In the distant cliffs overlooking Marblehaven, Sayid stood at the summit, watching his masterpiece unravel. Below, his storm raged. It started as a symphony of chaos, with lightning bolts destroying the city building by building. But something was wrong. Slowly but surely, the storm was devolving.

  The strikes were still falling, but they hit the same spots over and over. The cathedral's bell tower. The merchant guild's headquarters. The watchtowers. Like a musician forced to play the same three notes when he had composed an entire concerto.

  "What is this?" Lightning arched between his fingers as his fury built. He raised his hand, trying to direct a bolt toward the residential quarter, but watched in disbelief as it curved mid-flight, drawn inexorably toward the cathedral tower instead. "There's something interfering with the air ether itself."

  He closed his eyes, feeling for the flow of magical energy through his storm. There… there were metal constructs placed at strategic points throughout the city, each one pulling at his lightning like lodestones drew iron.

  "Joshua," he spat the name into the ground. They had prepared this for three days, drained ten lives to fuel the ritual circles. The ultimate large-scale spell—Tier five [Thunderstorm]. It should have scoured Marblehaven from the map, leaving nothing but scorched foundations and smoke. Not even Joshua should have been able to circumvent it. And it had been neutered by scrap metal.

  “Argg!” Sayid grunted as he unleashed a bolt of lightning which split the trees around him.

  "Easy, love." Slender arms wrapped around him from behind, and he felt Bernadette press against his back. Her feathered dress rustled softly as she moved, each plume catching the electric charge in the air around him, making them shimmer with an ethereal blue glow. "They're only delaying the inevitable."

  Sayid's rigid posture relaxed fractionally as he leaned back into her softness. The lightning dancing between his fingers flickered and died. His anger slowly dissipated.

  Bernadette was one of the few people he trusted, perhaps the only one left. She had been there that night, when Joshua and his hooligans from the Seventh Circle had cornered him in the Arcanum's sacred chamber. When they'd called him unstable, dangerous, unfit for the position that should have been his by right. She'd seen through their lies, their petty jealousy disguised as concern for the city's welfare.

  "The phoenix should have chosen me," he murmured. "Decades of service. Decades of being their perfect Thunder God. And for what? So Joshua—Joshua—could steal what I'd earned with blood and lightning?"

  Bernadette's fingers traced soothing patterns across his chest. "The phoenix was blind. Or perhaps influenced by those who feared your true power. You, who mastered what they could only dream of achieving." Her lips brushed against his ear. "They knew you would expose their mediocrity."

  It was only thanks to Bernadette that he had managed to escape from Joshua that night. She'd created the distraction, a gust of wind that had confused the Seventh Circle long enough for him to transform into lightning and flee. Without her, he would have been reduced to ash, another "tragic accident" in the Arcanum's long history of silencing those who threatened the established order.

  "The town still stand," Bernadette murmured, chin resting on his shoulder. "But standing isn’t victory. Let them huddle behind their stones and clever tricks. In the end, victory will be ours."

  “And did you see the so-called Pictomancer?” A third voice cut through their moment.

  A woman dressed in white emerged from behind a gnarled tree. A veil covered her face and gloves her arm. Every single inch of her was covered, as if she feared the very air might stain her.

  Bernadette's arms dropped away and she stepped aside.

  Sayid snorted. "Pictomancer… It’s nothing more than a pretentious title for a mediocre mage. He had some cute tricks, conjuring swords from sketches, but he’s no real threat. He’s a second-class mage at best. "

  "Interesting." The lady in white said. "Our scouts report he's the one who killed Al'Za Gul."

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  "Then Al'Za Gul must have grown weak. All I saw were parlor tricks and desperation. The fool couldn't even dodge properly. One clean shot was all I needed to put him down. If Joshua hadn't intervened. He would be dead by now."

  "That was not part of the plan." The lady's voice dropped to a hiss behind her veil. "You were to observe. To measure him. Not engage in a duel like some arena peacock."

  "Plans." Sayid waved dismissively, turning to face her fully. "Plans are for those who doubt their own strength. What do we need elaborate schemes for when dealing with vermin? I alone could reduce that entire town to cinders and corpses. The only question is whether you want me to make it quick or educational."

  "Your impulsivity will be your downfall."

  Lightning crackled to life across Sayid's skin as he took three deliberate steps toward her, the air itself ionizing in his wake. Ozone stung the nostrils. The grass beneath his feet blackened with each footfall. "Listen carefully, Moon Mother." His voice became threatening. "Even if a thousand rats band together, sharpen their teeth, and call it an army, they remain rats. A lion doesn't strategize against rodents. A lion hunts."

  He thrust his palm forward.

  A thunderbolt screamed from his hand, aimed at her head.

  But she didn't move. Didn’t even twitch.

  The bolt curved away at the last possible instant, as if repelled by an invisible membrane, and carved a smoking trench into the tree behind her. The ancient oak groaned, its trunk split and weeping sap that hissed as it met superheated bark.

  The Moon Mother stood perfectly still, her white veil unstirred by the violent discharge of power.

  "So be it, Sayid." Her voice was flat, like someone reading an already-written epitaph. "When the Pictomancer's blade finds your heart, remember this moment. Remember that your death was authored by your own hand, signed in your own blood."

  Back in Marblehaven, the storm's fury was finally breaking. Thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the strikes had grown sporadic, frustrated jabs rather than sustained assault.

  Clive sat in Joshua's study, his final sketchbook page spread across the desk. When he was done drawing, black liquid bubbled up from the page, thick and viscous, flowing upward against gravity as it shaped itself into a vest. The industrial smell hit him immediately.

  "What is that?" Joshua stared at the vest. "It looks like solidified tar."

  “Close.” Clive held it up to the lamplight. “This is how we beat the Thunder God.”

  The Archmage poked it with one gnarled finger. The material compressed, then bounced back. He poked it again, harder. Same result. "Fascinating. But how will this help us?”

  "This is rubber. It’s a natural insulator."

  “And you're telling me this... rubber... can stop Sayid's lightning? The same lightning that can melt iron?"

  "Not stop. Redirect." Clive pulled the vest on over his shirt, adjusting the fit. It was crude but it covered his vital organs. "Lightning follows the path of least resistance. Rubber has virtually infinite resistance. The current will flow around me, not through me. Basic physics."

  Joshua's skeptical expression didn't shift. "I'll believe it when I see it."

  "Then let's test it." Clive turned toward the door. "Is there a lightning mage available?"

  Ten minutes later, they stood in the cathedral courtyard. The stone floor was still slick from rain, and scorch marks decorated the walls from the earlier battle. A young woman in apprentice robes waited nervously.

  "Apprentice Mira," Joshua introduced. "second class evoker, specialized in storm magic. Mira, I need you to hit our guest with your strongest bolt."

  Her eyes widened. "Archmage, I—that could kill him!"

  "It's alright," Clive said. "Give me your best shot. Don't hold back."

  Mira looked to Joshua, who nodded gravely.

  She raised both hands. The air itself seemed to gather, compress. Clive could feel his hair standing on end, that primal warning screaming at him to run. Blue-white light coalesced between her palms, growing brighter, angrier—

  The bolt lanced out with a crack that made his ears ring.

  Everything went white.

  Clive felt the impact like being punched by thunder itself. The voltage slammed into his chest, and for one heart-stopping instant he thought he'd miscalculated, that he'd just killed himself.

  But the current split. He could feel it, a thousand burning fingers trying to claw through the rubber and failing, dispersing across the surface, flowing down and outward, grounding harmlessly into the wet stone beneath his feet.

  When his vision cleared, he was still standing.

  [You are immune to lightning damage.]

  "Amazing," Joshua breathed.

  Clive let out a shaky laugh. "Told you. Basic physics."

  "How many can you make? How quickly? If we can equip our combat mages with these, Sayid loses his primary advantage. He's dangerous, but without his lightning..." Joshua grabbed Clive's shoulders. "This changes everything."

  "I'm out of sketchbook pages for today," Clive admitted. "But from tomorrow, I can make ten per day."

  "Ten per day." Joshua was already calculating. "We prioritize the frontline mages first, then the defenders, then—"

  Clive nodded, unbuckling the rubber vest. His chest ached where the lightning had struck, a phantom pain that his body insisted should be there even though he was unharmed.

  He had solved Sayid’s lightning strikes. But there was still the issue of Sayid’s thunder transformation. Without a solution, Sayid could easily turn to lightning and escape again. Clive thought for moment and then he realized.

  I need the Canvas of Reality.

  The strongest force can be rendered harmless by understanding its nature. Lightning seeks ground through the simplest path. Deny it that path, and even a god's fury becomes mere light and noise.

  — From the Journals of Clive Weston