I stared at the scorched ground, breathing a silent prayer for my brothers. The four of us had grown up together, outcasts from our more distant relatives because of how our father had chosen to sire us. We had studied magic together, we had gone to school together, we had done everything together. We’d thought we could change the world for the better. And we’d been wrong.
We’d played with fire and two of us died, vaporised so completely there’d been nothing left. My brother and I hadn’t even been able to take their bodies home for proper funeral rites.
The magic shifted, a faint otherworldly sense pressing against my mental shields. I wanted to run. I wanted to walk into the clearing, into another world. I wanted ... I clenched my fists as the contradictory urge grew stronger, unwilling to let it get the better of me. I’d spent ten years researching the spell we’d tried to use, the rite we’d found in a forgotten tome and tested carefully before we actually cast it. I still didn’t know if we’d made a dreadful mistake or if the entire spell had been a booby trap from the start, designed to kill anyone stupid enough to attempt it. It gnawed at me, during the darkest nights. What had we done? What had we really been trying to do?
My nails dug into my hands. My memories were vague. I’d performed spell after spell designed to drag up old memories and yet, everything that had happened between the moment we’d started the rite and recovering in the burnt-out clearing was a blur. I remembered ... things ... things I couldn’t see properly. I knew I should be glad - my brother had been blinded - and yet there was a part of me that just wanted to know. What had really happened in the period I couldn’t remember?
The magic shifted again. I thought I heard my brother’s voice on the wind, calling to me. It wasn’t real, and yet it felt tangible. I turned and walked away. Whatever we’d done, we’d blighted the land beyond repair. I had been lucky to survive. The sensation faded as I walked faster, unwilling to spend another second near the otherworldly magic. There was nothing I could do about it. The land was blackened and burnt and no longer the province of human minds. It wasn’t safe for anyone, not now.
I dismissed the thought as I walked on, my magic bending the trees and foliage around me. There were no paths here, not even animal tracks. No students explored this far from the school, no hunters preyed on the local wildlife ... I’d been told there were a handful of hermits living so far from the civilised world, but I’d never seen them. The odds were good they were no longer entirely human. Being so close to the wild magic of the Greenwood did unpleasant things, at least those without the proper protections or agreements. The Other Folk were always haunting the land. I could feel unseen eyes watching me.
The sensation faded the moment I reached the ancient road that led from Whitehall to Dragon’s Den. There were agreements here, ones forged so long ago that no one really knew who’d put their name to them, that the students would remain untouched by the Other Folk. I’d hunted through the archives, trying to determine who - or what - had written the agreements and bound themselves to them, but I’d drawn a complete blank. There was just no way to know what had really happened, so long ago. Perhaps it had been the first emperors. They could’ve spoken for the human realm.
I felt the shadows of the past lift as I kept walking, heading down to the town. Dragon’s Den had survived the fall of the empire reasonably intact, given that it was ruled by Whitehall School rather than the local magnate - who now styled himself King of Alluvia - but everyone thought it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose. The town had attracted hundreds of refugees from magical communities over the last few decades, all of whom had been trying to find permanent homes that didn’t involve bending the knee to the newborn kingdoms or long-standing magical aristocracy. The non-magicians in the town were having an even worse time. There were just too many low-power magicians who took their frustrations and resentments out on their magic-less neighbours rather than trying to build up the power to strike back at their tormentors. It was said - truly - that if you walked down the wrong street at the wrong time, you’d go through at least five unwilling transformations before you reached the end.
A gaggle of students stood at the edge of the town. They weren’t helping. Grandmaster Boscha was a firm believer in harsh discipline - I’d felt his wrath often enough - but he cared nothing for the mundanes in his town. The students had no qualms about acting like entitled brats, intimidating the townsfolk and often humiliating them for shits and giggles. Slip someone a love potion or a particularly nasty charm and watch the results, laughing all the time ... bastards. I didn’t bother to mask my magic as I walked past the students, watching in dark amusement as they scattered and fled. No one would have faulted me for slapping them down, even without provocation. The only safe streets in the town were the ones protected by powerful magicians. It was unlikely things would improve
