Episode 6: Cost of Magic

  Chapter 017 - An Uproar

  The steel clashed with steel across the stone courtyards, weapons screeching and grinding against each other with rapid beats. Five duels happened at once within the arenas of the Armiton Headquarters. Each sparring zone was divided by thick banners of woven chainmail. Every time magic bounced off the walls, the chains would hiss and ripple. Sunlight filtered through the grating dome above, watching the battles take place.

  In the first ring, a woman with dual knives darted around a slower wielder with a single-edge sword—wooden materials. The speed between them clearly described their experience levels. She weaved swiftly, making the man lose focus multiple times. She closed in. Her blades caught only air, making the man believe there was an opening. But before he knew it, one slipped in to tag his thigh. The man felt the tap and withdrew with a nonverbal resignation. Then he burst in anger, slamming the sword down and cursing.

  In the second, two armored brutes grappled shoulder to shoulder until one lifted the other and slammed him into the earth. The battle ended when he was left gasping. One person gained +2 EXP to one of his Adaptation Paths, while the other lost –32 HP.

  The third had a mage-in-training using Incantation Magic with a staff as his medium. His summoned fireball flared wide and exploded against a defensive glyph, scattering light and ash. His mentor joked that he should use a boot as his medium. The trainee tossed the boot away, so the mentor had to keep getting it like a dog playing fetch.

  The fourth duel ended as a tall and lean combatant flipped his spear, landed a sweep to his opponent’s ankle, and knocked him flat on the ground.

  The fifth duel was the swiftest. Two dexterous men, eyes locked, neither drew magic. They simply moved in such harmony that the clash sounded more like a dance than a fight. Their Quick Speeds were on par. They waited in precision, watching for any opening to close in and strike. Though most of the time, the battle ended with them never touching each other, instead being out of breath and wheezing. At least both gained EXP to their Quick Speeds.

  From the high window of the north chamber, Duxe watched them all with arms crossed. The glass dividing him from the outside rattled softly from waves of magic knocking against it.

  He wore no armor; he didn’t look like a soldier. He only had sleek black leather and an open jacket with silver trim. To be fancier, the collar flicked upward like a noble. His eyes, lashes appearing gray from age, gleamed as he watched carefully. He leaned forward, placing a boot up on the ledge and humming with approval.

  “Kids with so much energy. They remind me of my days of recruitment,” he muttered, glancing toward the room behind him. “Unlike you fatties.”

  Behind him, several elites were scattered around the command chamber doing nothing. The vast chamber contained a map-lit hall of low flames, obsidian tables, and status runes etched into the walls. Duxe stepped back from the window and joined them.

  At a long table sat Xollor, hunching in his chair. His forehead rested flat against the desk as if trying to melt into it, giving off a man who hadn’t slept all night.

  “You’re not gonna beat Donnor like that,” Duxe called out, smirking. “You planning to nap your way through the next evaluation round?”

  Xollor groaned without lifting his head. “Wrong time, Duxe.”

  “That never works.” Duxe strode over, casually leaning on the side of Xollor’s desk. “You know the tournament’s coming up, right? You always had a passion for it. What’s up now? Are you just gonna skip it and hope your reputation survives?”

  There was a flicker of orange light shooting from Xollor’s extended finger. A soft phmmf of air. A glowing orb of fire gently bounced off Duxe’s cheek. It fizzled into smoke. He didn’t flinch except for a half-joking cough and shut eyes.

  Xollor raised his head, eyes tired but sharp. “Leave.”

  “Oh, touchy much?” Duxe said, brushing away the soot. “Did Donnor say something? Or are you just lonely without Marshal Thallion?”

  At the mention of the marshal, silence touched the room. Several elites lounging nearby turned their heads.

  “Her absence is the reason we’re browsing our desks for once,” one said, running a blade across a whetstone. “Not that I argue! This is quite a vacation we’re having.”

  “She hasn’t sent a word in weeks.”

  “Years, actually.”

  “Ten years, to be exact.”

  “She’s dead, guys. Just admit it.”

  Donnor sat high at the upper deck of the command floor, chin in his palm, elbow propped up. The maps before him were unmarked, the runes dim in deactivated states. He sighed without looking up. “She’s not dead.”

  “You sure?” Duxe asked. “Because our orders have been the same for months, you know…” he said, speaking in a vibey monologue, “watch the slaves, wait for her return, swat away any rebellion, and, like, many other things.”

  Another elite spoke up from the far wall. “Hey, it sounds quite nice to just forget about her and let us do our own bids, doesn’t it? Or just let Donnor take full command. He’s our commander anyways.”

  Donnor’s hand slowly dropped from his face. “Not a chance. She clearly displayed her capability on the day of the Overturn; the triumvirate was established by her.”

  “Sucks for her to lose the opportunity to claim as a ruler,” one said. “I’d snatch that throne for myself.”

  “Not that simple, brother,” he grumbled. “She and I came from RathNah, and descendants like her were designed to take a subordinate role. It is what empowers her. Feeding from the leadership of the kings, she grows in stature. And I am certain she’s not dead.”

  “And why is that?” Duxe asked, knowing very well the reason, but just so everyone got the message.

  There was a pause before Donnor responded, “The strongest cannot be easily killed.”

  Before anyone could respond, the heavy doors burst open.

  She rounded up three empty cups from tables onto her tray, chains bearing her wrists with scars beneath. Her ears picked up the thundering boots from the corridor. The lady headed to the door with her eyes dropped low. Lefaulta slipped behind the door and vanished from the scene.

  The threshold reaching up to the vast ceiling was unveiled by the incoming figures. Two soldiers sprinted in with boots echoing their hurry and cloaks fluttering behind them. Their eyes were wide, their throats gasping as if they ran through streets without stopping.

  “Sir! Commander Thallion!” one gasped. “We have news from the eastern patrol!”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The sudden swing of the heavy doors made every elite lift their heads from their chairs or desks. All eyes were pinned on the most ordinary soldiers who entered in the most unusual way. There were times when a huge rebellion broke out that needed an urgent response. Yet, no one was used to seeing messengers arrive this breathless and pale. This was too raw to fake.

  “Boys,” Duxe said, clicking his tongue, “have some manners, huh? Can’t just open our—”

  “What is it?” Xollor cut him off, already straightening.

  “The news is spreading of a boy,” the soldier said, glancing at all of them. “In the wilderness. It’s a young child and alone. But… the power.” He swallowed hard. “They claimed he suspended a boulder the size of a house or a small cart. We don’t know the size, but it was big. He carried it on his own.”

  As he kept explaining, one by one, the elites began to rise slowly. They rose as if the weight of the words demanded posture. Their eyes sharpened with a kind of disbelief that wasn’t rooted in doubt, but fear.

  Duxe’s eyes narrowed. “A child? How old? Can they beat our—”

  “Duxe, quit that,” one of the elites interjected. He asked instead, “Who started this rumor?”

  “Commissioners have reported this incident to an Eye Guard with a dozen witnesses from PortThorioh testifying the same story,” the first soldier said, “but the people overheard it and are spreading it everywhere now.”

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds.”

  They had to look at each other, almost in disbelief at the number. Donnor stood from his chair, hands pressed on the table’s surface. “Any words from the Commander of the Chains?”

  “He was unable to contain the uproar with his men. Right now, the Commander of the Eyes sent his fleet for aid. He sent me to request backup from the Commander of the Legions—you. A large group of slaves suddenly began to stir the rest, speaking of the storm and the decree ten years ago.”

  “The storm?” Xollor repeated, particularly reactive to that. “The system glitch?”

  They nodded, leaving all speechless.

  It sounded almost ridiculous, dragging the storm back into the conversation that got buried a decade ago. It was either forgotten or tucked away that no one wanted to reopen. But then here was this absurdity. One strange claim about impossible magic prowess at a young age, and suddenly, people were reckless again. Reckless and desperate, reaching for hope with a burning passion.

  It had been ten years. Ten years. And they had nearly forgotten how to respond to this urgency.

  “What do we do?” he trailed off. “If we don’t calm the people down, there may be another uproar of some kind… That and the child that we haven’t verified—”

  Bzzt!

  A sudden static noise howled from a corner, loud and piercing.

  Everyone’s gaze shot to the corner. A shimmer of black ink slithered erratically. What was supposed to be a shadow cast from a pillar quickly became fluid. It detached itself from the pillar, leaving it shadowless. The ink moved quickly across the ground and then vanished in the tiniest crevice on the corner, leaving only a beam of white light hovering in the air. Then the shadow for the pillar returned in a blink.

  Everyone froze.

  “What was that?” one of the elite said, startled.

  “Groggins…” Xollor said under his breath. “They heard it too.”

  Another responded, voice uncertain. “But Groggins do not move like that. They are passive creatures.”

  “Then you haven’t seen them long enough,” said Xollor, getting up on his feet and grabbing his sword. “Let’s move.”

  Donnor eyed Xollor for a good moment. The oddly experienced words coming from him caught his attention. It made him wonder for a bit. But he refocused on the matter just as quickly. Xollor was right: they need to respond.

  “Could be a breach,” said Donnor. “Or a Groggin. Doesn’t matter. They would’ve heard it one way or the other. Ease the panic. I want this kept contained.”

  Xollor nodded without a word, already moving toward the doors. The door swung. A woman with a broom and chain-bitten wrists stepped aside.

  Duxe was already drawing a rune across his palm. And just as he was about to forge one, he froze, mind blank. Then he yelled, looking around his surroundings urgently, “Shoot! My armor! Where’s my armor?!”

  The messengers ran back out, watching the whole fleet of the elites rushing down the marble corridor. Duxe took a jog right beside them but quickly turned into a blurred flash, dashing down the hall with inhuman speed—all to grab what he forgot to wear. The other elites readied their weapons, readied their magic at the back of their minds, and began leaving with order and purpose.

  “And afterward,” Donnor added, “we will assess what to do with this… boy.”

  Down the distant corridor, a dignified man with chiseled armor darted around as if in confusion. He scratched his scalp, his spiky hair appearing like a bed hair, if anything. But when he spotted Donnor and his men, he ran to him and walked beside him. Up close, this commander had gone through something to look so sporadic.

  “Donnor,” he said, voice lighter than what his tough build conveyed, “how are the slaves doing? Will they stop the rumors?”

  He faced the man and replied, “Commander Ernol, rest assured. Leave the rest to us. We ought to warm up our bodies after some time, after all.”

  Ernol gleefully smiled and bowed with gratitude. “Thank you!” he said before stepping aside to make way. That was the last of him as the Legions left the HQ uniformly.

  The streets of Armiton and the rich land already had heavy commotions among the rich. He ordered the guards to comfort these worrisome men and women who were all too insecure when slaves bark from afar. A line of backup did so, going through every home, street, and courtyard to reassure them. And within moments of the order, the elites were gone. They spilled from the heart of the city to the outskirts, where grass became dirt. The gates parted like iron jaws, and out they poured.

  The slave district wasn’t quiet for anyone.

  Vendors shouted over each other over roasted spice and cured fish. Pans hissed with oil. Cargo carts rattled as they traveled on uneven ground, one almost tipping as soldiers shoved past it. Children were swept into their parents’ arms as orders boomed above the crowd.

  Every elite activated their Incantation Magics, sending bursts of flames and sparks into the air. They were summoned rapidly, and once high above, they exploded with gusts of gunpowder and smoke, becoming fireworks in broad daylight. People screamed as if it would rain down fire and hail. From one corner of the street, a soldier cast an explosive magic above the rooftops. A cloud of smoke and a deafening boom caught more attention. Then from another corner, the same. More and more they went, scattering all the men in swift outbursts to catch every eye—faster than rumors could spread. The whole city, from the upper floors of residents to the bustling floor scattered by lost citizens awakened by the order.

  “Make way!”

  Soldiers carved a path through the crowd, their polished boots trampling stray vegetables and slipping on cracked tiles. One man spilled a whole barrel of flour trying to get out of the way, and the puff of white dust bloomed like smoke across the street. Someone screamed. Someone else cheered, not knowing why. But everyone knew one thing. The weight of rumor was already there.

  Conversation cut through the air louder than explosions.

  “I heard the child has no master—”

  “They said the mountain moved because of him—”

  “Is it him? From back then? Ten years—”

  “I saw the light! I swear I saw it—”

  “We’ve been answered! Our liberation is coming—”

  The land of the poor boiled.

  The capital, Armiton, sat at the heart of RrodKa, encircled by the land of the rich like a jeweled ring. On the southeast of the land, the edge of the rich land crescented. And in that cavity sprawled the land of the poor—a wider circle sitting right beside the rich.

  Elites scattered throughout the land of the poor, each moving to separate districts. Some climbed towers to oversee the crowd flow and any disruptive slave stirring fear. Others slid between alleys, checking old tunnels or monitoring slave checkpoints. Even the slowest among them moved with a kind of urgency that they hadn’t felt in years. Everyone was warming up again, the 10 years of absolute stillness reigniting. All because of one rumor.

  Down in the heart of it all, between cries of markets and cries of alarm, the same whisper traveled faster than boots: a boy in the wilderness.

  And beneath the rupture of RrodKa were the devious, deceptive, and misunderstood Groggins. No one knew who they were. These creatures, if you’d call them, lived longer than any kings of the current age. Their existence left many skeptical—too human-like to see them as animals, and too docile to perceive them as a threat.

  But that was where every man fell short. Some knew, but they couldn’t quite grasp it: there was more to them than what they revealed, these beings who had never harmed one human for decades.

  Those same Groggins people thought were simply docile observers… began to move.