Raiten:

  “You’re distracted,” Hypna comments.

  I don’t respond, simply tying off the last thread, looping the last hole with practiced ease, and handing her the ornate, multipatterned shirt. She beholds the glowing azure textile before tossing it aside.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “No, actually. That good.”

  “But you just said I’m distracted—”

  “Meaning, that you’re skilled enough to do this all by second nature. Subconsciously—your hands work without the need of the mind now.”

  The way she phrases that last part signals something different. Some change.

  “Am I… am I ready? For the 2nd Stage?”

  She hums in that very annoying, almost-self satisfied way which indicates to me she will not answer my question. Always deflections and riddles with her. Reflection, I scoff.

  “Tell me, what are the three stages of Aether?”

  I sigh and list them off for the thousandth time: “Frame. Lattice. Spine.”

  “What stage are you at?”

  “Frame,” I seethe through gritted teeth.

  “Testy today, aren’t we?”

  I don’t indulge her teasing. The sly smile on her face only seems to widen, enjoying my reactions. She treats me like a little boy all too often. It's frustrating.

  “Alright Raiten, I’ll be a bit less… obscure today.”

  “Heavens forbid.”

  “Do you know what the difference is, between the 1st Stage of Aether and the 2nd Stage?” Hypna asks. Before I can answer, she just continues on: “the Framing stage allows you to weave Aether into constructs. Simple things at first, like lines. Then, as you have been doing, one can make intricate constructs—sweaters, scarves, and even small anatomical parts—at great cost of one’s mana. At this stage, you can even blast Aether, though I think learning such a thing is a waste of mana until the second stage.”

  “Why is that?” I ask, remembering that when I first awakened Aether, I used it to blast the centipede which had crawled out of my mouth.

  “Because the 2nd Stage, Lattice, allows far more control of Aether with far less mana use. At this stage, most mages finally grasp how to shape Aether without physically weaving all their constructs—they can then apply the concepts of Aether shaping to shaping other elements. Making fire into a fireball. Making ice into a shard. Water into a streamline pressure shot. Raiten, the jump is significant: you’ll know it when you see it. Trust me,” she ensured, chuckling. “It’s impossible to miss. The world itself will look… different.”

  “I… see.” I had an intuitive sense of all of this already, but having her spell it out is helpful.

  “Most jumps to the second stage,” she continues, closing her eyes in deep concentration. “Across many of the first-circle elements, requires a comfortable confidence with the element itself. That much you have achieved—in record time, might I add.”

  Well, it does help that I have the plagued hunting us, the witch hounding me, and the opportunity to train with unlimited mana in the dreamscape under the tutelage of the best living Aether user known to man. Well, best conceptual user, I should say.

  “I have you to thank for that—”

  “Don’t celebrate just yet: the first step to any stage ascension is experience. The second is usually something else. With most first circle magicks, to ascend from the 1st to the 2nd stage, a personal realization must be wrung forth. You must contend with a question.” She opens her eyes and leans forward now, studying me with those purple irises.

  “What is Aether to you, Raiten?”

  I wait for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, simply allowing for the bubbles of magick in this white dreamscape void to pass above us in amiable silence, I straighten up.

  “That’s it?”

  She laughs. “You sound pleased.”

  “Well… I thought it would be some test or some final weave. Something of great skill or mental fortitude—”

  “Not every stage ascension is like this. And you shouldn’t be scoffing at this endeavor—it’s no easy task.”

  “Is that so?” I lean on my fist, trying to rack my brain for some profound response. “For me, Aether is construction.”

  I wait for some glow to enter my body—for some wealth of mana to course through my veins. Nothing.

  “Have I ascended yet?”

  “What do you think?”

  I sigh. “It’s not going to be that easy, is it?”

  “It depends on the person. I know some who were able to paint what Aether represented to them. Some who were more mathematically, Servanta-inclined and were thus able to account Aether into a specific numerical value. Words are the most normal form of realization though. Even simple ones. For me, it was quite easy. Aether for me is… life.”

  “Life?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t explain it. It's a feeling—an emotion, a discipline, a spiritual guidance—a way of living. The weight of living.”

  I shake my head, appalled. She explained it quite well, actually. And yet I can’t seem to even stammer out a single word other than to explain its mere utility.

  A thought occurs. “What about healing?”

  Nothing. I try more. Healing Sorina? Making arms and fingers? Fixing? Threading? Outlining lighting? Understanding lightning?

  Nothing works.

  After another hour, I sigh and lean back, staring up into the void.

  “I need to get this Hypna.”

  “And you will. But, it takes time. Have patience. Searching for the answer will not work for you—but catching it; grabbing onto it as it comes to you and never letting go—that is what might work.”

  “Respectfully, Hypna, what the fuck does that mean?”

  She smiles at my profane query. “You’ll figure it out soon. But for now, it's time to wake up Raiten.”

  …

  The Red Forest, with cherry trees, berry bushes, and colorful wildflowers that line the road—none of it can deter the building dread in my heart.

  Hypna was right. I am distracted.

  Distracted by a hellish march of maddening thoughts.

  Dandy is dead.

  You were too late. Even if you have the cure, Erot will hate you. And if you tell him about the decisions you made, the selfish path you took…

  I shudder.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “You alright?” Sorina asks. She rides atop Mist-Cloud now—finally able to use the heavenly spirit, now that we’re out of the twisting thicket of the Blightbriars.

  “It's chilly.”

  “Is it now?”

  I gesture to the light remnants of snowfall.

  She sighs and rides up next to me. “You know that’s not what I’m asking about.”

  I can’t answer that. Instead, I just urge Umbrahorn forward. The shark moves enthusiastically, no doubt seeing this as some sign that I’ve forgiven him. I haven’t—I only ride him for utility sake. He wades through the iced parts of our path. The crackles that ensue sound like winter itself is whispering its woes.

  “I’m scared too, Raiten,” she admits after a moment. “I mean… what are we going to find?”

  The path tapers off at the end of the forest road, leading to the open valley where golden grass bumps up and down in the hills. This path is familiar—it’s the same way I first entered Takemeadow, back when Erot and Dandy picked me up. I suppose it was Dandy who first treated me like an actual human being. The memory of reaching up to touch the wind spirits that roved this paradise flashes like a pleasant reprieve when I close my eyes.

  When I open them, there are no more spirits around.

  Instead, as we enter the valley, we spot a snaking line of smoke that drifts up to the pale sky. I can smell the ash from here. Sorina stops, face taut. Umrahorn also stares.

  I shake my head.

  Then, I urge Umbrahorn to swim as fast as he can.

  …

  I had a lot of internal debates on the road here: whether to send Umbrahorn ahead, with the cures, to Erot’s farm. Or at least, to report back what he saw of the village. But because the briars were so plague-festered, and because Sorina and I had been in horrid conditions to fight, I kept him close at hand.

  Now I regret that.

  Because as we approach the village, we witness the smoke pervading from trundling flames swallowing up wickered rooftops. We smell the burning flesh, the decay, and the bitter rot of this damn sickness. We hear the cries of plagued, screeching and terrifying, echoing throughout the lands like baying wolves.

  We stand at a hilltop overlooking the village and its river. The walls are severed. Cracking. The fires are old and withering away, yet still they linger across corners of Sorina’s hometown.

  And the plagued…

  There are perhaps a dozen. Maybe more.

  An old rage claws up from the dark well I threw it down. Like a savage beast, it closes in on my heart. I swing off Umbrahorn and reach into my amulet sack.

  I don’t care that I have two left.

  This has to be dealt with—

  Sorina grabs my hand with her three fingers.

  I stare darkly at her. “Let go.”

  She breathes deeply. “No. Raiten, think. The village might be lost. But we can deal with this later—right now, we should go to Erot’s farm.”

  I’m about to argue, but when I turn around, I find Sorina’s face dead with clinical assessment. The same face she made once she finally awakened.

  “In any emergency case, Erot always offered up his farm as a residence,” she continues. “He’s the richest of us. Has the most land. There’s a good chance a few villagers went there. We have to get them the cure first—that’s our priority.”

  She steps closer and slides her cool hand into my pent up fist, prying it open slowly, almost tenderly with her fingers.

  “Remember your mission.”

  I look upon the village. The screaming nightmares within. The place I once called a home, for however short a time it might’ve been.

  Sorina’s home.

  I close my eyes.

  Then, I grab Umbrahorn’s fin, hoist myself onto his back, and together, we ride away from the ashy place of old nightmares.

  Slowly, I release my grip on the amulet bag.

  Yet, my other fist never truly closes.

  …

  When we spot the first fields of purple corn and spirit wheat, all unmarred by the passage of plague, a sliver of hope worms its way into my heart. Snow still cradles the plant roots, but it is mostly melted thanks to the openness of Erot’s land.

  Then, we spot the stakes. Half-formed barricades of carts and old planks. The fence now shorn and stacked atop itself—encircling the farmer’s house.

  Lights.

  People.

  Their forms are shadows in the night, outlined in golden lamplight. They stand sentinel, chewing on some hard looking crop while slouching on their crude spears. One of them spots us and snaps to attention, calling to his comrades. They hurriedly, yet sloppily, form a mobbish rank behind the barricades.

  Yet as we draw closer, one man lowers his spear and shouts out in recognition:

  “It’s the mayor!”

  Now, others begin to gather as well. Not only the men, but women and children rush out from Erot’s red house. Far too many people—not enough who can be lodged in this place, despite the home’s size.

  Surprisingly, they actually shout out in jubilation at our arrival. I didn’t expect this sort of a return—especially considering the circumstances and how these villagers treated Sorina before we left. But their joy quickly devolves into muddled whispers as Sorina and I swing off our mounts, our fatigue evident. Moreover, Sorina’s injuries are on full display.

  “Umbrahorn, patrol the farm for a bit,” I tell the shark before lifting my leg over the gate.

  “But—”

  “Hammerhead. Patrol the farm.”

  I don’t even turn back as he sinks into the ground, rumbling off to his old stomping grounds.

  Sorina gives me a confused look, a question playing upon her lips—quickly stuffed by a coterie of people from the village (mostly female) overwhelming her with questions about her wounds and injuries. I scowl, but before I can intervene, some of the men also approach me.

  “You’re the foreigner, right?” one asks. “How is it out there?”

  “How bad has the plague spread?”

  “Did you pass by the village?”

  “What of Havenmarch? My family is still yet to come and—”

  “Why are you wearing Catolican blacks? Are you in their army?”

  “Are you part of their lot? Those dirty Sorayvladians who lead them on?”

  They aren’t happy to see us—they want news. It makes sense, but right now, it’s an unworthy distraction: I shove past them, muttering some half-apologies.

  Only for a giant man to block my view. He’s a full three heads taller than me, browless and hard-eyed.

  “Answer this,” he commands in a gruff, foreign voice. Not Catolican. And Common is certainly not his first language. I can’t put a name to his face, but I vaguely recall him working as the one of the town’s sole blacksmiths. “Is there… help coming?”

  That question throws me off. Slowly, I turn around to all the men, who watch me with eager, hopeful, fearful, wretched, disgusted, saddened gazes.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let the lad alone, he’s returnin’ from a two month journey now,” a familiar voice speaks. It seems to hold some power over these other men, for they slink away and allow me to pass.

  Right till I see Erot.

  His hair has turned fully gray since I last saw him. More lines crease his weathered, leathery face, and the light behind his eyes has diminished.

  I hang my head low as I approach him.

  I can’t even meet his gaze.

  “Erot…” I begin, voice choking out the word. “I’m sorry I was so late—”

  “RAITEN!” another voice yells. One that I thought I would never hear again.

  Before I can turn to face it properly, the little ball of fury jumps from the back of a giant lizard and tackles into me, making me stumble back a step. She pounds her hands into my leg while pressing her weeping face against it.

  A half-hug, half-beatdown.

  I look down at her, mouth agape.

  “How are you—”

  “Don’t ever leave again!” Dandy yells before punching my shin. I yelp, bouncing up and away from her.

  A chorus of laughter comes now from all the other children who gather near the house. And most importantly, from Erot himself; whose laugh is less like a laugh and more like a half grunting barbarian trying to imitate a chuckle. I spot Ferot, Hansel, Kale, and all the other grandchildren of Erot sitting at the porch.

  This doesn’t make sense.

  It has to be some cruel dream of Thraevirula’s. A trick to think that I’ve won, only for her to pull it all away from me.

  And yet…

  It feels so real.

  I hold back a surprising tirade of tears, stomp my leg into the ground to get rid of the ache. Next, I bend down to hug Dandy. She’s surprised by this, punching my back as well, but I don’t care. Her ruddy hair has grown longer in my absence.

  I lift her up and laugh, the strangest, most joyous laugh I’ve ever heard, as I toss her into the sky. I catch her and toss her again.

  “Eh, careful Raiten,” Erot warns, clearing his throat. “You might accidentally—”

  I notice what he’s talking about immediately.

  Dandy’s foot is missing.

  When I catch her again, I hold her away from me and stare at the missing appendage. She doesn’t seem to notice, laughing now despite her initial complaints.

  “Again, again! Throw me up again!”

  I turn to Erot and frown. “What else did I miss?”

  His mouth makes a thin line. One that holds back barely suppressed grief.

  And the dread re-enters my heart.