The weather felt pleasant to Aren. He would not claim he wasn’t sweating, but it was a welcome change from the relentless downpour that felt purposed to peel the skin from one’s bones. Remaining in the shade of Crina’s tent helped as well.

  He felt the two exemplars moving far away from the camp, though he did not know the reason. Just in case, he began a wide scan of their surroundings.

  Crina was resting after he had helped her relax with a few games of cards. He lost most of them. The rules were new to him, although that did not change the fact that she was simply better at reading him. It was a game played in the Sands that relied on both strategy and the ability to see through the other player.

  With nothing else to occupy him, he began running simulations of his spell. He was confident he could begin testing later today, after the strategic meeting. He was already conducting experiments on a soul construct, feeding it his own sorcerous spells and receiving its analysis in return. It was working remarkably well. Being stuck in the city had left him overthinking his theories and presumptions.

  Then something pinged his wards. His mind, lost in thought, shifted to focus. His blood froze. By pure instinct, he pulled out his wand faster than he could think, a familiar six-circle spell popping into existence. The world slowed, his perception sharpening. Less than two seconds remained.

  He jumped to his feet, his legs faster and snappier thanks to his training. Seven circles appeared midair as his right hand filled them with practiced dexterity. He leapt toward where Crina lay, altering the spell form for pure durability. The projectile, object, whatever it was, was nearly upon them, still moving faster than his enhanced mind could process.

  The Sun Watcher moved. He felt the construct burn nearly all of its energy at once to place itself in front of the tent. A shield of molten gold formed in front of it. Then it exploded into a shower of golden debris as it barely slowed the attack down. The force still surged past the shattered shield, racing toward them.

  He barely grasped Crina’s shoulders as his spell snapped into place around them, forming a thick blue barrier that should survive anything. Ashen eyes snapped open. Then the impact came, and the world blurred. He felt his mana dip noticeably as they were hurled into the air, the shockwave of their collision spreading as sand rose high around them.

  The inertia dampener killed enough of the internal momentum to keep them from splattering against the barrier’s wall, but not enough to prevent them from being violently displaced. That shook Aren more than anything else, as he knew it was nearly perfectly efficient. The amount of force transferred to them must have been enormous.

  Whatever struck them continued onward, deflected off his spherical barrier into the sand. The force of both impacts caused their camp to be blown apart, only the outermost tents stayed where they were as they collapsed. He focused on his detection area as his friend screamed in surprise.

  He summoned his circlet directly onto his head, its prismatic gem letting him sense a powerful life energy emanating from the hole in the sand. There, rising in what seemed to be confusion, was the dark-furred beastkin. Then she looked up, her upper lip curling back to reveal sharp fangs. She held no weapon, but she clearly did not need one anymore. Her claws were unnaturally long, gleaming with a dark glint. She had moved faster and struck with more strength than he had ever witnessed from anyone alive, and that was only one of their problems.

  A large, incomplete circle of chronotope wizardry formed a fair distance from their camp. Then it filled itself with the unknown energy, completing the pseudo-spell. With a thought, he found Donnavan, who was already alert and trying to get his bearings even as sand still fell down relentlessly. He connected telepathically to the man even as he prepared another spell.

  Aren sent, “There is a group teleport spell finalizing to the south. You have maybe a few minutes for them to reach your position once they teleport in.”

  “Is this an assassin’s attack? What of the Luminous One!?” the officer shouted and thought at the same time.

  “Leave her protection to me,” Aren sent the thought and infused it with certainty. “Don’t interfere. I won’t be able to protect you, and the others need you.”

  That was all the time he had as he dropped the connection. The beastkin’s feline legs tensed, and she leapt. He completed his own chronotope wizardry, and a temporal trap formed just beneath them. She sensed it too late and entered an enlarged space where time flowed thirty times slower. She still moved at a speed that was terrifying to his senses.

  “What’s happening!?” Crina shouted at his side as he prepared another spell already.

  “The assassins attacked early,” Aren said, filling the seven-circle with formations for lightning.

  “Where is Marie?” Crina asked, then noticed the settling dust beneath them. “Is everyone okay!?”

  He opened his mouth to answer but did not manage to speak. He failed to finish his spell in time. The beastkin broke through his temporal trap with pure speed and crashed her claw into their barrier once again. A powerful explosion resounded through the air, scattering dust in every direction.

  They were thrown higher into the air even as he tried to stabilize their path with his own flight magic. His mana was drained at an alarming rate to keep the barrier intact. Then he saw the beastkin kick off the air and cursed. He took control of his unfinished spell with his elemental sorcery and altered it to affect a wide area. A veritable storm of lightning lit up the sunny day, and he was sure his magic had connected, and that it was not enough.

  The storm continued even as the beastkin leapt out of it, her fur lightly singed and whatever wounds he had managed to inflict healing quickly. Her eyes, those of a predator, were filled with the heat of battle, and he came to the only conclusion he could. She was an eighth-stage life practitioner, a stage that few humans in history had ever reached. A being no mage was meant to fight alone. Her speed exceeded that of any seventh-stage speedster he knew, and her power was monstrous as well.

  “I right, strong,” the beastkin said, her voice guttural and heavy. “Fun.”

  Then she charged forth again, a black, solid life energy surrounding her like armor as she entered his storm once more. Seeing that it no longer caused damage, he dismissed his spell. He used sorcery to summon a wall of blue-hot flame as he began preparing another spell, then dropped both as the foreign woman passed through unimpeded. He ensured his grip on Crina was firm as they were slammed away again.

  And again, the beastwoman was moving faster than he could process, even with his enhanced mind. He needed another approach. He drew a new spell in his hand as he secured Crina, who held onto him with all her strength. He was sure this did not help her sickness, but he had no mental capacity to consider it. His spell finished just as the third strike landed, and as the catfolk approached for the fourth time, a black mist spread outward like an ominous plague.

  For once, the attack did not land, and their assailant reeled back. The beastkin shook and convulsed as his magic particles poisoned her body and confused her senses. Knowing well it would not be enough to finish her off, he began preparing another potent spell. Then the beastkin sneezed, and he saw his magic leave her body in a single burst, accompanied by a blob of dense goo.

  Aren looked at it with despair. Should he try and run away? No, the monster-like warrior would catch up with short-range teleports, and it would eat his mana quickly. His resonance crystal in Vo’Teol would take too long to respond at this distance. He had never prepared for expeditions into the Sands, and now it bit him.

  His powerful spells took too long to prepare, and she could dodge them unless he made the area too wide to have any serious effect. His quick spells were too weak to pose any danger. Enhancing himself physically made no sense, he could barely match Leilara, much less this beastkin.

  “Why is she just looking at us?” Crina asked, her voice shaken and raspy. They were high enough that it was colder, and the air thinner.

  “I don’t know,” Aren said, casting another spell to fill their bubble and stabilize the amount of oxygen.

  “Is all?” the beastkin asked, and receiving no answer her mouth closed. “Shame.”

  Then the assault on their barrier continued. Aren connected to it through his sympathetic sorcery, focusing fully and trying to keep it stable and as efficient as possible. He offhandedly noticed a second sun appear somewhere on the ground away from them, but he had no time to focus on it.

  He was down to half his mana and growing desperate. Even if he used his archmage’s ring to call for help, it would never reach them in time. He needed something to increase the speed and power of his spell, and he had one option. Casting an incomplete spell was dangerous, but now he was just waiting for his mana to run out anyway.

  Seven circles appeared in the air, most of which he had to fill by hand. He drew his self-designed formation painstakingly, making sure he made no mistakes even as he maintained his connection to the barrier. Strike after strike landed on the layer of mana keeping them alive. Crina’s hand trembled slightly. He tried to show her a reassured expression.

  “It will be okay,” he said, and then his spell completed.

  Connection to the world consciousness formed, seven filter formations ensured only knowledge pertaining to magical resonance entered his soul construct. Then the torrent of pure information entered his mind vault. The world flashed white as he saw mana in a completely new perspective.

  The beastkin jumped away, her fur singed down to the flesh. Aren stared in wonder at the effect his elemental sorcery had produced. He had applied only a little mana, yet he had created a flash of heat that warped the air into white plasma in an instant. A smirk crept involuntarily across his face as he met the feral joy in the predator’s slit eyes, her wounds already healed. It was time for his comeback.

  A boar’s snout exposed itself from under a thick layer of sand as furry paws dug through it with long, sharp claws. Bar’tik had been buried by the shockwave. He had been conversing with a fellow warrior about their battle stories. The man had already dug himself out using his aura as well.

  Another wave of air blasted the dust away, and he felt it push him downward. Still, this was nowhere near as intense as the first one. The battle in the air became fierce. He could smell the mana and life force colliding. He shook the sand from his fur as he inhaled the dusty, damp air, now faintly tinged with the smell of blood. The warriors standing guard by the little elder’s tent were not as lucky as he was.

  He did not go to help right away. He sucked in another breath and exhaled a snort of relief as he felt that Mar’tei’s scent was healthy, if slightly shocked, the sense only obscured by a thin layer of cloth. The little frost bear must have been studying in her tent as usual. Thanks to the ancestors for that.

  Feeling relieved, he went over to a priest who had been buried and shoveled the sand away. Then he helped the surprised man reach a warrior whose arm had been torn out. The warrior had to be dug out as well. He assisted in locating a few more survivors as the camp organized. The two unlucky dead were left alone for the moment. Donnavan was issuing orders to gather everyone quickly.

  Some stared with uncertainty at the battle taking place in the skies and had to be hurried by others. He was not surprised but what was happening up there was beyond anything he had witnessed as well. The speed at which the black blur moved was impossible to follow. Each explosion of sound hurt his sensitive ears. He had been surprised before when the most unassuming of tribe alliance elders had destroyed a mountain, overpowering a wyrm in one blast.

  “Warriors and priests!” Donnavan called them to attention with the power of sixth-stage lungs. “There is another force heading this way, our task is to prevent them from interfering in the Sunbearer battle.”

  Then a golden sphere, bright like another sun, appeared over the horizon. Even Donnavan stared at it for a moment. Bar’tik remembered that Marie had done something similar during the battle defending the city.

  Donnavan shouted again to gather everyone’s attention. “Our Honored Exemplar is fighting as well. The Sun watches over us!”

  They were then separated into three groups. Their force, consisting mostly of close-quarters fighters, made it harder to use common defensive formations. Not that defense would work well for them when facing an enemy capable of using enigmatic magics.

  Bar’tik did not leave the man much choice, standing firmly by his sister. He kept his transformation going and slowly gave more of himself to the instincts of his ancestors. Getting used to it first made it easier to retain his own thoughts in the rush of combat.

  Lan and Wes were assigned to them along with three holy warriors. Wes knew Yom, and his sister knew Hann and Payra. Their task was to disrupt the enemy’s actions. The largest group was led by Kron and Louis, both looking toward the south with grim determination as they prepared to meet the enemy head-on. Finally, Marc, whose eyes blazed with barely contained scarlet energy, led a small group of Donnavan’s warriors that would aim to stop the enemy’s magic. The man himself would lead the battle and face the biggest threats himself.

  “It has been more than a few minutes already,” Lan said, impatience creeping into his voice, holding his two saifs at his side as he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  Wes looked at his brother with disapproval. “Keep focused.”

  An explosion reached their ears from high up in the skies. Lan looked up briefly. “Kind of hard to. I think I just saw a bright flash of white.”

  “We need to believe in him. Our battle is down here,” Mar’tei said, her wand in hand as she practiced drawing a formation with it, one she had memorized perfectly but knew needed more time to be properly battle ready.

  “Did you know the Sunbearer is this powerful?” Yom asked, looking at Wes.

  The muscled warrior looked uncomfortably at his three fellow adventurers, who shrugged. Sighing, he spoke. “We were aware, but were told to keep quiet. Still, this is beyond what I expected.”

  “I was told a little,” Hann exclaimed. “I do not know all the details. Only that politics are involved.”

  “That’s…” Yom said with more than a little surprise. “Did someone like that really stumble upon us accidentally and decide to join us?”

  “If he got drunk, boasted, and guided us toward that alleyway on purpose, I will bite off my tongue,” Bar’tik said gruffly.

  “Would he have planned vomiting as his introduction to the Luminous One too…” Lan chuckled. The three holy warriors looked at him with confusion.

  “Eyes on the target,” Bar’tik said suddenly, his voice sharp. “I smell them.”

  His instincts boiled over as his fur colored azure. The smell of death and decay made his fur bristle. It was strong and made his snoot contract. There was also the smell of humans and the faint taste of musty, woody air that irritated him. Surprisingly, they were not outnumbered, but each source gave off a feeling of power.

  “I see them… what the hell is that!?” Lan shouted in shock.

  “Adventurer’s procedure: describe it,” Mar’tei reminded him.

  Lan swallowed. “It’s a goliath of bone and muscle. It doesn’t have a head, just a torso and limbs. Bones are formed around it like warped chitin, and spikes protrude from the surface at every angle.”

  “Necromancers.” Mar’tei cursed. “Sounds like a flesh monstrosity. It will have a sickly green gem core somewhere inside it, most likely in the thickest part.”

  The word spread quickly, and soon their group fell silent as they waited. Yet, instead of charging at them or attacking from a distance, the assassins’ group continued walking at a march pace until stopping within visible range, and, for Bar’tik, hearing distance.

  “This is not what we agreed on! This was supposed to be a clean-up!” a man in grey robes shouted at a man in a black robe with a purple moon symbol on it. Four more grey-robed men stood behind him, circling the goliath.

  “Plans change. The damnable flame-ball lovers must have had some hidden card at play,” the leader of the moon worshippers answered stoically. Ten like him stood next to him as well.

  “Clearly, I have never felt magic this efficient, and I have seen archmages, and the power at this distance,” the necromancer said, his voice raspy.

  “Our lord’s beast will deal with that,” the man answered. “The will of the Archivist will be done today. Prepare your minions.”

  During the conversation, Bar’tik spotted a familiar face he was sure Donnavan recognized as well. The long-bearded knife thrower from their first battle, leading a group of twenty mercenary-like warriors, stood silently to the side, watching their group with caution. Each wore a different set of armor, with seemingly no cohesion among them, yet all regarded the bearded warrior with respect. Hearing the cultist’s final words, Donnavan did not wait any longer.

  “Charge!” the officer shouted.

  Their group charged. Louis and Kron sped forward as the holy warriors blessed their force. They crossed the distance at a tremendous rate. To avoid lagging behind, Bar’tik lifted his sister onto his shoulder and ran forward. During this, she was already drawing five circles carefully.

  Before they had closed half the distance to the group, a dark aura enveloped the cultist. Deep violet energy coalesced into bright circles that looked like magic. Then in an instant a lance of lightning shot toward the charging main group.

  A scarlet sphere of light passed by the running warriors like a comet and crashed into the incoming magical projectile. There was no clash of energy, instead, the red life energy seemed to cut through the spell with pure hatred for its existence. The cultists stared in surprise, but the mercenaries next to them did not.

  Blades and spears in hand, the mercenaries charged to meet their group. Each was surrounded by an aura that showcased physical properties, indicating that even the weakest among them were at least fourth-stage practitioners.

  Then Mar’tei’s spell completed. From the humid air, dozens of sharp, arm-long ice spears formed and shot toward the charging mercenaries all at once, a blue-ice blur that Bar’tik struggled to follow with his eyes. They reacted defensively, flaring their auras, but the five-circle spell, enhanced by elemental sorcery, struck with enough force to pierce some of them and freeze their flesh. Instantly, five of the mercenaries were taken out of the fight, while a few more appeared wounded to varying degrees.

  He heard his sister let out a wary breath, and sweat formed on her forehead. This new spell was clearly more than she was used to, as even the ambient smell of her mana weakened significantly. Still, she began drawing another spell as he set her down. This was her most effective distance, at least it used to be, but this was not the time to test it. Then Bar’tik moved on instinct, stepping in front of her as he watched a knife, enveloped in sickly green, fly straight for him.

  Luckily for him, Donnavan intercepted the projectile. The older man met the bearded assassin’s eyes with fierce determination. Bar’tik snarled in response but let the officer have his fun. His sister was safe, but her actions had not gone unnoticed.

  Human and animal bones floated out of the pouches the five necromancers held at their hips, the smell of their cursed magic filling the air. Skeletally misshapen monstrosities ran toward them as soon as their forms took shape, surprising him with their speed. Their smooth movement contrasted with structures that defied proper anatomy. Then the goliath stepped forward, and the ground shook as its feet dug through the damp sand. The monstrosity towered at thrice Bar’tik’s size.

  “The big one is mine,” Bar’tik called, and with azure light shining from his fur, he charged.

  Two skeletal figures ran on all fours toward him, their heavy fronts far too large for any living creature. His ancestors fed him their weak points, focusing on the thin bones that joined their shoulders. His tusk struck the one to his left, while his right paw smashed through the second one’s rib cage. The creatures collapsed as their front limbs gave up, but already four more were coming at him.

  Then two streaks of light passed by him. The first was Lan, his prana blurring his form as his sword melted through the bone construct’s joints. The other came from Yom, the holy warrior’s light supplanted the cursed energy. Bones dropped to the ground harmlessly, then turned to ash.

  “Dark binds you no more. Rest now,” the warrior uttered in a quick prayer.

  “We need to strike those necromancers!” Wes shouted, pointing forward.

  A floating storm of bones hid the casters from sight, and the skeletal minions formed faster and faster. The two he had torn through were trying to reform but were put down by Hann and Payar, who stayed behind to ensure Mar’tei’s safety. His sister was the only one free to fulfill their original task. She cast a wave of icicles that rose from the ground and forced the mercenaries circling Louis and his men to defend themselves.

  Finally, Bar’tik was stopped by a wall of bone creatures and the goliath monstrosity. Up close, he barely reached its thigh. With his claw bathed in azure light, he struck toward its left knee. Wes struck the right one with his large curved blade, his veins bulging as he glowed in bright green light. His new stage allowed him to further enhance his body, but instead of getting bulkier, he looked leaner and more condensed.

  Their attacks struck at once, and a loud crack echoed as the giant was forced back a step. Then they had to jump backward as the long, spiked arms swung at both of them, the damage from their strikes healing before they landed. They were protected from being swarmed by Lan and Yom, who fought over a dozen undead at once, but they would be overwhelmed if they could not continue fighting the goliath.

  Bar’tik took a breath, and then the world shifted. The world became smell, the sand turned gray, the sky pale blue. The shadows deepened, and he could see through the crevices in the monstrosity’s bones. Its pink, bloody flesh became taste, and he snarled in disgust. Then he grew. The giant became a large foe, then a tall monster.

  Then he bit its shoulder, crashing through its carapace and tearing out flesh. He spat it out and blocked a strike from the goliath's right arm with his own. The wound was already healing. He felt his bone crack but ignored the pain caused by the spikes and bit down on the shoulder again, followed by piercing its chest with his now longer, sharper claws. With effort, he pulled his hands apart and ripped its torso open. His eyes caught a glimpse of something shiny, but before he could act, a spear of bones slammed into his fur.

  The necromancers had acted from beyond their bone defense. It did not pierce through, but the spot hurt as he was hurled into the ground. Snarling and tumbling to all fours, he watched as the goliath swung both arms downward at once toward his head. Bar’tik tried to get away, but his paws failed to grip the sand properly. With no other choice, his azure glow flared as he decided to meet the strike head-on.

  Just before the blow connected, Wes leapt. With his blade shimmering in green light, every fiber of his body moved in perfect sequence. His legs flexed and drove him upward while his torso rotated to align with the strike. One by one, he contracted individual muscles, shoulder muscles pulling down, triceps snapping the elbow into extension, core muscles tightening to stabilize, forearm and wrist flexors locking the hand into a rigid conduit. Even the small stabilizers along his spine tensed, allowing the momentum of his leap to transfer fully into the arc of the blade.

  Bar’tik caught the movement with his eyes, as well as the flash of pain on Wes's face. Then the strike landed, and the monster shook. Its feet sank into the ground as its right shoulder was cut halfway through. The strike that had threatened his life turned into a glancing blow.

  He snarled and moved to bite again. This time, the goliath shifted, and with its uninjured arm, deflected him to the side. Its wounds were already healing once more. Then a black figure broke through the encircling skeletons. Kron, clad in armor of hardened black obsidian, slid through the sand, ignoring the minions he destroyed, and swung his arms to deflect a strike from a warrior enveloped in a bright yellow glow.

  They both clipped the goliath’s left leg and continued onward. The large monstrosity lost its balance and was forced to twist its body, trying to regain footing. Bar’tik pounced, and the creature tumbled with him to the ground. Ice spikes pierced and froze the fleshy limbs as he bit down on its torso where he saw the core. The disgusting flesh parted, revealing a green gem that pulsed with cursed energy.

  Suddenly, black mist exploded from the monster’s innards, and he inhaled some. Pain gripped his chest, and he coughed blood, but then bright golden light bathed him, and the cloud parted. Wes blocked another bone spear with the flat side of his blade and aura. Bar’tik once again exposed the core, holding the flesh apart. This time, Lan flashed straight toward it, ignoring the skeletal creature wounding his side. The core cracked and melted as the monster contorted.

  The bone storm that continued to spawn monsters lost its cohesion. Then his sister released a spell she had been holding for a while. He smelled cold as Mar’tei collapsed to her knees. Then the largest cube of ice he had ever seen collapsed at terminal velocity directly on top of the necromancers. He briefly felt blood before it was overtaken by the scent of crushed ice and sand rising into the air.

  The goliath fell apart under the golden light Yom continued to emit and turned to ash, as did the rest of the minions. His pain lessened as his own power and the golden energy healed his wounds. Still, the battle was far from over, and he sensed that his sister was spent.

  Bar’tik shrank as the intensity of ancestral power coursing through him diminished. Yet his transformation continued, and in some way he felt closer to his ancestors than ever.

  Following his instincts, he ran forward toward the group of cultists and mercenaries. Sickly green daggers and bright flashes of blue sparked in the air above. The blood soaking the battlefield spurred him onward, his hatred for the purple moon on the dark robes growing as he galloped closer. He smelled the blood of his comrades, their strongest fighters kept busy by individual mercenaries while the rest of their weaker warriors were slaughtered.

  Marc cut through a defensive black barrier and slashed apart the chains the cultist had conjured. The warrior's anti-magic prana, now green to his bear eyes, flared around him, his expression reminding Bar’tik of the paintings of ancient berserkers. Still, the man was the only one able to stop the magic and was kept busy by it. Bar’tik could help with that. He lunged. Bone gave under his tusks as he bit into a cultist’s head and tore it off. It tasted far better than the rotten meat, though still disgusting, he preferred monster flesh.

  He leapt toward another, but the man rose on a black platform, out of his reach. Then a scarred mercenary, surrounded by a solid gray aura, lunged at him. Bar’tik ignored him. Before the spear could reach him, Lan barred his way with lightning-fast strikes, followed by Wes pressuring him with his strength. The berserker instead focused on the moon cultists. A black spear struck his fur, but it was disrupted by his azure light in a way that felt right.

  He bounded toward another cultist, his azure claws piercing a black wall and cutting through the woman behind it before she could scream. The third reacted, and instead of defending with dark spells, summoned an earth wall that slowed him slightly as he barreled through it. Then a wave of flames struck him. He closed his eyes and pushed through, feeling his tusk pierce the man’s chest. His fur was singed, but his rage kept him focused.

  Two more fell to him before he was stopped by a glowing mercenary. His shoulder ached from being flash-frozen, and now two curved blades cut into his side. He swiped at the man with his paw, forcing him back, but received two quick wounds on his left arm. A holy warrior bathed him in light from the side, and he charged toward the mercenary.

  Bar’tik recognized the man now, it was the same one who had held him back the night they saved the little elder. He snarled, teeth bared, and leapt toward the man. His claws met the blades, and they were forced into a standstill. Then he headbutted the man, staggering him. Finally, his claws found the mercenary’s neck.

  Satisfied, he moved back toward the cultists, his rampage forcing them to split focus between him and Marc. This led to more deaths, as Marc was no longer under constant pressure and cut down two of the cultists while currently chasing their leader. Four cultists remained, and all of them summoned a giant circle facing him before a bolt of electricity shot toward him.

  He tried to dodge, but it was far too fast. He prepared to endure the blow, only to be saved once again. A wall of sand rose between him and the spell, the damp sand freezing instantly with ice. He turned to see his kin raising a wand weakly, leaning on Hann’s shoulder as the holy warrior supported her.

  He growled in gratitude and charged toward the remaining cultists. They tried to summon their blackness to stop him, a swirling void barred his path. He pushed through it. It felt sticky and thick, eating at his light, but soon dissipated under the weight of the hate of his ancestors. He clawed at two cultists and bit the shoulder off another. Then he jumped to the left as his instincts screamed danger.

  Daggers slammed into the spot he had just left. The long-bearded assassin stood on the sand nearby. Donnavan was busy deflecting a torrent of poisonous daggers that pushed him away from the battlefield. Then the assassin used the opening. He threw daggers in every direction. Then they multiplied. They struck foe and ally alike. People fell to the ground, thrashing and screaming.

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  Bar’tik himself dived to dodge the sharp blades. He noticed Louis doing the same and dragging two of his warriors down with him. Others used anything they could to defend themselves, even fallen bodies. Worriedly, he glanced at his kin, but the holy warrior had protected both of them with a thick barrier of light.

  Finally, Donnavan caught up and forced the knife thrower to defend himself. Both of them barreled through the battlefield, causing further chaos. People had to jump aside just to avoid being crushed by their passage. A battle between two sixth-stage individuals was no safe place for anyone.

  It was clear that Donnavan had no quick path to victory. He kept pressing the retreating man, but for each step he gained, he had to deflect dozens of daggers. The bearded assassin’s arms were a blur. There was no hope of the man running out of projectiles either, as the blades simply appeared in his hands from nowhere.

  Trying to think past his instincts about what he could do, he saw Marc continuing to chase the leader of the cultists through the sky, and the battle resumed even as the wounded thrashed and died from the poisoned prana. Bar’tik spotted a warrior struggling against one of the mercenaries. Ignoring the lone cultist, he rushed over on all fours. He bit the mercenary’s leg and, with a twist of his head, threw him aside.

  Directly behind the knife-thrower, the assassin didn’t slow down and stepped on the man’s chest, caving it in. The ancestral warrior was sure he received a hateful glare. Still, it was enough for Donnavan to close the gap slightly. Then he saw Lan nod to Wes in a way only a brother could understand.

  Lan vanished in a beam of light, then reappeared a short distance from the assassin. Two blades bathed in light flew through the air, hurled with his full power toward the knife-thrower, who was forced to deflect them. He did so easily, but Donnavan stepped a little closer.

  Wes’s legs coiled like springs, and then his arms and torso twisted in ways that made it look as if his body were bending against itself. He was once again forcing his body into an unnatural shape, and it was taking its toll, as Bar’tik heard something pop. Then, with a sharp, almost violent motion, he sent the blade flying, propelled by the force of his contorted body.

  Wes collapsed even as his blade flew at whistling speed, a knife protruding from his shoulder. His blade continued onward toward the bearded man, who cursed and dodged backward. The sand beneath his feet suddenly froze into a smooth surface. His green energy provided traction, but it further delayed his reaction.

  Donnavan’s always perfectly contained aura flashed outward with a nearly silver gleam, and he vanished. In an instant, he reappeared behind the assassin, his blue cloak split down the middle as it fluttered in the air. The head, with its freshly cut beard, fell to the ground as blood spattered upward and rained onto the sand.

  Their side cheered, but the officer collapsed to one knee. His armor and clothes were cut, revealing multiple lacerations. He had kept the prana at bay, but even with his sixth-stage cultivation, all he could do was slow it. He tried to stand, but suddenly froze as, in a single moment, the two remaining cultists and every mercenary burst into white flames.

  Aren looked at his barrier and wondered how he had missed so much before. With a bit of will, his sympathetic connection to the barrier rearranged. When the next blow landed, he no longer felt even a trace of inertia, and it consumed only a tenth of the mana it had before.

  Still, the speed of the beastkin continued to be a problem. An image of sympathetic, mnemonic, and divination resonance surfaced in his mind, the tangle of mana more complex than anything he had ever formed before. Fully knowing what it would do, if not understanding, he cast it, and a connection formed between the prismatic gem in his circlet and his sorcerous core.

  His elemental sorcery showed him that every particle of air and water contained a trace of resonance. The mnemonic guided his memories, and for the first time he saw how new ones formed. Sympathetic resonance acted like a magnifying glass over his connection to magic, allowing him to control it with a precision he had never felt before. Even his immature divinative sorcery whispered possibilities he had never considered.

  He listened to one possibility and, with a mnemonic and divinative weave, read the next attack. Ninety-five percent chance of an attack from the right, four percent of an assault from above, and one percent it would come from behind him. In three, two… he conjured a sphere of water and flash-froze it to near absolute zero. He caught the beastkin only by her right foot, his timing had been off. He saw she would cut it off and jump away before he could react.

  Instead, he targeted the area where she was most likely to retreat. Faster than he could blink, a line of lightning extended to his left and slightly upward. It clipped the catfolk’s shoulder, and he heard her growl as she barely stopped herself in time before she cut herself in half. He bent the lightning toward her, but she dodged it. He made the lightning give chase.

  With his lightning acting like a whip, he guided the possibilities toward his desired goal. Aren glanced at Crina, who continued to tremble. He could cast a calming spell, but it felt invasive, and they would win soon anyway. He also sensed something else within her disease, but this was not the time to dwell on it.

  The ice sphere around him broke apart and transformed into spiraling lances. Then he used sympathetic sorcery to disassemble the catfolk’s cutoff foot and used it to inscribe temporary golemic directives into each projectile before releasing them. Those chased the beastkin together with his lightning whip.

  The assassin weaved and flipped through the air, distancing herself from them. She swiped at the icicles that barred her path with her claws, and they exploded like pressurized balloons. Her flesh froze and healed, but she was forced to continue dodging. Aren’s whip cut off her escape from the left, and the ice lances circled her. The only path left was straight toward him.

  He heard a loud snarl. Then the beastkin’s black aura flared and solidified in a moment, and there was a one hundred percent chance she would charge at him. Seven fully formed circles appeared in front of him, created simultaneously thanks to his increased control. The woman became a black blur, just as he predicted.

  She was fast, faster than before, and he did not want to test his barrier’s integrity against claws that now felt capable of cutting through more than air, but something integral to the underlying reality. He could never match her speed or instincts. So it was time for every mage’s favored strategy when dealing with a superior warrior.

  Overwhelming, concentrated destruction.

  He released his spell, half of his remaining mana pouring into it. The air around the barrier became pure plasma from proximity to the beam of heat he unleashed. Then the world recoiled from it.

  A column of radiance erupted forward, not light, not fire, but heat so intense that matter lost any semblance of solidity. Space wavered along its path, the beam bending the horizon with mirage distortions as thermal energy warped sight itself.

  The charging beastkin struck the edge of the torrent and vanished within it.

  He lost his connection to the trailing ice constructs instantly. Then the air realized something was wrong. The sound was less an explosion than a sustained, tearing roar that suggested the atmosphere itself was being unmade.

  He felt that at the center of the heat, life energy flared with an intensity that was outright terrifying. He was sure that any seventh-stage practitioner would have been exhausted by a single flare like that. Still, his spell persisted. He was operating at levels of efficiency he had never dared to imagine. The world became a blur of white-blue light even as he concentrated the beam solely on the beastkin.

  After a few more seconds, his spell ended. A charred body fell from the sky, the right arm and leg missing. Blackened bones were visible in places, and there was no longer any fur to speak of. Still, to his surprise, the woman was alive, but her wounds no longer healed. Her life energy had been fully spent in a desperate defense against his spell.

  He ignored her for now, marking her with a locating spell. If she survived the fall, he would find her. She was not escaping with those wounds anyway. He scanned the area and realized they had strayed far from their camp. The battle there was nearly over. Crina opened her mouth, but five circles of chronotope wizardry appeared, interrupting her, and they teleported.

  Within moments, he localized the remaining enemies. Two cultists emanated a divinity that transformed into the unknown energy he had struggled to discern before. He was still unsure what it was exactly, but it bound mana around itself like a lightning rod and allowed them to control it. It seemed capable of analyzing and reproducing any process.

  Marking the curiosity, he willed his elemental sorcery, and every remaining cultist, mercenary, and the one necromancer burrowing in a cage of bones beneath melting ice vanished in white flames, leaving not even ash behind.

  Then he removed the cursed prana from anyone still living. Wes and the others’ injuries were worrying, but he decided to leave them to the priests. For now, he deposited Crina beside Donnavan and turned his gaze toward a golden sphere in the distance that now appeared much smaller. What he sensed there was troubling.

  “I will go see Marie,” Aren said to both of them, and without waiting, vanished again.

  What he saw was freshly solidified glass that melted into a sea of molten gold, visibly shrinking. He did not see Marie anywhere. In the center, half-transformed, was a scorched Palu. Golden flames covered the left side of his body, while his right had become a black, monstrous figure. His one remaining wing burned slowly.

  The man noticed him quickly and turned to face him.

  “Did you escape my pet alone and come looking for help?” the burning man said. “I guess the tales about your loyalty were greatly exaggerated. Well, Marie is gone. She sacrificed herself trying to end me. Failed at that too. As soon as the remaining divinity is gone, the flames will go out.”

  Aren looked at him and analyzed the divinity. Indeed, what the man said was true. The flames were not simple fire but were bound, maintained by a soul spending its remaining holy energy. The man’s transformation was curious as well, but Aren felt too angry to care.

  “What? Not going to say anything?” the man said. “Well, I’m tired, but I guess I can archive you for my lord. Lord Archivist loves well-developed mages.”

  Black tendrils sprouted from the man’s transformed arms and shot toward Aren. He blocked them with a barrier and found himself entombed in darkness. It tried to pry his mana apart, but his control was now molecular. Only the ambient mana of his spell was being sucked in, and he was regenerating energy at a faster rate anyway.

  He considered his options for a moment, then found the perfect way to end this. The new knowledge guided his mana, and by feeding his bracelet, he directed it into the flames consuming the man. Instantly, the fire intensified, and the man screamed. The tendrils dropped, and his view cleared.

  “What is going on!?” the man shouted between pained gasps as he fell to his knees.

  The flames, which had been slowly dying, now flared with blinding light. The remaining sea of gold concentrated into a pillar of light that entombed him.

  “This… no way… where is this energy coming from!?” Palu shouted. “You, Ren Valoryn, help me! I will reward you greatly. The Great Archive has knowledge that—”

  Aren silenced him with a ward. He did not wish to hear the man’s wailing. He watched as the fire burned, undoing the transformation bit by bit. The man took a moment to realize he was not being listened to, his expression twisting into rage and indignation as he waved at Aren.

  Then fear overtook him as the last remnants of his transformation unraveled and his flesh began to burn. His eyes widened, searching for anything to save him. His limbs charred, his knees collapsed into black ash. Palu fell to the ground, and in the ensuing silence, he disintegrated entirely, leaving only a black soot mark on the ash where he had lain.

  Aren sighed, then watched as the remaining golden flames shifted. His mana fueled them, and they began floating gently toward him. They coalesced into a golden figure that resembled Marie in shape. He watched in wonder as the soul moved to inhabit the avatar.

  “This is unexpected,” an echoing voice spoke. “Are you the one feeding me energy?”

  “Yes,” Aren answered. “I did not expect this either.”

  “Thank you, Aren,” she said. Then her expression grew solemn. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to fulfill my end of the bargain. I’m sure the Holy… I can call him my father right now, I think. I’m sure my father will help me keep it, though.”

  “I… can’t you do some divine shenanigan and bring your body back? Your soul is here,” Aren asked.

  Marie shook her head. “I gave myself to the Sun. I can already feel its warmth. I’m not able to go back, and I’m not sure I would want to… this feels peaceful.”

  “I see,” Aren said, his gaze shifting toward the direction of the destroyed camp. “I don’t think I’m the one you should spend your final moments with. I think I can teleport both of us.”

  Marie looked at him and smiled. “Let me just say this then. I see that Crina is safe. Thank you for protecting her. She is a bright one indeed, it was partly my idea that put her on this path.”

  “I did that because I wanted…”

  “I know,” Marie said. “You have a loyal heart, even if there is some darkness in it. Keep it that way.”

  “I… will teleport us,” Aren said, then turned to the black sootstain. “I didn’t read his memories. I should have found out who his allies were.”

  “I’m sure there will be another occasion to purge this darkness,” Marie affirmed, and it felt hard to deny someone who cast no shadow.

  He prepared his wand but paused again for a moment. “I have seen through Crina’s disease.”

  “Truly?” Marie asked.

  “Yes… it’s not a disease,” Aren said. “She has nascent holy energy. It’s transforming into a disease-like effect that eats at her life force.”

  “So it’s her guilt,” Marie said. “I’ve heard of priests punishing themselves for their sins instinctively, but this is unique. Especially for someone not properly trained.”

  “Yes, I don’t know how to break it to her,” Aren admitted.

  “Telling her will not do much unless she can forgive herself.” Marie nodded to herself. “I will try to talk to her before I go.”

  Aren nodded and began forming his spell. He needed to teleport not just space but the underlying reality that bound Marie still to this world. It was rule number one of chronomancy to never do that. He broke it for now, connecting the two spots with perfect precision as a sphere of reality was exchanged with another.

  The people around them stared in surprise, well, mostly at the golden avatar of Marie. She spread her light out and healed everyone whose wounds had not been treated yet. Even Aren felt energized by the bright warmth, despite his own mana being drained.

  “Your battle tells the tale of light! I assure you that our fallen souls will soon reach the warmth of the One Sun, and your place there is guaranteed as well,” Marie spoke to the crowd. “The betrayer exemplar is dead! Let his treasonous name be forgotten for eternity.”

  “You know I don’t have that much mana left,” Aren said.

  “Hmph, at least it’s used for something worthwhile,” Marie said with a cheeky smile.

  Aren spluttered a little, but he was soon ignored as Crina and Donnavan walked over to them. They both looked confused. The officer bowed deeply to the exemplar, while Crina approached and touched Marie’s body, only for her hand to pass through.

  “Are you okay, Marie?” Crina asked worriedly. Freshly dried tears rimmed her eyes.

  Aren took a moment to count the death toll, and only half of them had survived. Most of the casualties were third- and second-stage warriors. A few of the holy warriors did not make it either. The heaviest losses were among Louis’s warriors, who worked stoically as they began gathering the corpses.

  “I’m more than fine,” Marie smiled. “Although my time here is not long. I will be one with the Sun soon.”

  “What!? No!” Crina shouted. “I… you can’t… we didn’t…”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t finish this journey with you,” Marie said gently. “I know this is not when we promised, but would you be my friend?”

  Crina’s eyes widened, tears forming at the edges. She tried to speak but failed.

  “I know it’s cruel, but if you accept, I would leave a fragment of my light with you,” Marie said, looking directly into Crina’s ashen eyes.

  “No… I mean, I’m sorry, this is my—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Marie interrupted. “You are free of sin. I can see it. I can now also see that your disease stems from your own guilt.”

  Marie knelt and touched Crina’s chest. The young woman gasped in relief as the divine healing restored her, pushing back the guilt-driven energy.

  “You should stop torturing yourself. The Sun has chosen you itself, and I would be proud to call you my friend up there,” Marie said. “So, what do you say?”

  “I… yes… of course,” Crina replied, tears falling down her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Crina.”

  Aren felt a surge of his mana leave him all at once as part of Marie’s flame separated and entered Crina’s chest. Her eyes lit with an amber glow for a moment, then calmed, though they appeared a little brighter. Aren saw with his circlet that there was now another source of divine power within her.

  “It’s warm,” Crina said between tears.

  “You don’t have to change instantly,” Marie said. “But each time you feel the guilt return, I wish that you would pray, not for forgiveness, but for yourself, and know that I’m up there looking out for you. Let the warmth in your chest guide you then.”

  Crina nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you as well,” Marie said, standing up and kissing Crina’s forehead. “Trust in yourself. You make this world much brighter.”

  Then Marie faced Donnavan, “It’s about time for me to go. I’m sure that when you reach the next city and inform my father what happened he will assign a new exemplar. I hope it will be Galia. Tell my father that I wish for my promise with Aren to be kept.”

  Donnavan nodded, “I swear to do so.”

  Marie smiled, satisfied, then her light began to float upwards, only to be stopped by a desperate shout.

  “I’m sorry, Honored Holy Exemplar! Can you look at my brother? He refuses to wake up despite his wounds being healed. Two others are like him as well,” Lan shouted, his head lowered to the sand.

  “Stand up, Lan,” Marie said. “I will try.”

  Lan got up and bowed gratefully, then ran over to his brother. Priests watched over him and the two other unconscious warriors, all wearing perplexed expressions. Aren realized they were among the people he had removed the poisonous prana from. There was also another change, their life energy was much stronger than before. Wes especially seemed to have crossed over to the fifth stage.

  “Do you see this, Aren?” Marie said.

  “Their life energy is much stronger…”

  “I mean their souls,” Marie clarified.

  Aren shifted the effect of his prismatic gem and saw the problem clearly. Their souls were wounded, in some places barely holding together. Wes’ soul was missing entire pieces, especially around the chest and head, near where the dagger had struck. The poisonous prana must have begun destroying the soul once it overwhelmed the person’s life energy defenses. As a side effect, the extreme strain caused the victim’s life energy to grow stronger.

  “I see,” Aren said and turned to Lan. “I’m sorry. The only hope is that he will heal on his own with time. His soul has been harmed.”

  “What?” Lan said, turning a hopeful look toward Marie.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do either. Only a true miracle can heal a wounded soul. There is a chance that if he rests in an area of high spirituality, it could help him recover faster, but it could still take decades.”

  “No,” Lan collapsed to his knees. “What will I tell Mom?”

  Marie turned to Donnavan. “Make sure those three are taken care of. You can say it’s my final order.”

  “Of course,” the officer nodded.

  “Thank you for all your service, Donnavan. You have been a good comrade and friend,” Marie said. “You really should straighten things out with your father. Going around hunting necromancers for the rest of your life is a noble task, but you can do much greater things.”

  “I… will try,” Donnavan said. For the first time, Aren saw true emotion on the man’s face.

  “It’s time for me to go,” Marie said, and Aren felt his connection to her form weakening, strained.

  “Any words for your father?” Aren prompted.

  Marie blinked at him, then shook her head. “It’s fine. I have already said everything I needed to. He is wise. I chose this path and walked it of my own volition.”

  Her form dissipated slowly, like golden flakes floating high into the sky, disappearing in the brightness of the setting sun. Some people bowed and prayed, others saluted. Crina cried, and he carefully put an arm on her shoulder. She grasped it as she watched Marie depart.

  After a long moment of silence, it was time to do what the living needed to. They began preparing pyres for the fallen. They also started recovering their supplies and setting up a new camp. Over time, some of the skalith who had fled after the initial explosion began returning. Aren decided to conserve his magic and helped shovel the sand away. He at least maintained his far-scanning spell, and the knowledge of resonances continued flowing into him. He wanted to be ready, just in case.

  “Is it okay to leave Crina alone now?” Mar’tei asked him as they were fixing a collapsed tent.

  “She wanted to pray alone,” Aren answered. They had managed to recover the Luminous One’s sledge, even if it was worse for wear. The tent had been thoroughly destroyed. “I’m keeping an eye on the area. It will be fine. Hann is standing guard as well.”

  “I will most likely keep watch there later,” Aren added. While they had most likely dealt with the main force behind the assassins, Crina still had enemies.

  “Alone?” the young northern mage asked.

  Right. Marie was gone. Would it be awkward if he did that? “Ehm, maybe I can ask you or Hann to sleep there? At least until a new exemplar takes over?”

  “You would ask to have two lovely maidens stay in one tent with you during the night?” Mar’tei teased. “My truly scandalous master.”

  Aren blinked. Then he heard a loud guffaw and turned to see Bar’tik laughing. His head transformed into a boar as he sniffed for their buried supplies. A cold snowball entered his mouth, and he snorted, coughing wildly.

  Aren coughed, opting to change the topic. “So, I saw the aftereffects, and I would say you have a right to bear the five-circle robe as soon as you enter the academy.”

  “Thanks.” Mar’tei smiled.

  Bar’tik laughed again after clearing his mouth. “This was a good battle. Those damned cultists got what they deserved.”

  “Take greater care not to lose yourself,” Mar’tei said. “After you finished off the remaining enemies, you went full bear mode and started digging yourself a burrow to recover in.”

  “I thought it would be comfortable at the time, I think,” Bar’tik said in weak defense. “Anyway, how was your battle against that cat woman? I smelled her briefly, but it was powerful.”

  “It was difficult until I… I forgot,” Aren said. “She was still alive when she was falling.”

  Aren quickly reached for his localizing spell and sensed his mark over the horizon. It was there, unmoving.

  “I will be right back,” Aren said, and teleported again.

  The beastkin was a sorry sight. Her wounds were grave, and she was rasping for breath. She was not bleeding, as her injuries had been cauterized, but she was clearly fading. Yet Aren could swear he saw a faint smile on her burned lips.

  Knowing she would likely not speak, he prepared a magic circle. She was incapable of proper human speech anyway.

  “Stop!” the woman shouted in the common tongue.

  It stunned Aren into stillness.

  “Don’t heal me! I would sooner bite off my tongue than be forced into another blood oath!”

  Aren blinked. “I wasn’t going to heal you. I don’t even know how to heal injuries this extensive. I was going to look through your memories.”

  “Oh… well, feel free to do so. The remains belong to the victor,” the catfolk said, coughing up blood, then laughed. “I will answer any question you have truthfully.”

  “Why were you pretending to be unable to speak?” Aren asked.

  “Just a bit of fun. It annoyed that fool kid to no end,” the woman said. “I was defeated by his ancestor thrice removed when I was a young seventh-steps warrior. I swore a blood oath to him back then and was forced into their service.”

  “Like a geas?” Aren asked, but with his spell complete he instantly knew it was not the case.

  “No,” the beastkin chuckled painfully. “It’s our way. I don’t expect humans to understand.”

  “Fine,” Aren agreed. “Do you know of any of his allies?”

  “Few city lords, some strong people. I can’t remember all your funny names,” the catfolk said.

  “No need. I see their faces and locations in your mind,” Aren said as he stored all the relevant information. It would take time to identify each of them. Then he gagged suddenly as he dug through her memories. “He abused you!?”

  The woman gave what looked like a shrug. “Is he alive?”

  “No, he died terrified of death,” Aren said, still steadying himself from what he had seen.

  “That suits the fool. Then I have no regrets,” she said and closed her eyes.

  He continued on, moving quickly through her past. She had served the Vormeh family for generations, ascending to the eighth stage as she lived on this continent in secret. Then he saw the jungle where she had hunted and lived. He dropped the spell, there was no reason to defile her mind further. She felt the connection end.

  “You are strong, or rather you became truly strong during our fight. I didn’t know mages could do that,” she said.

  “I… it’s something I’ve been working on for a while,” Aren said. “Do you have any funeral rites you would want performed?”

  “Will you eat my corpse?” she asked, and seeing Aren’s hesitation, she laughed. “I could have guessed. You can leave me here then. May it nourish this dry land, at least a little.”

  Aren nodded. “I will go back then. I’m needed there.”

  “Wait!” She stopped him. “Will you not state your name? It’s a tradition to state one’s name before a fight to the death. I forgot about it until you dug through my head. My name is Tshrr’kyaa. It means Dark Claw in your tongue.”

  “I see… I’m Aren Maloryn,” Aren said voluntarily, then realized his identity could no longer remain secret anyway, at least within their group.

  “Good, I can die proudly then. Go away now,” the woman said, her tone dismissive, as if shooing him away.

  Aren felt conflicted about this. Somehow, despite being the supposed victor, he no longer felt like one. Shaking his head, he teleported away, an echo of a laugh reaching his ears. The culture of the beastkin was as alien as he had heard.

  He teleported right in front of Donnavan. The man was directing the rebuilding of the camp. He noticed his return with an alert gaze. Aren realized he should have informed the officer why he was going away. He blamed his tiredness and the constant flow of sorcerous spells running through his head.

  Closing his eyes, he dismissed the spell maintaining his connection to the world. Then he started to sweat.

  “Is something wrong?” Donnavan asked with a hint of urgency.

  “Yes… I mean nothing happened. I went over to check the beastkin. She is dying, but I managed to get some information out of her anyway. She doesn’t remember any names, but I dug through her mind and stored the memories. Her visual memories are quite sharp,” Aren rambled as he began checking every piece of his soul.

  “I see. We can go over those later,” Donnavan said, calming down. “Why do you look so worried then?”

  “I can’t stop my spell,” Aren answered.

  Aren stared at the construct inside his soul. It had metamorphosed. From its initial simple spherical shape, engraved with formations, it was now seven different spheres circling a constantly fluctuating cuboid object. The seven spheres, each a different gem color corresponding to one of the resonances, projected similarly colored light in intricate sorcerous weaves.

  The silver cuboid, connected directly to his mind vault, reflected those lights, transforming and sometimes combining them before feeding them into his consciousness. The object shifted shape slightly each time. Once, on its surface, something resembling a book appeared and an instant later, it was a beating heart as it processed vitalic sorcery.

  While the transformation was shocking on its own, what unsettled him more was that when he cut off the spell connecting him to the will of the world, the construct had taken it over. He still had control over the seven filter formations. Thankfully, the collapse of those would most likely have killed him. But he no longer had any control over the connection itself.

  That terrified him. For now, there was no immediate danger. The constant flow of information was grating, and he would most likely have to forgo sleep, as he could not imagine falling asleep like this. He could still meditate to let his mind rest, at least somewhat. He did not dare to try to disassemble the construct itself. One mistake could cripple him or destroy his mind outright.

  He opened his eyes and released a tired breath. This was why you were never supposed to use untested magic. Many mages had died this way. He was happy to count his luck that it hadn’t happened to him… yet. He really needed to lock himself in a lab for a few weeks. While the result was amazing, the inability to disable it was not good news.

  “Are you okay?” Crina asked.

  “Physically and mentally, yes,” Aren said. “Although I will need to keep careful watch over this mental construct of mine. I don’t know what long-term effects having a connection to the world’s will could have.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about,” Aren said. “I knew the spell wasn’t tested when I cast it.”

  “But you did it to protect me,” Crina said.

  “It could have happened even if I cast it in a lab, even if I tested everything beforehand. Sometimes we cannot predict everything our spells will do.” Aren tried not to show the irritation he felt. It was all directed at himself anyway. “Everything feels stable right now. How are you feeling?”

  It was already night. He had taken refuge in Crina’s sledge. With many of their tents destroyed, he had given his to others. He told her she should rest, but she refused, saying she felt energetic. It was likely a combination of the day’s events and the divine shard Marie had given her.

  “It feels warm whenever I pray,” Crina said. “My sickness hasn’t returned either. Although I guess it’s not really a sickness. I was doing it to myself.”

  “Our state of mind can often affect us in unpredictable ways,” Aren said. “We had a student who became physically hurt when he tried to use elemental sorcery after an accident. A sickness of the mind is still one that needs healing and time to get better.”

  Crina nodded. “I think I see the light toward that path.”

  Then her face turned serious. “I have never been this close to battle like that before. I couldn’t follow anything that was happening.”

  “It was pretty terrifying for the first half,” Aren agreed.

  “It was scary,” Crina said. “But I felt your hand on my shoulder the whole time. It was truly reassuring. It kept me from fully giving in to panic.”

  She gathered her resolve to ask something, taking a deep breath. “Will you leave if they won’t let you inside the black veil with me?”

  “I won’t,” Aren said, certain of those words and he saw Crina relax. He could return to his plans in Vo’Teol later, they would not run away. Somehow, it was nice to think that way. “There is one matter of some urgency, though.”

  “What?” Crina asked.

  “I have the faces and locations of that bastard’s conspirators. Donnavan already agreed to figure out their names, but if they learn this attack failed, they will try to escape and hide,” Aren explained. “I would sleep easier if I knew there were no people left who could try to hurt you.”

  “That… I wish this bloodshed would stop,” Crina muttered.

  “They had a choice not to do this,” Aren said. “They did not act out of some noble emotion. They are either greedy or Purple Moon cultists.”

  Crina nodded, but her agreement was weak. “Will you go to sleep?”

  Aren shook his head. “I will meditate. I won’t be able to sleep properly right now anyway. I will be here…” Then he felt his people entering his scanning range. “I sense an unknown group heading this way.”

  “Who?” Crina asked, tensing again.

  “They all wear the One Sun symbols,” Aren said, reading them with his spatial sense. “They are armed as well, but that’s normal in the desert. They are not sneaking or rushing but they are heading directly toward us.”

  “That’s weird. There should be no travelers this soon after the Rain Season,” Crina said. “Donnavan needs to know this.”

  Aren nodded. The officer quickly gathered their remaining forces, and they found themselves standing in the middle of the new camp. They looked tired, but somehow it was him they mostly stared at, not Donnavan.

  “There is a group of twenty people heading in this direction at marching pace,” the officer announced. “We do not know their intentions yet.”

  “Master Donnavan,” one of the holy warriors spoke.

  “Yes, San?” Donnavan asked.

  “Can I ask something many of us have been wondering about? Who is the Sunbearer?” the man asked, turning toward Aren. “You are clearly no normal mage. Exemplar Marie trusted you enough to keep this secret, but with her passing and what we witnessed, I don’t know if we can stay quiet about this.”

  Donnavan furrowed his brows, and the holy warrior tried to stand straight but took an involuntary step back.

  Aren massaged his eyes tiredly. “It’s fine. I was thinking the same.”

  “Are you certain?” the officer asked.

  “It would be better than spreading half-truths,” Aren said. “After today, everyone deserves this much.”

  He looked over everyone gathered as he began. “My name is Aren Maloryn, newest Archmage of Vo’Teol. I have hidden my identity because of politics, but it’s true that I accidentally stopped the attack on Crina over two months ago. Since then, I made a deal with Marie to come over with her in exchange for following Crina into the black veil.”

  Now that he thought about it, the winter solstice would be very soon. “I’m sure you have varying opinions about my stature, but before I crossed the border to Ayru, I had not even been archmage for even a day. I swear on my soul I’m not here on some hidden plot of the Teolian court or academy.”

  “So I did not mishear,” the holy warrior Hann said, causing people to look at her. “When Sunbearer Re… Aren collapsed after the rescue operation, Mar’tei had called him Aren. I thought I misheard then. Today, Exemplar Marie called him that too.”

  A few others nodded, confirming her words. Mar’tei blushed slightly, she had forgotten about that. There were murmurs of conversation, but it was Marc, ferociously stepping up to him, that silenced everyone.

  The red-eyed man poked him painfully in the chest. “I will not trust a mage. I’m sure that sooner or later your magic will corrupt you, and when that time comes I will slay you. But for now, I’m willing to give you a pass. We have more important things to do right now, Sunbearer.”

  “Thanks? I guess?” Aren said, unsure what to tell the man whose glare literally looked like crimson flames.

  After that speech, everyone else stayed silent. None of them seemed to hold the kind of emotions Marc did, and his words swayed them into silently accepting him as well. He nodded to Donnavan, and the man began directing everyone toward their tasks and positions.

  Then he saw Lan standing silently, staring at one of the tents. He walked over slowly, choosing his words carefully.

  “We have a professor at our academy hospital researching soul injuries,” Aren said. “I don’t want to give you false hopes, but he has had some success in speeding up recovery. His son had been harmed by a basilisk’s gaze.”

  Lan looked at him. “Did he recover?”

  “He wakes up, then goes back into a long slumber at times, but each time it’s shorter,” Aren said. “I don’t know the details of his research, but as an archmage I could pressure him into sharing. I have also discussed sharing medical knowledge between our countries with Crina.”

  Lan bowed his head. “I’m willing to try anything.”

  “You don’t need to bow to me,” Aren said. “I want to help.”

  “Thanks,” Lan smiled, though it looked forced. Then he straightened. “Let’s get into the formation.”

  Aren nodded and walked to a spot next to Donnavan and Crina. It was best to keep her at their sides. He had already put his circlet back on his head and cast his enhancing spells, including the newest perception sorcery. If something were to go wrong, he would deal with it in one overwhelming strike.

  The group became visible, and he quickly noticed the green cape hanging off the shoulder of the leading man. He was elderly, a long gray beard hanging down his chest. He wore no armor, only a thick white robe hanging loosely off his shoulder, revealing the well-toned body beneath.

  The man’s eyes stayed the same even as he took in their group, some already began to kneel. Aren’s did not. His pupils narrowed as he recognized the face he had never seen before. In one blink, he appeared in front of the man, and before anyone could react, a six-circle sleeping spell took hold. The nineteen men behind him collapsed instantly, but the fake exemplar only staggered.

  Something blocked his spell from taking full hold. Aren bound the man with a reverse barrier using his sympathetic sorcery, then took the man’s head in his hands. Casting emotive wizardry and supplying it with his mnemonic sorcery, he entered his mind.

  There, he saw what had allowed the man to pretend to be an exemplar. A pseudo-spell formation, held together by a crystal emitting the strange energy their faith provided. His soul construct fed him the information that he could use this. With a weave of sympathetic sorcery and pure mana control, he stripped away the fake parts of the spell and replaced them with his own formation.

  Then he released his hold, and the man fell to his knees. Donnavan quickly appeared at his side.

  “What have you done? That man is—”

  “A Purple Moon cultist,” Aren stated. “He appeared in the beastkin’s memories.”

  “Impossible… Exemplar Enge is a hero,” Donnavan uttered in disbelief.

  “He will confirm it himself,” Aren said. “Enge, from this moment, you will cause no harm by act, omission, command, or proxy to any being, and when you speak, you will answer fully and truthfully, withholding nothing that would materially alter understanding.”

  “I understand,” the man answered in a stupor. Then his eyes widened in shock. “What have you done to me!?”

  He tried to stand and act, but failed and collapsed to his knees again.

  “I have edited the fake magic that prevented you from being discovered or bound by the exemplar’s oath,” Aren explained. “Now you will follow orders from anyone until the day you die, no matter what they may be. Now answer me: are you part of this Archivist cult?”

  “Yes. It’s not a cult, it’s the proper true religion compared to the drivel that the blind fools follow. The eternity that the Archivist provides is true, and his paradise is real,” the man said involuntarily. He tried to cover his mouth but couldn’t.

  Donnavan closed his eyes. “So you worked with the betrayer as well.”

  “Indeed. Palu was the leader after he killed his father by blood, and I did not fully agree with everything he was doing. He was truly an evil man, but resourceful, and we planned together. I was planning to get rid of him once our task was fulfilled,” the man answered, and tears began to fall from his eyes.

  “Do you know the names of all your conspirators, including the people who are not part of your cult but supported your plans?” Aren asked.

  “Yes, I do,” the man said. Then he stood up and tried to run. Aren stopped him with another barrier.

  “You will now stay by our side until all your conspirators are dealt with. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will do nothing but breathe unless allowed,” Aren ordered. “Are there other exemplars within your order?”

  “Yes. Tenth and Eleventh Light are under our control. We have them bound under the Archivist’s holy law. As for the rest, we have used their traditional mindset against them, but none are directly or willingly supporting us,” the man spoke like a golem, then fell silent.

  Aren turned toward Donnavan, whose face was graver than he had ever seen. “I think we need to adjust our plans.”