the dim office before a voice echoed through. "My Lord?" "Come in," Thouslyn''s lips twitched at the man''s hesitation. He understood why the Butler was not... keen to intrude upon his time with Magdelyne. The man understood the value he placed in the relationship he had with her, their playful escapes from life and its responsibilities characterizing many of his youthful repasts. But that was the past, and both were adults. Too splintered to complete each other as they once had. He had his love, and she had... her daughter. He dared not broach the subject. Perhaps to the aging Butler who slipped between the crack of the door, cautious in his approach, they were akin to children. Alas, there was little he could do to change the old man''s mind. Balidor approached, and gave Maggy a curt bow, his eyes unable to meet her own. Then, he turned to face the Master he was sworn to serve. With another bow, his traditional greetings were complete. "How may I be of service?" "I need you to revisit my previous request. Imperial Gold, but in lieu of that, unnecessary... riches. Should any servant possess these, I need to be informed. Urgently." He still refused to trust any one with his suspicion. So where had the boy so daft as to burn his own veins with unproven techniques learned of her... engagement? "What were his exact words?" Thouslyn asked of the healer. Magdelyne''s eyes were still set upon her teacup. "He called me... Queen Magdelyn after a fit. That much was clear. If there was more to his words, I would have been quicker to report it," the woman''s teacup slid back down upon the saucer. "To be safe, I''ve made sure to keep Ore away from him- I doubt she would let it slip herself." Yes, the girl was sharp that way. She was, perhaps subconsciously, aware that she was different. Careful, cautious, a mask constantly on. He could not help but compare mother and daughter- the two reflected each other nearly perfectly now, and perhaps more than a little part of him panged with pain at the thought. The Maggy of the past was open, bright and welcoming. He still saw bits of her crack through the mask she put on. Such radiance was difficult to smother out. If her daughter was even remotely the same... --- If any had bothered to ask him about the things he missed most in adulthood, the man known as Touslaine Verduryne would have suggested the warm glow of a proper light. In the dead of the night, the boy could spark the light anew and bask in the radiance of that warm, if a bit red, glow. When he left these creature comforts behind, he had tried to sneak one of these tools away with him. Alas, he had not the capicity to keep the lamp charged. Additionally, on the battle field, the warm light would have been an immediate indicator to the enemy. Now, beneath its homey red glow, Touslaine was ready to admit that this was, indeed, one of the few things that felt... real. The pain was real, of course. He could practically feel the way his skin stretched, as if spread and then spread once more, each breath make it feel as though the skin of his chest would tear. His weight certainly did not help- his stomach took with each step, his thighs jiggling with uncontrolled motions caused his flesh to grind against his clothing. But those pangs of pain, that constant discomfort only served to remind him that he had died. It was only here, traversing his books and beneath the ornate mana-infused lamp where he could really start to feel this was a reality. If only his subject of study were not so rooted in the source of his struggles a lifetime ago. "Wha''cha reading?" Touslaine jolted, a visceral reaction to an unexpected interruption that ended with him jammed his head upon the bottom of the lamp he had so favorably considered till just that moment. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. He could have marveled at how it didn''t burn. For the power of magic, a simple light was quite efficient- there was hardly any real heat to the light source, even as the sharped edge of the metal chasis dug into his skull. The boy rubbed his head as he turned the source of the surprise. It was her. His eyes scrunched, the boy thankful his skin was so fresh. It looked as though he were always flushed, red as the lobster his brother insisted existed. "What are you doing here?" he averted his eyes to the page. At the age of 10, the girl he would one day called Princess, and beyond that Empress, was not as striking a figure. She did not have the height, her hair was not as long, her voice was cheery, and her eyes were constantly curled at the edges as though her entire existence was a prank she was pulling off miraculously. In fact, her hair was lighter than it would be in the future, swaying as it bobbed about her features rendered straight by her caring mother''s hand. He had forgotten there someone who could properly tame the waves of the Princess'' hair. No, the only thing that remained consistent between the Empress in his memories and the precocious brat that so lightly crept into his room were her eyes. The golden glow of her amber gaze drew him in all the same, the eyes brown beneath the red light as they scanned his face. "Bored," was her simple answer, as she planted herself upon the bed side seat normally reserved for her mother. It was not that Touslaine couldn''t sympathize with her mindset. But she had legs with which should could move, and she wasn''t restricted to the sickbed the way he was. He understood why he was sequestered to a farflung wing of the house- with his body the way it was, it would have been easy to catch a foul disease. Ah wait, this had been his father''s order. He was doing this to prevent rumors from leaking out. "Not sure if I can help you there," the boy answered, hesitant as he was to interact with this spectre of the past. Her presence was the one thing that made him wish the most this was a dream. A broken, boiled body was bearable, but seeing her? "Well, wha''cha reading?" she reiterated her question again. Touslaine''s eyes drifted towards her, before he handed her the book in his and. It was the wrong year anyway. "Do you anything about magic?" he asked, a bit too late as she took the book from his hand. "You''re reading a magic book." "Oh it is so much worse," the boy felt a laugh bubble up from within. The face she made only added to the coming tragedy. The confusion, the consternation in her gaze as she began to part open the book. Her brow furrowed as she attempted to parse the opening lines of the writer''s recollection. The boy remembered reading the opening paragraph of a Sandevarian record for the first time. The unceasing torrent of mysterious words. The mispellings of words that would only enter the lexicon of the Empire in coming years. The bizarre attempts to describe the new and curious concepts that the author barely understood themselves. "What... is this?" the girl finally asked. To her credit she made it to page two. The boy felt obligated to give her a proper, workable answer. "Every year," the boy was more than delighted to share, "in the city of Andavar, they hold this Symposium. All the mages in the city just gather up and listen to bunch of lectures given by their peers or outside parties. Its not just about magic too- sometimes, the lectures are about foreign diseases, strange monsters, even plants you can''t begin to imagine. And these books," the boy gestured to the pile on his bedside table, "are recountings of each and every one of them." The girl looked at the books, and then the one in her hand. It was old... she turned to the first page, finding the penned date of the record. "So... why are you reading them? I thought you had a whole library of books. There''s gotta be something more..." "Interesting?" the boy immediately rebuffed her attempts to be polite. She was ten, after all. "I like history," the boy answered her scowl. "More importantly... I like reading about how... the past viewed the world. If you check, there''s a few pages where they describe Chimeras as if they were giant ants," the boy gestured to the pages. They were ear marked with folded pages, inviting the girl to take a look deeper within. "It''s wrong. Truly, horribly wrong. But look at how they describe it-" he began to bend towards her, finger ready to drag along the page. It was then he hesitated. He began to rescind his extended digit as doubt reared up its ugly head. This was just a girl. He understood that, logically. She was not the same Empress he opposed in the past. The one he had clung to in the depths of his desperation. He had seen that woman grow up. He had known her as a sister, a friend, an enemy and something... more. But she was not the one before him. He knew that... and yet his spine crawled all the same, his skin still itched about the back of his neck, he still... saw her in those eyes. The boy began to push himself back into his covers. "I don''t get it," the girl finally said, laying the book open beside him. "If you like history, you can read a history book." He knew this argument well. His older brother once used the same line of logic on him. But Touslaine did love history... even now, he could not resist the urge to discuss it, to drown in it. To see the past for the series of mistakes and triumphs that it was. "I mean, a textbook is just a series of events," he struggled ot explain. "Like, the Barrastian Massacre- a book will just tell you that the Rebels of Prasht skewered thousands of civilians in the city they occupied on spears," he paused, realizing he may have chosen the worng example... but then again, he had her attention. Surely she oould handle a story or two about horrifying events. "But they''ll explain why it happened the way it did. Who threw the first spear, why they did it, hell, scholars can''t even agree why the Rebels from Prasht murdered the people they were supposed to protect. When you just... study history, you memorize events and dates, but the connecting tissue? The actual meat of history? There''s no way to catch that. "For example- three weeks before the massacre, Count Barraster had actually dammed the Tenvyus River. Because the river fed directly into city''s wells, there was a massive reduction of drinking water available to the residents. Then, one week before the massacre, merchants stopped appearing in the city, as Soldiers began to inspect buy out all the food they were supposed to sell at inflated prices." "So the city of Barraster had no water... no food... no supplies." "The perfect poweder keg. And all a textbook would tell you is that one thousand people died at the hands of the rebels who took over their city to fight an unfair levy." "Then how do you know?" "It''s earmarked- a lecture on the spread of cholera in limited spaces," he gestured to the tome. "The speaker was a healer in Barraster''s employ." "It doesn''t mention the city once," the girl said, thumbing through the pages. "It doesn''t need to- where else can such a study on the spread of a waterborn illness be conducted without rousing a mob?" The girl paused, her brow furrowed. The boy could feel the shift set in. One moment, she was attentive, curious, and then the next... withdrawn. In his youth, Touslaine had grown frustrated with those episodes, insisting the girl be more like herself. But time had proven the fool- the girl he found sitting by his bed, staring at the page as her eyes sparked with a unknowable rage... this was her at her rawest. And worst of all- he understood now. There was a reason he loved to talk about the people behind these histories. Each of them were just as hungry, desperate and maddened as any person he met. History was written by the victors, but very rarely did said victors reveal their minds. How could they do the things they did? How could Barraster live knowing how many of his people he damned to starvation and disease just to eliminate a pitiful group of insurgents. "How could he just let them die?" "Lord Barraster?" "No, the healer." The boy blinked, looking to the girl... even after a lifetime, her mind was a mystery to Touslaine. "He had all this access- he could observe all these symptoms, catalogue these treatments, and yet he just... let them all die. There was a solution right there- undam the river, and they''d have the water they needed." "He probably couldn''t do that with Lord Barraster around," the boy lead the conversation in a different direaction. "Why?" the girl''s question was simple. But the depths of it were... complex. It was strange- he had known another form of her for years, and yet this was the first he had ever seen of her... confused. She always seemed so driven... magnetic. Like purpose drove each of her steps, and the rest of the world aligned. But in that moment... she was different. And if she was different... who was to say he would be the same? "Well, let''s say you were the healer. Your lord managed to convince his entire army to dam a river, just to force a group of poorly equipped insurgents into a desperate situation. You''re just a healer. How do you convince him to provide them with the water they need?" She thought on that a moment. Her finger curled, her lips pressed, her eyes scanning over the pages. "He has an army. Filled with soldiers. Soldiers who can easily step in too. They could have averted the disaster- a good number amongst them probably have friends and family amongst those trapped in the city. All they would need to do is knock a few logs down. So I suppose I could enlist a few of them." Was she actually 10? For a moment he questioned it- questioned whether or not she too had been flung into this strange revision of the past. "Ok, so you try to drag more people into it... what happens if their fear drives them to reveal your sedition to the lord?" The girl looked at him, brow furrowed. As if he betrayed her expectations. But the boy didn''t care much for how she felt any more. If anything, the corners of his lips started to curl as she paused to genuine consider the options. "Why was the river dammed?" she asked after a moment. "You said it was three weeks before, right?" She pivoted, a new angle to explore set before her. The boy had to admit, it was a good question to ask. But there was a way to infer it. "When did the first case of the disease occur?" And then he saw it. The girl''s eyes alight, shimmering a gleam of gold, as her whole face shifted, as if burning with the sense of excitement only a child could possess. She began to flip throug the pages, eyes scanning the text. It was dense prose, no doubt, filled with strange and ancillary vocabulary, delivered in an ornate, orchestrated speech intended for the healer''s peers more than the eyes of a child. Yet still, it filled with such interest. She actually passed the page that mentioned the "initial contact" of the disease, but he did not wish to rob her the joy of discovery. He allowed his eyes to close, feeling as though, for the first time in two lives, he had actually given her food for thought. "Why''d you call my mom a queen?" The boy froze. He looked ot the girl, her eyes boring into his own. Now this was more familiar. The feeling that she was tearing through him with a glance. The shivers ran up his spine as he found his eyes arrested. Every twitch, every motion, it was all visible to her eyes. The truth bubbled ot his lips, as if compelled by a geas of some fashion. Not a god by her side, not a knight behind her and still managed to terrify him so. "D-Did I?" the boy managed to choke out a response. "You called her ''Queen Magdelyn.'' Your words. Exact." "W-When did I say tha-" "After you hurled on me." "... I''m sorry about that b-" "Why''d you call her queen?" she doggedly stuck to the point. Touslaine felt the sweat upon his grow slide down his features. How was he supposed to answer this? How was he even going to try and communicate his intention? He owed his first life entirely to the Lady. But why had he called her queen? "I don''t know?" he tried to answer honestly. Her glower grew harder. But the longer he stared back, the more obvious it was she was just... a kid. Yes, she was smart, and horrifyingly aware of the world she lived in... but she still had her mother. She still had some semblance of normality. She still had a place she could run to, find comfort. And she fiercely wished to defend it. Could she be aware of how easy it was to lose it? "Seriously. I don''t know," the boy finally insisted. "Well, mom''s freaking out about it. Won''t let me leave the room." "I mean... wait, why are you her-" "I''m stuck in this manor, because you might get sick. And I''m not wasting away with nothing to do." "And you can''t leave because they wouldn''t let you come back," the boy voiced his thoughts aloud as he attempted to piece the situation together. He had forgotten most of the daily affairs of the Verduryne manor, considering how far his path had taken from home. "But she still meets my dad right? No, she''d likely use an aura before she gets back..." the boy continued to reason beneath his breath. He turned back to find the girl''s eyes boring into him again. "W-What now?" the boy asked. The girl said nothing. She rose instead, taking the book in her hands with her. And as she sank into the darkness, Touslaine Verduryne finally breathed, a proper heavy breath for what felt like the first time that night. His lungs swelling with fresh air, the boy felt her presence drift away. "What now...?" he wondered aloud again... before turning back to his books. Chapter 4: An Illusion too Real ¡°Are you a faithful man?¡± the Butcher asked. The man beneath his blade quaked, quivering as his ichor soaked hand rose in pithy defense. ¡°I can give you time for a prayer, if you like,¡± he offered. ¡°But only if you answer a simple question of mine.¡± The venison strangled out an answer. ¡°P-Please!¡± The blade lifted away. The lamb was already bleeding out- his blade too far to bring his Butcher with him. The Butcher knelt over the living corpse, and beset upon the faithful a query. ¡°Why is your god so lazy?¡± ¡°W-What?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve killed so many of you faithful sorts,¡± the Butcher gripped the head of his quarry. ¡°Yet not a single time have I seen your Lady intervene. I have seen hundreds, no- thousands, of clasped suns, and yet not a single time has its wrath come down upon me.¡± ¡°The Lady works in m-mysterious ways!¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s why I ask- what stops her from intervening? From tending to her flock? Do your prayers even reach her?¡± The Butcher queried. It was then he saw the terror in the lamb¡¯s eyes. A quiver- a moment of doubt. Only then did the blade fall. Killing a man of faith always left a bad taste on the Butcher¡¯s tongue. ¡ª--- The first night was a fluke. The boy was beginning to convince himself. During his languid waking hours, he focused on defending the pithy exodermal protection his boil skin offered. It would always start with the hair- clumps of rusted locks would still loosen. Had he not possessed the experience of a lifetime before, he would have feared this would be the look he possessed for what remained of his mortal existence. Instead, he focused what stress of anxiety his prickling electric pain offered upon the Periodicals he had on hand. He did what he could to not appear¡­ interesting. It was difficult to understand her. Her curious gaze, her attention to detail, she saw a different world than him¡­ and unlike the girl in his memories, this precocious creature was not aware enough to hide her true nature. A lifetime ago, he would have been thrilled to have experienced such a moment of attention. The memories he now possessed, on the other hand, gave him a more informed insight. Her gaze, wreathed in gold, was only locked upon him because he presented a threat. That was the only conclusion he could reach- and thus the only way he could answer her concerns was to do everything he possibly could to appear non-threatening. But his tactic was simply to appear boring. He greatly underestimated her curiosity. Given her perception, Touslaine should have known better- his attempts to appear boring only made him more interesting to her. Had she more people to observe, perhaps his minor acting could have slipped past her notice. However, she was bored. And so it began. Every night he would settle upon his bed, a record in hand, and she would simply manifest, brimming with questions. ¡°You don¡¯t need this one, do you?¡± she¡¯d start by taking a book he discarded to the side. ¡°This hardly seems like the easiest way to learn magic,¡± she¡¯d interject at a random interval. ¡°If you were studying this hard, why¡¯d you try burning your mana? I doubt that was advised by any of these lectures¡­¡± Her voice would cut in each time he thought he could relax, poking and prodding at his ears where his skin couldn¡¯t take it. Touslaine knew patience was ideal. There was always an easy way out. All he had to do was mention these visits to her mother once. It was already clear she care deeply for the woman. It was only right to do so, but it still surprised him how concerned she actually was. For all his poor acting, she too was a novice at disguising her true intent. He was as much a mystery to her as the rest of this world was to him. The lines were blurring again- if this was indeed a test of the gods, then it was intricately put together. Such an accurate representation of a location would have been understandable. But the trick they used to pull her off? That was incredible. She was not mirroring the girl in his past- she was dynamic, chaotic and far more involved than she had been in the memories he had. Were his memories the dream? Or was this still the dream? The possibility gnawed at him. There were moments at a time where he believed, if even for a moment, he could find a different path forward. The urge to test it would bubble up whenever Lady Magdelyn would visit him for a checkup, or when the Maid would change his sheets. But he bit his tongue regardless. For all his faults, Touslaine Verduryne believed he led a full life. Sure it ended¡­ prematurely, but he could not say he died without having left a modicum of a mark upon history. Well, maybe a sentence¡¯s worth of deeds. Regardless, he could hardly imagine leading a different life. If he dared to change anything, then it would surely be¡­ No. That would be too greedy. Instead of daring to tell Lady Magdelyn to take her daughter and run at the first opportunity, instead of warning the Maid her job security would dry up in a matter of years, or even warning the cook not to try roasting those strange black seeds from beyond the Holidom¡¯s south on an open flame, he chose to keep his focus on the one thing that should have informed him if this was a purgatory or not: History. It was a simple theory, really. Could the gods really afford to allow something in their position to reflect a falsehood? Would they allow an impurity to persist in their perfect little cage? The boy could not help but explore the depths of the most delirious tangent in all this trap¡¯s details- the mundanity of academia. But if this were an illusion¡­ Touslaine could only respect its craftsman. Every stupid idea. Every nonsensical proposition. Every single ridiculous speech he could find in the bowels of the serialized ramblings of every presentation held in that academic mecca was preserved. Things like the questions raised about dog brains that would never be answered were raised in parody sessions. There was one at least every three years. Nobody would ever actually follow up on these lectures of course- who would dissect a dog? Just reading the successive evolution of those lectures, the mixture of parody and serious academic engagement growing more muddled as the joke made way for genuinely insightful observations about loyal companions and steadfast friends. They were a rare highlight in the course of his studies, as he perused each collated collection. There was a path amongst these lectures. A path back to magic. A path he could pursue and study and push himself far, far away from this land, this family, this place. The longer he lingered, the most he realized he was sinking into the seductive fantasy this illusion created. There was not a man, woman, beast or fae who did not long for their past. Before experience warped the world around them into something nuanced and grotesque. To relive a life with the tempering they had and the knowledge they possessed, to know in advance what would happen. Hindsight. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Try as he might to deny it, it the notion gnawed at him. What if he could change something? Just to test it? Mention a¡­ lost book or perhaps suggest the Chef shoot his shot with a certain maid. Twist the memory he had to find new variations, new paths, new¡­ No. He could not afford that manner of indulgence- if he gave in, the results could have compounded upon the world around him. So instead of changing the lives of others, Touslain Verduryne settled upon changing just one individual element of the tapestry formed of his formative years: himself. If only a certain element of his illusionary redemption would leave him be. ¡°What¡¯s ¡®Allomium Tea?¡¯¡± Touslaine¡¯s hand flew out. His fingers gripped the book in her hand, and attempted to wrench it away from her prying fingers. His hands, however, lacked the grip, tearing at the page and sending shingles of pain up his arm. He recoiled, relenting with a fierce look. Her eyes shimmered with gold- she had struck upon something worthy of a reaction and she savored the entertainment. Touslaine¡¯s jaw set itself askew. He knew had revealed himself, revealed a nexus of knowledge that only drove her to pursue his retreat. But he did not answer her. ¡°Don¡¯t mention that to your mom,¡± he simply turned back to his own book. The girl leaned, her elbows propping upon the mattress as she leaned in. Like a lion, preying upon the lamb, her gaze burned holes through Touslaine¡¯s form as he slipped from page to page, doing his best to ignore the creeping sensation. It was only then that he considered the context and the choice of his words, and realized what drew this reaction. ¡°It¡¯s not like that,¡± he slammed his book shut. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ a different type of drug. Nothing to do with¡­ you know.¡± Her wry smile indicated that she knew¡­ but she did not believe a word he said. ¡°Ore- LIA!¡± The sharp tone of the healer¡¯s voice cut through the thick inky darkness of the night. The redstone lamp was hardly the best light, but when intensified enough for book reading, the darkness faded into an inky void. Even then, he could see it. Lady Magdelyn¡¯s form, fists knotted to her sides, as she stood in the frame, furious at the lass who she had so carefully raised. ¡°Lia¡¯s¡± eyes turned to face her mother- could she see the enraged healer more clearly with those eyes? Her cheeks began to flush as she pulled herself away, and rose from her chair. The silence grew taut about Touslaine¡¯s throat. He could not dare his tongue to move- how could he, when he was not even responsible for this manner of mess? ¡°Forgive her young lord,¡± the Lady¡¯s voice carried through the darkness. Touslaine reached up and brushed his fingers upon the leaves about the lamp- they began to slide down, smothering the red glow. He seated a bookmark in his opened tome and and set it aside, laying it upon his second pillow as he readjusted his vision. ¡°T-Think nothing of it,¡± the boy took a moment to compose his reply. ¡°We were both¡­ bored.¡± The woman¡¯s eyes were threatening to punch a whole through him- ¡°Lia¡± must have inherited that glower. It was clear her concerns were more on behalf of the girl she hugged so close. For some reason, the image¡­ stuck. Even if all he could see were their silhouettes, he could almost feel the searing glower of the woman that cradled her child. What was mingling with it? The taste of bitterness? A hint of caution? How he wished he possessed the eyes to pierce the veil¡­ No. I had already spent a lifetime wishing for things I could never have. Instead, the boy surmised it would have been more helpful to ponder on the things he did have. Despite how¡­ short the list happened to be. From the silence, it was clear Magdelyn thought little of his excuses. Even less for his attempts to excuse himself¡­ or her daughter. The fact she held her tongue indicated there was little he could do to distract her from the trespass. What stake did she have in this? He supposed her caution was warranted, given the queries she had first posed. His usage of the serials had served an efficient smoke screen with her, but Magdelyn was a healer- unlikely to be side tracked by hypotheticals and odd observations. Would this be the rest of his life now? Constantly compelled to fear by roaming eyes and twisted logic? Fearful his every slip up would land him in hotter water? No, he would need a distraction. Not just for her but her Mother as well. Someone he could place the blame for the revelation that lead him to that exhalation. A part of him dreamed that she would let it go. It had been a mistake, a colossal one by his reckoning- he had yet to make the mistakes that would define him after all. Would he make them again? He doubted it now- not with the knowledge he now possessed. ¡°Rest now young lord,¡± Magdalyn¡¯s voice was razor sharp as she gazed upon him in the darkness. Touslaine wished it was that easy. Every breath he took drove his delicate skin against the sheets, every step akin to trampling on nails. Was it not fair to assume this had been a cruel prank of the gods when he first awoke? To relive the consequences of his dumbest mistake? But now that time was passing, it was easier to fit into his role. His confusion giving way to understanding, his trust growing ever stronger that this was indeed a life he would have to live. Thus, as the sound of the door slamming shut resonated through the room, Touslaine lay in bed and considered his options. As the sun rose next, Touslaine found himself simply¡­ staring. He did not quite recognize this ceiling. This was not really his room after all. The way it was structured suggested it was better suited for someone older- the ledge by the window was higher than he could clear with a hop, the bed so large it threatened to swallow him whole at times. Whose room had it been again? There were many members of Verduryne family who could have called this space their own. HIs grandfather, grandmother, innumerable uncles, and an almost equal amount of aunts. They were a provincial family at best, with households all across the fertile lands of Aureum. And with that sort of life came a great many hands. The two that served the annex during Touslaine¡¯s healer-imposed quarantine. There was the Maid. He kept forgetting her name, despite having asked it innumerable times. She was a rare presence, and he could hardly blame her. From what he recalled, for much of his early healing the very muscles of his jaw refused to operate, forcing the poor woman to reach beneath his chin and gently pry the apparatus of his mouth open. She earned her keep, and the right to not share the room with him. The next was the chef. Gods he missed having real food. His tongue could not taste, but the site it, the scent of it, the sound of it. To hear cream bowling about a room, the crisp crunch of freshly baked bread. If he had to live life anew, then these were the simply comforts he never wanted to sacrifice again. And when his tongue healed? Oh he was already compiling a list in his head of what to indulge in. Chocolate, Coffee, those little snack cookies the chef would sneak in- they had little deposits of jelly in them that sparkled like jewels and Touslaine for the lives he lived could not recall the taste of them. But how he so relished the opportunity to savor it anew. Alas this left the boy with a terrifying problem- neither party were likely to know of Magdelyn¡¯s identity. To have a child out of wedlock was frowned upon by the Sielsus Church, but no longer punishable with stoning. She could claim such a thing if she wished. Instead, she feigned adoption as an explanation for the presence of her girl. It was certainly believable, given the nature of her gaze. But to connect the girl to her father would have required a few conditions- for one thing, he would had to have been graced wit the presence of the Emperor himself. There was no way for Touslaine could have met the man. There was a quality to the gaze of royalty- one inexpressible through art alone. The few frescos he had seen in a lifetime before could start to approach the arresting vision she possessed, but to achieve this effect, the artists had to resort to a level of extreme abstraction. No, the possibility that he reached this conclusion alone was never going to work. Instead, he needed a different angle- an external force. But who did he know that understood the nature of Magdelyn and her daughter? His father was an option- one who would immediately call out his lie. From what he remember of the stern man, Touslaine knew that Thsoulyn had a soft spot for the golden daughter of a woman he held dear. No, comparatively speaking, Touslaine was a threat. Plus, Thouslyn never spoke to his son about these matters. Thouslaine had spent half a life in ignorance before. He had no plans to repeat that misstep. So his father was no option. His mother perhaps? No, the woman was¡­ preoccupied. Distant. Unrelated, divorced from the concerns of the Verduryn household. Then there was the head staff. A name came to mind. A man loyal to the house, but more to the name than the people. A most seditious smile spread across his features¡­ the sensation of his cheeks searing from the pain of the gesture drawing out a wince rather than the chuckle felt from deep within. Chapter 5: A Measure of Loyalty ¡°Are you a loyal man?¡± The voice that raised that horrid query echoed through the halls, the shimmering veins of gold webbed through the marble columns accentuating the authority through which that voice tremored. The mage that bowed before the Golden Throne kept his forehead adhered to the ground. To falter now would be to betray all the expectations of those that laid the path to this place. He could either speak truth to power or suffer his art a shadow of an existence. The iron that salt his step brayed for his truth. But the gold upon the throne demanded his lie. His lips parted, and he said his piece. ¡ª- It was not easy, finding a way to cast a man into damnation. Even if this were the illusion he still hypothesized, the boy could not help but ponder upon the morality of his decision. On the one hand- his life had already been lived. His mistakes were still his own. But on the other, he¡­ could not simply let go. Perhaps it was the sight of a Princess still¡­ whole? Was that the word? She still smiled, poked and prodded like the girl he had known, but she was not afraid of her true self- her eyes would still dart, her observations would still cut to the bone, and she was unafraid to show him the gold that lurked beneath her dark lashes. Who was this? This was not the girl he remembered, and yet she was not the Empress he had last seen. Was his vain curiosity enough justification to cast a cloud upon someone else¡¯s destiny? Then again¡­ If this were indeed a relapse, a revisitation of his past, a complete circle rather than an inexorable path into the future, then he could, potentially, prevent a future betrayal. There was many such potential avenues. There was a maid who stole his mother¡¯s garments¡­ but considering his mother, there was an equal chance she had donated her worn silks to an all too eager young lady. Hardly worth casting a light upon. There was the chef.. .no, never. The man worked tirelessly to perfect his craft. What was the boy if not respectful of a man devoted to his craft? No, he needed to establish several things. Motive, Opportunity, and a quote that would fit their lips. He racked his brain, and consulting the annals of history that had been granted to him either in divine jest or miraculous fortune. There was only one person he could think of who would dare to betray his father so openly and profanely, with access to the right information and the opportunity to inform him of this unholy truth. Yes, there was him. ¡ª-- Ballidor Spinnaker was a loyal man. He knew this from the very base of his character. What was he if not a man of the Verduryne manor? Each morning he woke with nothing but thanks for the life he was allowed to live, serving a great house of the West. To look upon plains of golden wheat and now that, beneath his stewardship, three generations of the Verduryne family would bloom. And yet, there was a¡­ bothersome twist. A secret that weighed heavy upon his soul. At first, he could have dismissed it as a dalliance, a passing interest in a smart young lass by a budding lord. But then he could see it in the man¡¯s eyes¡­ Thouslyn¡¯s gaze grew softer, possessive. He had to put an end to it, and so Ballidor had betrayed the intentions of his lord¡­ and allowed his distraction to slip away into the night. A necessary evil, he had assumed. And yet, nearly two decades later, the vixen had returned, a child in her hands. At first, Ballidor had feared the worst- that his lord had somehow slunk behind his back and coupled with her, betraying his home and wife. Thankfully, it took but a passing glance over the girl to figure out she was no product of the Verduryne line. His relief was short lived. Within the span of a conversation, she was invited in, offered a home and service. It all spun too fast for the man, his age betraying him when it mattered most. The lady of the house was unresponsive to his appeals, her children¡­ well, Thalor, bless his kindly heart, viewed it as a mercy to an ailing mother. As the eldest, he was the most compassionate¡­ but he too understood that the woman¡¯s skill was a testament to her potential. He was right of course- when that idiot boy Touslaine tempted fate. Ballidor had seen it. The bloodied, the mottled form. He believed he had witnessed a corpse. Instead, the boy still lived. The Goddess had deemed him worthy of surviving, as his eldest brother put it, and placed an angel the house of Verduryne to ensure his life was secured. The woman was a consummate professional about it as well- quickly demanding a sequestered annex, a proper quarantine to ensure that his healing was untainted by impurities. Best of all, it separated him from the loose lips of some of the house¡¯s worst gossips. If word got out that the youngest son of the Verduryne family had all but roasted himself in the pursuit of power he never had a right too, well, it would have led to a dark cloud clinging to all the house. Stolen story; please report. No, perhaps even more fortunate, was the fact that Theron was not allowed to interact with his younger brother. The nightmare of those two meeting was averted for now- despite his age, Theron could be rather¡­ classless with his younger brother. Only two years separated them, but they still bickered and fought, challenged and butted heads. There was a healthy degree of competition one could expect from proper brotherhood¡­ but to call one¡¯s own kin a ¡°boiled rat¡± was a stretch too far, even for Ballidor¡¯s taste. Hardly fitting for a proper Mage, much less a nobleman. Though, at the end of the day, Theron was a lad himself. Ballidor did his best to serve, he truly did, but it was difficult to ignore the quality between the sons of Thouslyn and his married wife Igret. They were blessed with three sons, two of which he dared call ¡°gifted.¡± The difference lay in how much support they could provide. Thalor could be provided for with ease- the Verduryne household was built upon a foundation of agriculture, but simple folk still needed knights. A full retinue served the lord and lady of the house- Thalor was never replete for attention in that regard. But Theron¡¯s talents lay in magic- a far more expensive and dangerous education lay in wait for him, requiring the presence of a Master to guide his training. The consequences for not adhering to the teachings of a proper master¡­ well, Touslaine was living proof of their value. Till now, the lad had never shown a particular talent for anything in particular, save for causing an undue amount of headaches for his brothers and help. A part of him lamented the fact the boy inherited the name he held so dear, yet Ballidor could settle on two sterling sons of the lineage. But the attempt on his life shifted the calculation. Whatever the boy¡¯s faults, he did not deserve a death like this. HIs prejudices aside, Ballidor did his best to serve the household with all the due diligence it deserved. So to receive a summons from the boy should have roused within him a great deal of fulfillment. Instead, he could not help but feel the odious pricklings of the seconds he wasted in his day meeting the boy. The quarantine was being lifted, slowly, piece by piece, but Ballidor was amongst the first allowed to visit upon the young man. As he approached the door, the Butler¡¯s knuckle raised gently and tapped upon the port. ¡°Enter as you wish,¡± came the curt reply. Both polite and snarled, appropriate for a young man on the mend. As he entered, Ballidor¡¯s nose wrinkled from the smell. There was a sting of alcohol in the air, mixed with the underlying¡­ decay it hid. The boy, mercifully, sat himself by the open window, allowing for a flow of fresh air. He was remarkably well put together, for a lad skinned raw by the ethereal force of mana. Touslaine¡¯s rust-tinted hair, though thin, was beginning to inch anew atop his head, eyes sharp and clear. HIs skin was starting to form a pale endolayer, as one would expect from a burn victim. HIs clothes were light, airy, made of softer fiber. ¡°Ballidor,¡± the lad set his book aside. ¡°Come, sit.¡± Ballidor would not deny the lad this request. He was firm, deliberate in his approach, doing all he could to ensure the two were separated by at least three feet- as per the healer¡¯s instructions. ¡°You take her word quite seriously.¡± Ballidor paused in his seating. His own gaze lifted up to hold upon Touslaine. The boy gazed back, unmoving, undaunted by the older man¡¯s furrowed brow. ¡°She is your healer, after all,¡± the man finally rested across the boy, his back arching straight. ¡°And your father¡¯s guest.¡± There was something¡­ unfamiliar about the boy. Ballidor would never pretend he had a great deal of familiarity with the lad before him, but he certainly would not have expected him to be so¡­ sharp. A moment passed. The wind provided a steady flow, but his eyes did not move. Finally, his chest swelled. His lips parted. ¡°Ballidor, have you been providing my mother with Allomium Tea?¡± Ballidor blinked. Allomium? Yes, the madame had begun drinking it with Theron¡¯s mentor. It was an¡­ expensive import, quite rare this far west of the Tower, but the mentor swore by it. But Touslaine¡¯s query carried with it a bite. A spiteful riposte that carried with it an allegation. ¡°I¡­ yes, I have,¡± his answer was stymied, uncertainty creeping in. How had the boy even known? He flipped to a page in his book. The healer had mentioned it- a collated collection of records from annual summits of Andavar, published as periodicals. They had been collected in the dustborn halls of the secondary manor, forgotten till the boy¡¯s curiosity compelled his maid to properly clean the library properly. ¡°Paragraph two,¡± the boy said, laying the book on the table between them, before backing away. Ballidor¡¯s hands reached out for it, sliding the book towards him till his ailing eyes could start to make out the terms and words. His eyes danced from left to right, as an awning pit formed in his stomach, each word stabbing at his guilt as he sunk deeper into the paragraph that unraveled before his eyes. ¡°But¡­ Ser Karigios¡­¡± ¡°This was an entry from nearly two hundred years ago, Ballidor,¡± the young man said. ¡°Later speeches gloss over it, circumnavigate it, but none attempt to refute it.¡± ¡°But if this is true, should it not be¡­?¡± ¡°Ballidor, if a truth were inconvenient would you still swear to it? Or would you choose to ignore it? Take a comforting lie over a discomforting fact?¡± ¡°... Touslaine, what is this about?¡± ¡°I¡¯m doing you a favor Ballidor. Informing you now before it becomes a problem. But in turn I need one from you.¡± ¡°A¡­ favor?¡± Ballidor¡¯s eyes widened, the room before him widening, walls shifting as the boy¡¯s words began to dig into his soul, his eyes gleaming with a certain¡­ ferocity. Anger? Rage? No, his eyes were cast too coldly, his lips too drawn. ¡°If my mother experiences anything akin to what you¡¯ve read, what would happen to this family? What would become of you?¡± the boy¡¯s questions preyed upon a deep-set fear, one Ballidor rarely entertained. The lord and lady¡­ he once took pride in knowing his role in ensuring their union. But as the years passed, the resentment in his Lord¡¯s eyes continued unabated, and the Lady grew more¡­ withdrawn. And then there was Magdelyn. Her and the mysteries that followed her. ¡°Tell her,¡± the words cut through the haze that possessed Ballidor¡¯s mind. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Tell Lady Magdelyn. Take the book, show it to her, tell her everything.¡± Ballidor felt that pit¡­ it was gnawing at him, drawing his attention down, threatening to drown him as he considered the boy¡¯s words. ¡°But¡­ the Lady¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s could be¡­ no¡­¡± he verbalized, his tongue moving, shifting inflecting upon syllables as he felt his mind whirl. ¡°If you do not, I will. But whose words would go further?¡± the boy¡¯s voice slithered through his ears, as if taunting him. ¡°Do this, and you will owe her a great deal,¡± he continued. ¡°And in doing so, she will cease to be your enemy.¡± Ballidor felt something was off with the boy¡¯s words. He knew something was wrong. Yet his focus was centered upon the betrayal that unraveled itself before him. ¡°And what about Sir Karigios?¡± the man asked. The boy stiffened at the mention of the mage. Before he settled his eyes down upon the book.