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The nostalgic feeling of this place was almost intoxicating. The ambient warmth of the fires, the calming aroma of coffee and paper, the soft melody of chatter and gossip… It was home. And yet, the rain pattering against the roof and windows held a loneliness to them. The frost was almost upon them, and the trees reddened with warning of the coming dangers of winter.

But at least she was here in her home. In her element. In the one place that let her breathe easy for a little while, not focusing on straddling the line between avoiding very public places and avoiding too private places. No planning routes through still places, hopping from one plaza to the next. Modesty was the key to her life. Modesty was what kept her mind in check. Modesty kept the thought sharp and–

“Ariael.”

The Kobold flinched hard enough to move her an inch to the left, away from the rightward window. The dragoness in front of her could emulsify her in moments in several different ways. In this case, it was with an unamused look. “Yes, Mistress?”

With a sigh, the hefty tome in front of the cobalt-blue dragoness closed seemingly on its own. “Firstly, I have raised you from an egg–we are on a first name basis, I think.” The kobold began to shift in place, looking down to her own pale blue feet as she fiddled with the broach on her robes. “Secondly,” the dragoness began again, more soft this time, “You have not written to me in over a month. Clearly you have been reading my correspondence or else you would not be here.”

A quick wash of cold shame chilled Ariael to the bone. “I-I have been reading your letters,” she quickly explained, using the language taught to her by the very dragon in front of her. “I have been s-so busy and distracted with research and development and–”

“When was the last time you had someone inside you?”

The kobold flinched again, trying to physically avoid the topic. “I-I mean it has been a while–so much work–so much time gone! There is just no time in the day–or night–left! I just… just…” The return of the unamused look from her mistress drove a dagger through the excuses. “...I still have not laid with anyone.”

A breath of frustration escaped the nostrils of the dragoness as vapour. “It shows.” The statement was cold, but not harsh.

“Mother, I can explain–”

“My name is Arola and you have explained yourself time and time again.” Arola rolled her eyes in annoyance. “You have an aversion to the midrian spirit–”

“No! I-I just…” The thought of hands grabbing onto her limbs, lifting her in the air, unknown motives, unknown pasts–the melting heat going through her scale, through her muscles, bones–it shred any and all libido she could muster into a cloud of disappointing confetti. “...the thought of strangers using me is mortifying.”

What may have been frustration was now concern in Arola’s voice. “You could always try speaking to them. Getting to know them beforehand helps quite a lot.” A sideways look of displeasure was all the answer the dragoness needed before standing upright, stretching her legs from the sitting pillow practically morphed to her shape. “We need people, Ariael, and people need us. We play by the rules so that everything runs smoothly and everyone has a good time. It is efficient. The moment we break those rules, the consequences of those choices very quickly end lives.”

Arola approached the darkened window with a darkened tone etched into her voice. “We pay our dues…” For a moment, the dragoness was similarly lost within the rain, but something made her swallow down the dread it brought, “...which is why you are here today.”

“Mistre–I mean…” A sigh of annoyance similarly escaped the kobold, much to the amusement of her adoptive mother. “What would you have me do?”

“A favor long in the making.” She motioned behind her with her wing. “On the table you’ll find my bloodline’s crest. It denotes you as mine–undenyable proof of my involvement in this affair.”

The kobold turned to her left, seeing the bronze medallion ready and waiting for her, almost beckoning. She gently took the prized possession in her claws, as if holding a cut gemstone. Before Ariael could ask why, the founder spoke. “Over two decades ago, there was a mage–a kineticist–who sought a way to increase the total amount of innate magic one could intake and hold at a time. According to his notes, there were several unsavoury methods he tested, but the one that undid him was experimentation with petrosylabite and crystal dust-infused injections.”

Ariael felt a chill down her spine, ears folding closer to her head in fear. Kindling Sand was used to agitate inert magic in the air, destabilizing it enough for training mages to get the grasp of drawing it in. “I… presume it went wrong.”

The dragoness showed a rare glimpse of smouldering hatred. “Kinetic energy is needed for the sand’s activation, and there’s no better source than the heart. They administered the drug–if you can even call it that–directly into the circulatory system of their test subjects, willingly or not.” Arola’s eye twitched a little at the memory. “Their pain must have been unmeasurable, spiking their heart rate. More kinetic energy, more instability, and you know what happens when inert magic stops being inert.”

Ariael’s claw reached down over her own heart and shuttered at the involuntary thought of what it would feel like. “The body cannot handle that kind of energy,” she noted, “and so it would take on nulk… and eventually decay…”

“They popped.” The statement was cruel and full of hoarse anger. “Yes, they decayed–the vessel broke and all that energy needs to go outwards into a less concentrated medium. I still do not know how they delivered the remains to their loved ones. You could not call them bodies anymore.”

The kobold swallowed, unsure if it was proper to speak while she was like this. “Is… is he still–?”

“I killed him,” Arola admitted bluntly, a huff of indignation leaving her nostrils. “Idiot. A good-for-nothing wretch. I taught him magic out of the goodness of my heart and that is how he uses it.” The dragoness could feel the uncomfortable side eye of her adopted daughter behind her. With a breath, she calmed the raging memory. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention that fact to anyone, as that case was the birthplace of our syndicate.”

Ariael slowly approached her mother, joining her and gently raising a claw up to Arola’s bowed head, to which the dragoness moved in to accept the touch. “I am fine, Ariael. It is… just a bad memory, now.”

“Shall I proceed as a member of the Syndicate of Magical Ethics Regulation?” Ariael asked, giving a smile to bring warmth to her mother.

The gambit worked, as Arola returned the gesture. “Only as a front, I am afraid, as this favor is quite personal.” A scrolled parchment hovered from behind and over their heads to unravel itself before the two mages. “It has come to my attention that the mage’s assistant has been located.”

The connotations brought a small pang of worry to the kobold’s heart, to which the dragoness found amusement in. “No, daughter. If I wanted an assassin, I would not press my desires into the air for all to hear.” Relief flooded over Ariael’s scales as she relaxed at the news. “No, I do not wish the assistant dead. It is quite the opposite, really. She was… is still an old friend of mine who I have not seen in over twenty years. One that I put into…” Arola winced a little, “...a bad situation at my recommendation.”

The hovering parchment was brought close enough to read, but there was no need as the head of the syndicate explained. “It was this friend that notified me of these experiments, and it was she who led to their end. However, she knew that no court would ever find her innocent of those dealing–and she was not–but I know she is not that kind of person. Her heart is good. At least, that is who I knew before.

“She escaped, Ariael, and she took something with her. I know not what it was, but it was important enough for that mage to try and kill her as she fled. The military think it to be the perfected serum, but there would have to be survivors for there to be any kind of working injection. No, I believe she took something far more important. You see, in her time, she was one of the military’s lead Sarcomancers.”

“A trili?” Ariael questioned.

“A beautiful one, at that,” Arola confirmed. “One of the brightest minds at the academy–earnt the title of Magus only a decade after graduating. Her published works still line the library in Runehaven.” The dragoness paused sadly for a moment. “And now she is a fugitive because of my earnestness.”

With a sigh, Arola faced Ariael with a mix of nervousness and pride. “I ask you, daughter, to find this woman, this Halia Carthoo, and ask her to come back to me. Or if that is an impossibility, simply discover what it was she took from that accursed place. She is to be of an elderly age now, and last seen to the north in a town just short of where the Wilderwall meets the mountains. The place is called Faultfeld, I believe. Between the town, mountain, and the wall, lies a forest of interest, as many a Calamite has been found there as of the last few years. It has become quite the problem for the Winter Cull. From what I have gathered, this year they plan to let Magus Harthran lead the caravan.”

Ariael swallowed nervously at the name. She had met him only one time, and he was as cold and as calculated as people said he was. Corvins had a bad reputation of being conniving, but his sense of justice shattered any perceptions the kobold may have had. She only wished that he could acknowledge the grey in justice, not just black and white. “A reasonable concern,” she reasoned.

“Yet another, the last one,” Arola warned, trotting around and heading back to her sitting pillow and book. “There are rumors of a monster in those woods.” The dragoness looked to her daughter with raised intrigue, mirrored in the kobold. “A phoenix.”

“Impossible,” Ariael reasoned with mild annoyance, “they went extinct during the Draconic Age–hunted down for their feathers.”

“And yet the forest sometimes catches fire with unexplained intensity,” Arola confirmed. “Fact or fiction, take heed of this and go forth. Be safe, and perhaps think of this as a test. I long to see the results of those breakthroughs you last wrote to me about.”

The kobold gripped her wrist tightly, hiding the scar that she hoped her mother didn’t notice. She wouldn’t have to use it on anyone, right? “I think I should err on the side of safety,” Ariael admitted. “They are all very new and dangerous. P-perhaps you should ask one of the guests downstairs?”

“While we may imitate the system my kin in the desert employ, this institution is for those with information. We are not a tavern nor a guild.” The dragoness once again began flipping through her book. “Scared?”

“Emmensly.”

“Then this will be a test of your courage.” With a flip of the page, Ariael knew the conversation was at an end. “I have no doubt of your magical prowess or your critical thinking. There is a dragon inside your heart–I have seen it firsthand. You are my kin, after all. You will be fine, lest you choose not to be.”

Faultfeld’s main economical export was grain from the looks of it, for as Ariael looked on from the back of the wagon, there was nothing but fields of gold. You would think from the beauty of these sun-kissed fields that the ryll flows like water here, but the kobold was sure this wasn’t the case. At least, not for much longer, anyways. That’s always how it happens: first you're fine, then you’re not. First the summer, then the winter… and she could feel the season of the vigil would come quickly. But at least before then, people could pretend it wasn’t coming.

In fact, as the wagon pulled past some of the first buildings of the town proper, Ariael saw the streamers and decorations for the Amber Haze. The masquerade festival might not be as extravagant as the capital’s, but it was a welcome distraction. Especially since Ariael spotted the local Cartomancer guild making preparations for the coming of the Calamites, setting their sensors to be camouflaged by the festive decorations. The Winter Cull caravan would soon follow, most likely in a few days. She still had time, though little. It would be fine, she kept telling herself at least. She would not fail in her mission.

The wagon came to a sudden halt in the town center, a small fountain with a statue of a quamari at its center. “That’s the end of the road, little lass,” came the voice of the driver. “Tavern’s that one with the third floor on top. It was a long ride, though. Are you headed straight to business? Because I don't know about you, but I could really–”

The coin hit his chest faster than Ariael meant it to, but at least she was free from the obligation. With a dark cloak over her shoulders and head, the tavern doors flew open to announce her presence. Not many looked in her direction, save for a lone opopi in a dark green cloak and leathers sitting in the corner, sipping on some wheat beer. There weren’t many enjoying the warmth of the tavern, but those who were there must have been adventurers judging by the gear and the weapons leaning against their seats.

Pulling her hood lower, Ariael skittered towards the bar and climbed the spokes of a barstool to take her place atop it. A flash of red appeared before the kobold as a folrixi woman quickly approached from behind the bar, leaning down to meet the eyes of her guest. “And what can I do to serve you, little missy?”

The kobold knew the drill. “A wheat beer,” she quietly asked, sliding a sterling silver coin across the wood, “and to talk–information about some things I hear about this part of the world.”

“You could get more use out of my tongue with this than just talk,” the barmaiden admitted with a little laugh before turning to pour the drink. “Customers are always right, though. What do you wish to know? Best fervoria to reveal yourself is in the southern field–you just follow the path–”

“I want to know more about the people here,” Ariael interrupted, taking the drink being handed to her, “and about that rumor of the phoenix.”

The barmaiden tried to hide the fact that the ambient chatter and flirting in the bar died down with her whistle of surprise. “The phoenix, eh?” she mused as Ariael felt the eyes on her back. “Best to stay as far away from those trees as possible if you have any sense. Treants are bad enough, but these fires are downright murder. It started a few years back–maybe eight or nine? Then people started seeing things: the ruined remains of calamites, the occasional toppled tree, large gashes in the earth itself. Now folks are running for their lives bare-bottomed and poorer than the day they were born. They say it stalks you in the trees as you walk, but none can see it. They say it only lets you live if you leave all your valuables.”

“If they cannot see it, how do they know it is stalking them?”

The deadpan comment tripped the folrixi, but the cunning fox never let her smile waver. “Because it's hard to miss the trees creaking under its weight, little missy.” The words were a bit forced, but the allure of the ryll kept her talking. “At least no one's pushing up posies, but it sure is both a blessing and curse for me. Many a folk want to bag the bird, but everyone keeps leaving without paying their tab first!” she called out to the room, many beginning to reach into their pockets and purses. “He keeps cleaning them out before I can,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head as she turned to clean up things behind the bar.

Ariael paused for a moment. “He?”

If there was a break in the barmaiden’s composure, the kobold could not see it. “You were asking about the folk here, too, and I have a bit of advice in that regard. People here don’t like a marble heart with a prying tongue, so maybe keep those questions to yourself.” She began to stack filled steins and bottles onto a tray, hurrying to end the conversation. “And hey–you’re a long way away from the hubbub and stress of the capital. Stay a while. Drink your ale. Take a load off–or maybe take a load in general.”

Ariael caught the key to a room slid to her as the maiden began to walk away. “Is there anyone who I ought to talk to if I am trying to find someone?”

“Ly and Lo!” the maiden called over her shoulder. “Shop’s down the roads a bit–towards the woods!”

The mage quickly downed the alcohol, swiped the key off the bartop and hopped down off the stool. Ariael’s tail swayed slightly as she walked. There was a strange sensation welling up in her chest that pumped her muscles to life. The capital was sterile and clean–free from this kind of excitement. As she left the tavern, she tried to hide the giddy smile encroaching up her throat.

In her own head, Ariael failed to notice the narrowing eyes following her out.

---

Bronze bells jingled as the door to the tinkerer’s workshop opened. A quamari hammered away at a white-hot blade, subjugating the iron into the steel. “Coming!” she called out instinctually. “If you want, look around and see what you fancy! Modest prices compared to the others out there, you’ll find. Got sisters close by that haul scrap iron and ore from the wastelands. You’ll not go unimpressed!”

With a steady, strong hand, she quenched the blade in oil and rocked it back and forth as flames kissed the iron. The blacksmith pulled her art once the flames had made their love to the blade, and from there she set the work into an oven to soften its rigid nature. “Aye,” she spoke to the memories of her mentor, “man or steel–knowing how to get them hard and soft makes life easier.” She chortled to herself. “Well, save for one.”

She threw down her tongs onto her anvil and climbed the booster steps up to her counter. The quamari locked her digits above her head and stretched her aching back. “Lyleen Shakker, at your serv…”

There stood a pale blue underbold, with white horns, long, floppy ears and the robes only one of those capital mages could buy. She was alone, too. Odd for her kind–they traveled in threes. Bronze trinkets hung from their little strings, and she had enough pouches, belts, and pockets to carry a pantry. Meek little thing played with the rings that sat on the knuckles of her claws in a nervous fit, but her look has a strange yearning to it.

And her eyes. They burned like a charcoal kiln: wisps of red surrounding a black centerpiece. They were large and wide with anticipation, sparkling in what little midday sun sprinkled across the floor. Lyleen has seen the look before from another, similarly small arcanist. An ominous gut feeling began to pinch the flesh in her chest. The quamari could already feel the tide of questions crest over the beach, and she readied herself for them.

“It is rare to find a shop this far out that has red minding!” the kobold customer blurted out nervously, looking over to a small box of iron bands, each containing a string of runes on each one.

Lyleen’s eye twitched in annoyance, but her smile didn’t leave her. “Ah! So sorry you had to see that!” In a blink of an eye, the box was dragged back behind the counter before any serious investigation could be done into it. The blacksmith made a mental note to murder her coworker later. “Loak may be the best red minder this side of Ineo, but she tends to forget the simple things,” Lyleen laughed bitterly. “Though, I’m guessing you’re here for crystals and devices and such.”

“My own supplies are sufficient for the time being,” Ariael admitted sheepishly, holding her claw up to show her two crystal rings, with another pair on the other claw as well. “Though, if the rumors are true, I may need to buy more should I encounter this phoenix.”

A small pause. A cold moment in time. “Are you hoping to?” The quamari’s eyes narrowed slightly, and the kobold seemed to flinch. “A lot of people come strutting through that door looking for that bird. I don’t see them ever again. Best somethings are just left alone, don’t you think?”

Ariael closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, her mother’s voice in her head ordering her to project herself–announciation, slow cadence, straight back, deep voice, common tongue, go. “Perhaps,” she admitted, her eyes now holding power. “It is safe to leave things alone. It is easier to tread the path already flattened by footfalls. But then… you will never see the beauty in the shadows. You never get to see what is behind the curtain. You never get to appreciate the quiet wonder of the world.”

The dragon-raised kobold worried for a moment for the shopkeep’s expression didn’t falter, but after that cruel moment, Lyleen’s eyes softened. “Things around here–despite what it may seem with all the complaining going around–have gotten much better ever since that birdbrain showed up. Cartomancers be damned–we used to have calamites just wander in from the woods. Ten a week at least, and sometimes on the same damned day. Now we got nothing but time and peace. Cartomancers have been living a good life in this town. Economy’s booming from the would-be adventurers coming through. People have time now to simply live.”

“It sounds to me you have a reason to protect this phoenix,” Ariael commented.

“Don’t be daft–of course I do.” The honesty of the statement staggered the kobold for a moment, breaking the accusatory look for one of curiosity. “But like you said, sometimes you don’t get to see the beauty in something until you get to know it. All I ask is that those words remain true.”

The kobold’s shoulders felt heavier as the words weighed on her. “I am not here for the phoenix, though I will keep it in mind,” she admitted, earning a cocked stare from the blacksmith. “I came here because I am looking for someone. I heard there was a healer here–a witch of the woods, if you will.”

“Why?” The question was curt and fast. “You sick?”

“N-no, but–”

“Then you’d best be going.” Lyleen began to turn her back on the kobold, as she had better things to do in the forge.

However, the ring of bronze bell above the door rang out more forcefully. No little kobold could move the door that quickly. The thought turned the quamari on her heel to see the worst case scenario: the opopi.

Ariel looked up at the new guest as she was a good half-head taller than the kobold. The guest looked the kobold up and down as they stared at each other, both sharing a moment of recognition. The opopi wore a green cloak and leathers, but now that she was right there in front of Ariael, she found that the opopi was missing their left arm and leg. Instead, there sat a steel replacement for the limbs. They were marvelously intricate with shafts, wires, and runes carved into almost every interior available, relegating the exterior to clean protection.

Well, not exactly clean, as the steel was scratched as if someone had run a metal file over it, with obvious signs of repair done and still needed. It was to be expected though, looking at the rest of the clearly adventurous opopi. The green of her eyes matched the cloak over her shoulders, covering the rugged beauty underneath. White and dark brown stretched across a body built for exploration: lean and fit. The scars that covered her body only added to her charm, as the spear resting against her shoulder and survivalist tools on her belt marked her as an outdoors woman.

“Troublemaker!” Lyleen suddenly hissed. “You get out before I get the guards on your tail again!”

Though, the threat seemed to fall on deaf ears. The opopi had eyes for the pale-blue kobold so clearly far away from home. She seemed so enamoured with the new arrival that all it took to convince her was one question.

“You looking for Halia Carthoo, too?”

Six mynin and ten ryll. Mother would chide her for the unkept spending, but it was necessary. As Ariael looked through the densely packed trees, she knew there was no chance at finding her mark before the winter caravan arrived. It may have even taken until Marchen to find Magus Carthoo. The opopi–now named Fern–knew where she was going. Though the path they walked was unmarked, the opossum broke her usual silence to point out subtle landmarks, gashes in the trees from encounters once past, and–

“Woah there!” The opopi’s paw snatched the kobold away from some loose bramble slung down from an overhead branch. “Do you have a death wish or something?” Ariael looked between her guide and the bramble incredulously. The opopi sighed. “No, those aren’t just thorns. It’s Kivirue Vine. It’s poisonous enough to kill even a naga, so watch yourself. Notice the purple base of the thorn and the green tip.”

Ariael gulped, covering it with a nervous laugh as Fern continued to take the lead. “Living up to your namesake, then!” the mage commented, playing with the ring on her digit. “You sure know a lot about these woods and the plants…” Ariael trailed off, looking to the thunking metal leg of the opopi. “Do you know much about Ms. Carthoo?”

“Know she came into these woods over twenty years ago. Know she and my papa got along well–not sex, but survival. Know she’s the best damn healer this side of Midria, let alone the empire.” Fern tilted her head a little. “Know enough not to ask questions of a woman who ran away into some of the most deadly woods in this land to escape prying eyes.”

“Then why help me?”

Fern smacked the coinpurse on her hip proudly. “Easiest living I ever made.” The opopi gave a little laugh at her own comment, sighing as they continued through the forest, spear acting as a walking stick. They had been walking for quite some time, the looming mountains separating the lush green of the pines from the deadly miasma of the Ghostlands getting closer over every hill.

“Did she make your arm and leg?” Ariael didn’t know if it was boredom or the encroaching insanity from walking this long that made the question spew from her mouth.

Fern didn’t answer for a moment, causing a small panic attack from the kobold. “Nah,” she finally admitted. “Got it from some fancy-pants mage too big for his britches.” She began to chuckle, but suddenly winced and swore under her breath. “Ah! Bastard!” Ariael gave a strange look to the opopi, cocking her head in confusion. A red hue on Fern’s cheeks emboldened that confusion. “Something… something bit me,” she said as she rubbed under her arm.

It was a terrible lie, but its validity did not come into question as from the woods appeared a large, stone tower. It was not nearly as big as the ones holding up the Wilderwall, but it was to see over the treetops. It was clearly rundown, but somehow it still stood guarding multiple plots of tilled earth growing a variety of different, colourful plants. Sunlight streamed onto the cobblestone bricks that stacked all the way just past the top of the trees, vines and flowers sprouting from the cracks and blending it into the earth. From what she could see of the windows, they were modified enough to open outwards–a small potted flower sitting on the windowsill drinking up sunlight. It was red with wild, curling petals, and long, thin stems that reached up towards the sky.

The wind gently swayed the green brush around the stone and trees, the melodic jingling of several hanging windcharms from the tower and surrounding trees melted any feeling of danger or dread. Calm and welcoming, unlike the orderly, militaristic background she had heard. Ariael felt a strange mixture of relief, anxiety and guilt wash over her as they began slowly through the garden. The chirping of wild birds hummed away all other thoughts, letting the kobold mindlessly pass her claws along the leaves of the crops.

Her eyes stopped her feet for a moment. Fern continued up to the stairs leading up to the front door, curling slightly around the tower. However, another set of stairs sat obscured by unkept brush and the positioning of the garden. It led down into the earth, like an inversion of the other door. The only reason she was able to spot it at all was the strange patches of torn grass–almost perfectly circular.

“Cold feet?”

Ariael gave a glare to the opopi, more so to cover up the fact she may have been right. Something about this place gripped her in a way she could not describe. It was an honest abode, but something…

Her red eyes turned back towards the forest. Shadows hung over the branches and grass, hiding unseen dangers. She looked closely, but there was nothing there she could see. The sensation over her body was one she’d felt before–people ogling or watching her. It was the curse of being a part of a dragon’s bloodline–of being a lone kobold, even.

Something was watching her.

There was nothing she could do now, though, save for taking shelter away from the ominous feeling. Ariael took her place next to Fern at the base of the stairs leading up. “Well, here we are,” the opopi concluded, motioning towards the door. “Not my business why you’re here, but you strike me as the important type and you certainly don’t seem sick. Either way, I don’t want to stick my nose in your business. I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

With a light smack on Ariael’s back, Fern began to wander off towards the woods and readily abandoned her employer. The kobold’s teeth ground together for a moment, but she figured it was to be expected. She turned back to the stairs–now a little intimidating–that now loomed above her. Step by step, she made it to the stained pine door. Waiting for her were two iron door knockers, one up high and one set at her level. With a deep breath, Ariael threw her anxiety aside and took the iron in her claw.

She didn’t mean to knock loudly–she didn’t even think she had done so in the first place–but the resounding wooden crash echoed like a gavel through a court. Instinctively she took a few hesitant steps away from the door when other noises could be heard from inside; The scrape of a wooden chair against stone, the clack of a cane and wobbled steps, and then the turn of the mechanism.

The door opened to an unusual sight: she was certainly an elderly trili, but her feathers were coloured with faded blacks, reds, and oranges. The results of chromamancy were fading in her old age, like a fire fading back into white. Her eyes–far above the small kobold–were a light blue that caught and captured the illuminated sky. The quality of the feathers, too, were declining with notable bends and frays. The head crest feathers had lost their shine and flair, too. Even her black beak was cracked here and there. She leant against a simple cane, both wings on it as rose and tapped against the floor in front of the kobold to snap her back to reality.

Ariael flinched at the stamp of the wood upon the stone. She looked up to the trili, awaiting some kind of command or question, but she was silently staring down at the lowly kobold. The trili’s blue eyes bore past the cloak, her scales, past muscles and bone directly into her heart. They held in them a sternness unlike any the kobold had ever seen within a trili–only rivaled by the discipline of military commanders.

“Tea?”

The chirp of the hen was just another stunning smack on Ariael’s cheek. Her voice struggled to reach those precise pitches the trili were known for. Less of a sing-song voice and more of an uncontrolled wheeze. There was a tiredness in her voice, but the kobold couldn’t make out if it was from sickness or age. What she was sure of was the look of knowing from the trili.

“I…” Ariael hesitated as the tall hen looked down upon her with not quite anger, but perhaps frustration and fear. “...I would love some.”

Both stood for a moment in the doorway, studying each other, trying to reach into each other’s mind in order to gain an advantage. It was the old hen that gave way, stepping to the side and motioning for the kobold to enter. Ariael swallowed and took her first steps inside the tower.

It was much like the outside: calming and serene, with multiple plants hanging from posts in the walls–or from the walls themselves. The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows, which dotted the walls all the way up to where the tower’s viewing platform would be. Against the far wall under the stairs leading up to the roof was a simple bed, unfurled to one side as if inviting someone to enter. To the right was a desk under the largest window in the room: the one with the red flower prominently displayed. On the desk were several scrolled letters, books, and writing utensils, as well as parchment currently in the process of being written on. To the left was a cooking area complete with a stone fireplace–an addition to the crumbling wall–complete with cast-iron cooking equipment. The counter space was neat and orderly, herbs hanging just above from the walls, along with some dried meats of some variety. In the center of the room was a table set for four, however, only two seats seemed to be used.

The hen took one of the chairs in her wings–one of the chairs not usually used–and pulled it out for the kobold to sit. Ariael flicked her eyes to the hen, but she saw no devious intent, so she took the seat gracefully. The trili walked to the steaming pot over the glowing embers of a fire recently dead. As the hen was picking herbs for the tea, Ariael looked over to the desk close by. The paper being written looked to be some kind of letter, and judging by the several crumpled drafts discarded beneath the desk.

A clatter of fine ceramic ripped the investigative mage back into the situation at hand. In front of her was a cup and saucer that must have been fifteen ryll each, holding a very aromatic and fruity-smelling tea. However, quite unusually for something of this level of refinement, the cup had several yellow lines randomly tracing through and fro along the design.

“Oh!” Ariael suddenly exclaimed as her mind clicked into place. “This is gold joinery. I’ve read about this: the technique was developed in Silvermist to repair items and highlight the flaws in them with gold dust. It was meant to represent the philosophy of embracing flaws and turning mistakes into opportunities.”

“That’s very enlightening,” squawked the hen with complete disinterest as struggled to take a seat across from Ariael. “Did you read that from a book? Or were you there when they invented it?”

A pang of frustration radiated from the kobold’s stomach, but she closed her eyes to hide it. “It was from an encyclopedia on the history and culture of Silvermist.”

“And you are certain that information is complete and correct?” The hen sipped her tea slowly. Her posture and etiquette was much like Ariael’s: refined and hammered into her from a young age.

She must have had a lot more experience with eddiquite, since the kobold was now trying to suppress the twitch in her eyelid. “It was written by a magus,” she emphasized. “So yes, I am quite sure that–”

“Ah, yes,” the trili woman rolled her eyes. “Magus: the universal title of being unbiased. Truly every last one of them would never let something as pitiful and putrid as pride, or greed, or envy, or any sort of desires get in the way of academic honesty.” Ariael was certain now, and it seemed the trili knew it as well. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have come this far.”

“So does that mean you really are Halia Carthoo, then?”

The trili didn’t respond at first. She took her sweet time taking another drink of her tea. When she did finally take the time to give a proper answer, it wasn't what Ariael was expecting. “For the record, the first mention of gold joining comes from a record from the druidic age–from murals depicting the craft nearly twenty thousand years before Silvermist claimed they invented it.”

“Why does that matter?” Ariael pressed.

The suspect bird raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t,” she concluded. “You were the one who brought it up.”

With another sip of her tea, the trili looked to the kobold trying to hide the smoke trying to escape her ears. She would never admit it, but the bird enjoyed watching mages bite their tongues to near bleeding. “A better question,” the trili continued, “is how it makes you feel. Clearly you must like it. Why?”

Wasn’t Ariael supposed to be the one interrogating here? “It looks nice,” she said haphazardly, wanting to change the topic back to what she needed to hear. “Are you or are you not–?”

“Oh come now,” the suspect forced through the accusation, “that’s not a real answer. Nobody remembers details from a bygone encyclopedia about an inconsequential pottery technique just because it looks nice. Surely it means something to you.” Ariael stared daggers at the woman, but it did nothing to shake the elderly hen. Years upon years of practice gave her the mental fortitude akin to a mountain. “You’ve hardly touched your tea,” she quipped with another sip.

Ariael snatched the cup from the plate and downed the drink in one frustrated go, immediately regretting the decision. For one, the drink was still hot. However, just before the overwhelming pain overtook her tongue, she tasted quite the addicting, fruity-sweet tea that would have been quite good. This thought was short lived as the kobold coughed, sputtered and spat to recover from the bad decision.

The hen huffed to herself. “It reminds me of an old saying my mother used to tell me. Broken yolk is still gold.” Ariael looked up to the spying suspect. “What’s with that look? You certainly weren’t going to answer. I’d thought you’d be happy with more information.” The kobold didn’t respond. It wasn’t because her throat was still burning, it was the deep-seeded melancholy in the hen’s blue eyes. “The saying means that there’s always something to be gained, especially in tragedy.”

The kobold was now locked into her words, a mix of anticipation and curiosity in her eyes. The hen let out a small, sad chuckle. “I never understood those words until much, much later in my life. I simply did not care about broken yolks, I wanted perfection–I wanted the sun. If something wasn’t good enough, I made it so, or I abandoned it. I am, without a doubt, a failure as a trili.”

Ariael finally took a sip of the tea without causing herself bodily harm. Even though her tongue was burnt, she could still taste the sweetness of the fruity tea. Now that it was able to sit in her mouth, there was a faint bitterness to it, too. “That tea you’re drinking… it’s good, right?” Ariael nodded. “It comes from a parasitic vine local to these woods. It curls up trees, using them to reach the sunlight and stealing their nutrients at the same time. The tree dies, and it moves onto the next one. Cut it up, crush it with mortar and pestle, and you get one of the deadliest poisons in the world.”

The kobold spat the tea out over the floor yet again. “WHAT?!”

The mischievous hen chuckled. “If you add some reagents to neutralize the poison beforehand, it makes a good tea, too.” Ariael leaned back in her chair, breathing quite heavily. “Something that comes from a dark place can be quite pleasant, you see. All it takes is the proper preparation.”

“If you are going to kill me, woman, I would greatly appreciate it if you would just get it over with!” Ariael complained, huffing and crossing her arms.

“And rob myself of your torment? Perish the thought.”

Ariael groaned in annoyance, and at this did the hen finally let out a hearty laugh. That mirth was short lived, however, as the trili suddenly began to hack and cough violently, covering her mouth tightly and moving the table from the sheer force of catching herself on its edge. The kobold instinctively reached over the table to catch her, but as soon as the fit began, it just as suddenly stopped.

This time it was the hen that leaned back in her chair, breathing heavily to reoxygenate her brain. She looked to the wing that had caught the cough and winced, quickly taking a handkerchief and wiping away the evidence. “Arcane Lung,” she began through laboured breaths. “I’m sure you’ve been cautioned far more than once on the dangers of keeping high nulk levels for long periods of time.”

“I have been,” the kobold answered honestly, now back in her seat. “They say it is–”

“I’ll be dead soon.” Whatever comfort was in that room at that moment was blown away by a cold wind, despite the windows being closed. “And yes, I am Magus Halia Carthoo. Congratulations on a successful mission.”

Ariael instinctively opened her maw to thank her for the kind words, but slowly it closed with careful force. Her claw instinctively trailed its way to the bronze bloodline crest resting underneath her clothes. It was cold against her scales. “I am sorry,” she finally managed. What else was there to say when the acceptance was so nonchalant?

“No need,” Halia said, reaching again for her tea, “you’ll be in my position one day. Everyone is eventually faced with their own mortality.” She took another sip and Ariael decided to join her, finally managing to swallow it down. When Halia was finished, she motioned to the kobold with mild frustration. “This is the part where you tell me you’re here to kill me, or to recruit me, or rob me of my research–or whatever explanation as to why you’ve come here.”

Ariael did not rush, taking another sip of the quite pleasant poison as she organized her thoughts. Was it really best to just come out and say it? There was no telling what her reaction would be at hearing her mother’s name. There would be no way to fish for information should the conversation turn sour. Perhaps it was time to talk as mages, then.

“Truth be told,” Ariael began, “I do not really know why I am here, either.” This cocked the hen’s eyebrow, so the kobold continued. “I was wondering if you could tell me more about the petrosylabite experiments–the theory behind them, I mean. I know the general idea, but not what it was you were trying to accomplish.”

“ I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything other than my job,” Halia quickly corrected, anger in her eyes flaring up momentarily before simmering down at the shrinking kobold. She took a breath to calm herself.

“Twenty three years ago, I was approached to act as a sarcomancer, healer, and general practitioner of medicine to participate in experimentation on the organic body. At the time, I was fully immersed in that scene–it is a treasure trove of information that still hasn’t been fully tapped. I knew I was close to fully understanding it, but there were some pieces missing still. If I had those pieces… well, I thought I could save thousands of lives. I accepted, not fully aware of what I was accepting. By the time I understood, I was trapped in a burning building I could never escape from without my life being over.

“That torture chamber was a study–if you can even call it that–that was designed to see if there was a way to push a mage’s draw speed to the absolute limits. You can train weaving speed, but that capacity to take in magic, as well as the ability to handle the strain, are two mountains that mages must be born on top of. There is no safe training in order to increase them. The only way possible is through the use of tools, whether that be crystals or other mages through nulcomancy. If there were a way to increase those limitations, we could produce mages like those of the past: stalwart casters able to bend issure storms to do more than just change someone’s gender. We could create new life, could make new technologies, could even change the face of the world to suit our needs. We could right the wrongs of the past. We could save lives–make life better. That was my naive thought on the matter at the time. Of course, I didn’t learn until later that the true purpose of the study was to make living weapons capable of dominating the empire and all surrounding kingdoms.

“The idea was simple, but the way to get there was not. This is why they needed my expertise. You see, my research was focused on the body and its ability to adapt and heal. The primary thing the body is best at is adaptation–plain and simple. If I cut you, you bleed, and after a while it stops. The blood clots and eventually that wound heals through the natural regeneration of tissues. If you look at the body’s ability to slowly release nulk, there are similarities. Both processes happen naturally, but the efficacy and speed of them significantly increase during sleep. Both processes are a part of homeostasis, and therefore magic is fundamentally linked to bodily processes.

“Similarly, studies conducted on mage cadavers found that the mylyn sheathes around the nerves were thicker and larger in mages who had better drawing power, who often were much older and more experienced than younger mages with thinner sheaths. Historical records also show a general trend of mages gaining more draw speed and nulk resistance as their career advances. This trend and evidence leads one to believe that like muscle tissue, mylyn sheaths can be conditioned into conducting magic better for nulk resistance, as well as draw and weaving speeds. Through microscopic damage, the repair of mylyn would leave it stronger, making stronger mages.

“The only way physically to agitate mylyn sheaths is through magical exertion, and that would have taken far, far too long. It was better to agitate the innate magic within the body to cause stress within, activating the autonomous nervous system to quell the agitation and achieve homeostasis. This was achieved through microdoses of petrosylabite into the cardiovascular system via saline solution. The results were promising at the beginning: Subjects had minor side effects and had marginal improvements after a few months of testing.”

Halia looked down from the ceiling, coming down from her memories and prior aspirations back into reality. The kobold had begun taking notes, which earned a small giggle from the elderly hen. She was studious, brave, and curious–just like her long ago. That thought quickly wiped the smile off of her beak as she remembered what happened next.

“Microdoses,” Halia reiterated. “It was meant to be microscopic portions–controllable. I had agreed that dose escalation was necessary, but over a long period of time to avoid serious side effects. That was the assumption I was led to believe when I started to inject the next round of test volunteers with the petrosylabite solution.”

Ariael continued to jot down notes, thankful for the current break in her story. However, the break kept getting longer and longer, causing the curious kobold to look up at the Halia. The old magus leant on her elbow, resting her beak on her wing to prop up her head. Her eyes were distant and glistening, tears welling, but not daring to spill.

“The dose…” Halia trailed off. She leaned her head back, looking away and taking a deep breath. “The original dose I injected them with was about one milligram of petrosylabite in one milliliter of saline. It was below normal doses, but the compound was unstable. And I… I…” Halia shook her head in anger, the tears now finally finding their way down her cheeks. “...I injected those people with one gram per milliliter of saline.”

Ariael’s pen stopped, almost streaking across the page from the disbelief and ripping through all her hard work. “That… that is one thousand times the concentration–”

“I know.” The words were a warning, shutting the little mage down immediately. “I know it was a thousand times the concentration–they started bleeding from their fucking eyes. Their mylyn sheaths were completely shredded, leaving exposed nerves to the raw, agitated magic inside them. Their screams still wake me in the night, kobold. So yes, I know the concentration difference.”

Ariael shut her maw, shame forcing her eyes away from the magus and instead out to the beauty outside. “I am sorry,” Ariael muttered, afraid of raising her voice and being heard.

Halia was silent for a moment, but her sigh cut through the thick air between the two mages. “I’m a healer, I have been almost all of my life. When the people under my care suddenly started dying in one of the most painful ways I have ever seen, everything my life had built up to crumbled to dust. You can’t possibly understand how that feels. Not many can. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, too. But please understand that this moment I’m describing was the worst moment of my life. It is the single most defining failure I have ever had–and I’ve had quite a few.”

The kobold looked back to Halia, releasing the tension in the hen’s heart. As if to signal her to continue, Ariael readied her pen again. Halia obliged. “It may sound like an excuse, but I didn’t know that the concentration had been changed. I should have checked, but I didn’t. I trusted my team fully, and that was a mistake. Not only had the concentration been increased, but they had added microscopic crystal dust into the solution as well to further help fuel the agitation.

“The results were as catastrophic as you could imagine. First came the nulk: we needed three mages proficient in nulcomancy per subject in order to drain enough nulk so that they didn’t pass the point of no return. Then came the physiological response: cell death and necrosis on a level I’ve never seen before or since. Surface-level blood vessels burst, causing severe bruising and bleeding from every orifice they had. If that wasn’t enough, their nerves were being shredded. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced nerve pain, but it is the worst pain you can ever possibly experience–like lightning eating you from the inside out. Even those who are used to pain can’t handle it, and these patients had whole body coverage.

“I wanted out immediately, but I couldn’t leave those people behind. I had to try to save them. Not only that, but how could I leave? My name was on everything: every document, every approval, every order for specialized equipment. My life was over beyond the experiment. One wrong step and I was imprisoned for the rest of my life–or worse. My only saving grace was that I was those people’s only hope at survival, so I stayed. I worked day and night.

“If I was out of the frying pan and into the fire, I fully descended into the sun when the idea of balancing atmospheric magic concentrations was suggested. You should know that the ambient magic in the world follows the same patterns as the weather. Magic flows from areas of high pressure to low pressure naturally. Issure storms form almost exactly the same way as normal thunderstorms–it’s why we call them storms in the first place. When agitated in the air or in our case, in a person, it creates a volatile area and therefore a higher pressure. That magic seeks to move out to an area of low pressure. In the air, that’s simple. In a person, it’s not. Mylyn tissue is the only conductive medium in the body, so it is theorized that the magic tries to escape via mylyn tissue, even if it is not actively channeling magic.

“If the body was becoming a high pressure magic zone and magic was trying to force its way out, then why not create an artificial one outside of the body. It would keep the agitated magic from trying to escape. Not only that, but the body would be bombarded from both inside and out. So they began locking subjects into chambers lined with obdurite and funneling a constant supply of kindling sand into to agitate the inert magic inside. I had to be trapped in there with them… watching every last moment of their dying breath. The mortality rate was ninety five percent, and the five percent that did survive had nerve damage beyond repair. Brain damage, loss of motor skills, loss of hand-eye coordination, loss of sight, paralysis not only of muscles, but organs, too, and chronic, everlasting nerve pain.

“I don’t understand why they didn’t stop,” Halia finally admitted. “I begged them. I pleaded. There was no reason to waste anymore lives.” The scientist shook her head in utter disgust and despair. “Their response was to suggest treating subjects at a younger age–more malleable to the effects of the treatment. Children were too suspicious to take, so they settled for embryos still in development: fertilized eggs and pregnant mammals.”

Halia was trapped again in that moment, locked behind her own feathers and eyes watching as those poor souls walked unaware to their death. She was tired. She was horrified and frustrated watching even more people to fail strut past her. And then, a face. A familiar face. “I recognized one of the subjects,” she whispered in absolute sorrow. “I had known her for years. A human woman. We grew up together. She was pregnant… and…” With a shake of her head, her breath became unsteady, “...and I didn’t have the time to warn her. I couldn’t get her out. I saw the recognition in her eyes when she came into that chamber. I think she understood when she saw me that it was the end. They artificially increased the amount of ambient magic in the air in that chamber by use of crystals, creating higher pressure and agitating the magic even more. It might as well have been an issure storm.”

The magus could go on no longer. Her eyes rested in her wings, sobs being sealed rightly behind her beak. The sorrow was palpable in the room, causing Ariael to swallow and struggle to breathe. “I… I assume she did not make it,” the kobold ventured.

“No.” The answer was curt and full of pain.

“And that must have been the last straw, then?” Ariael reached further. “Something like that… I can not even begin to imagine the dissociation you must have felt. Leaving must have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” the hen began clarifying. “They were watching me at all times. They had me in obdurite shackles whenever I was out of that forsaken box. I’m not a believing woman–I want hard evidence to make up my mind–but it must have been fate that I was given the perfect opportunity to escape that day. The compound was raided–I had leaked word through encoded notes to an old friend. I was able to escape.”

Ariael tilted her head a little to the side. “Why not go with her, then?” she asked, already suspecting the answer. “Was there something more important you had to do? I am certain that someone would have listened to reason.”

“I couldn’t leave!” Halia breathed heavily, almost squawking. “You think any reasonable person would look at what I’d done and think I was an innocent person? I helped them murder over one hundred people! I helped murder unborn children! You really think I could have gone…” The air around the trili’s demeanor shifted dangerously as she trailed off. “...what do you mean… her?”

Ariael was genuinely confused for a moment before her stomach dropped through her chair and into the earth proper. “I-I just assumed–”

Halia’s chair scraped across the wooden floor, toppling over from the force of her standing. She stared down at the kobold, a disgusted look in her eyes. “Tell me,” she demanded, “which little clubhouse sent you? Mercatura? Mors? Fluere? Or did Voluptas finally grow a spine? Does the academy want their investment back? How much was the bounty, then?”

She couldn’t help it now–her hand was forced. Ariael felt the small medallion hanging from her neck, hidden underneath her clothes. “I am not being paid,” the kobold admitted, reaching into her shirt and pulling on the necklace.”I represent the Syndicate of Magical Ethics Regulation–though I am not here to fine or arrest you.”

Pulling sharply on the medallion, the necklace came loose in her claws. She then laid the metal token on the table, displayed towards the trili for her to see. Halia scoffed at the sight of it. “Oh, good grief.” The words were sharp against Ariael’s scales. “She’s still as deluded as ever, it seems. First she teaches a monster, then she tricks me into giving him any chance of a future I had. Now she can’t even be bothered to come herself. She has to send one of her retinue in order to–”

It had been a long time since Ariael felt the need to use ictumancy to demonstrate her displeasure. Her strike sent the fine cups and saucers flying, as well as splitting the frame of the table. Although comparatively she was weaker than most in the art, the effect was always the same: silence. “I am not some toy–I am Ariael of house Sapientia,” she ordered her respect, “and I am Arola of house Sapientia’s only daughter. I have come here to offer you…” her eyes glanced over to the other chair seemingly used, “...and your child asylum. Arola only wants you to live the life that was taken from–”

“Get out.” Halia’s expression was no longer that of an elderly, bitter old woman telling stories of the past. What stood before Ariael now was the magus returned, and she was pissed at the mention of a child.

Ariael obliged, taking the medallion off of the table as she stood. It was a good gamble: if Halia was already close to death, information was the next best thing to gather. At least now her mother could make the proper decision. Before she stepped over the threshold, Ariael looked back to the old magus. There was rage and anger in her eyes. “You should still consider it,” the kobold emphasized. “If not for your sake, then for theirs.”

“I would rather have every feather plucked from my body than return him to the monsters that did this to us.”

Ariael closed her eyes and shook her head with a sigh. That was that, then.

Her opopi guide kept stealing glances at Ariael as the two slowly began to walk back towards town and it was getting rather annoying. The mage kept her eyes forwards as her claw played with the medallion on her neck. Had this been the correct choice? Soon the winter culling caravan would be here, and with it Magus Harthran. Surely they would be hunted in a few days–found and captured and brought before the stewards for trial. Was she really about to leave them to that fate? Maybe she should have–?

“You’re rich, aren’t you?” Fern finally asked, snapping the kobold out of her stupor. “First you go in the tower to see Halia, then there’s quiet, and then you both explode at each other and storm off. Now you look like you’re about to start crying.”

“Are you looking to fleece me for more coin?” Ariael sharply replied.

“I mean, if you have more on you…”

“My business here is none of your concern.” The kobold took a more soft tone. “And believe me, you do not want any part of it. It is already messy enough as it is.”

Fern looked up to the canopy, raising her spear to bang against the branches as she walked. “All I’m saying is that normal folk would be done with it by now. She wasn’t buying what you were selling, and that’s her choice.”

Ariael’s muzzle scrunched up as if her words were sour. “Maybe. She and I are not normal folk, though. We–”

The heavens shattered as the canopy fell through on top of their heads. Ariael was knocked backwards from the impact and skidded across the grass on her back. Pine needles and branches poked and scraped her scales, and the plume of dirt and dust burned her eyes. The world was spinning, though the mage felt oddly numb to it. Quickly, Ariael stood and slithered her tendrils through her digits into her rings, ready to draw, weave, and defeat whatever monster had just tried to end their lives.

However when her eyes adjusted to the new light streaming through the hole above them, there stood a behemoth cut into the cloud of dirt. It was easily two meters tall, cutting the silhouette of a massive bird. Its massive wings lowered, then raised above its head to show that it could engulf a person whole. Giant claws ripped at the earth, adjusting its shifting weight. Finally, its eyes pierced through the dirt cloud: a purple-blue gaze with an otherworldly glow.

Its voice boomed louder than thunder. “ I am the great inferno–! ” its wings suddenly shifted to a menacing pose with its wings over the kobold, “ –the master of resurrection–! ” now a less menacing pose, almost curtsying to the mage, “ –the foul fowl of flirtati–FIRE–!” his pose now had his arms pointed behind him to one side, “–I said fire, uh– the grandmaster of–! ”

A single, loud clap from beside the kobold quickly made the monster stand upright, wings on hips like it had been caught doing something wrong. “Phoenix,” it said rather plainly, almost sheepishly. “I’m Phoenix–THE–I’m the phoenix! I am… uh–this…! This is a robbery!” it said matter-of-factly, almost announcing it like he was an archmagus come to save everyone.

Ariael gambled a glance towards Fern to see her condition. The opopi seemed to be fine: a frustrated and annoyed expression gracing her eyes. “Aye?!” she snapped back incredulously, her hands moving to her hips as she leant into the lashing. “Could have been a murder if you were any closer!”

As the dust settled, Ariael’s eyes looked back to see the monster gone. Instead, something far more interesting had taken its place. It was a human man, at least that’s what she presumed since there was no tail or indication of beasthood. It was genuinely hard to tell as all of his skin was covered head to toe in clothes and cloth, wrapped tightly around and affixed to his body. Enclosing his form was a tight cage of large shafts, bands and poles of steel, almost like the tightest gibbet she’d ever seen. From this chassis, large, powerful limbs sprouted–a woven blanket of iron feathers attached from hand to back behind him, as well as two giant footpieces that resembled scuted claws. His hands gripped onto a complex mechanism each, with two large… blade? Rams? She was not sure what their purpose was, but iron wedges adorned either side of his fists. All of this attached with strange, hanging wires going along the body, all encircling the chassis and connecting into his back.

But by far the most intricate–the most impressive feat Ariael had the pleasure of seeing–was the strange mask affixed to his face. A black beak–much like the trili she had just seen–jutted out of the metal base base. Though, looking closer it seemed it was painted various shades of grey, with dark red–almost brown–runes running down the length of it. Ascension day was coming up in a few months, but such an intricate display would be ruined by then. It even seemed to move somehow to match his awkwardly fake smile–was it made from layered plates? It was not the only marvelous detail, either. The false eyes and accoutrement moved like a wooden puppet on strings, illuminated purple-blue by what seemed to be a simple lucimancy enchantment. But… she could see no crystal–no powersource for the light.

And then they caught her. His eyes locked her in place like a thousand vines sprouting around her body and restricting Ariael’s every move. It wasn’t unpleasant crushing, but instead like being caught stealing food from the pantry late at night. A weird urge to smile overtook her despite the proclamation of robbery. Oddly enough, the phoenix’s smile slowly vanished at the same time, like a transference. The kobold looked closer, deeper into his eyes, and he readily accepted them. There, in the center of the illumination, was a hole barely visible underneath for each eye. She could see a glint of something in the darkness beneath.

A light shove of her shoulder broke Ariael out of her stupor. “He may be an idiot, but he’s a strong idiot,” Fern warned, though not really minding the fact the phoenix was within earshot. “Best drop our stuff if we want to get out of this alive.”

However, Fern was the only one who took her advice, as Ariael and the phoenix inspected each other from top to bottom. Another interesting feature revealed itself to the mage: the lucimancy was not restricted to the eyes as a reddish pink began to slowly appear just below his wandering eyes.

“Are…” Ariael couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Are you undressing me with your eyes?”

The pink shone so bright that it almost glinted off of the dull metal of his mask, almost overshadowing how widely his eyes expanded before turning sharply and looking anywhere else. “N-no no! No! No. I definitely wasn’t. Not me. I am an upstanding highwayman–er… Forestman. Forestman…? Can you be a highwayman as a bird–? Never mind–just–” He suddenly turned and looked again at Ariael, pointing his finger towards the kobold before quickly flicking his fingers back towards himself, “–give me your rings.”

Ariael took a step back, covering one fist with another to hide the jewelry. “What? No!”

“Okay, one ring then,” he offered quickly.

The mage shook her head in denial of his request, and of how the situation was currently playing out. “I will not give you any of my rings! They were a gift from my mother!”

“Legally I think you have to give me one of them–this is a robbery after all,” he argued, earning an even more confused head tilt from the kobold. “Look, I’ll give it back, I just want to see it for a second.”

“You are robbing me,” Ariael clarified yet again, maw hanging open in a stupor, “and you will give it back?”

“Aye–uh, yes–shit–Fern, what's more proper when speaking to nobility? Aye or ye–quit shaking your head like that!”

The kobold looked over to her left to find her opopi guide completely giving up relinquishing her belongings and instead opted to simply rest her face in her paws as she shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, for the love of… Throw me to the eternal flame and end this, please,” she begged of the world under her breath.

“Fine, let me just…” the phoenix muttered in frustration.

All of a sudden, as if invisible fingers gently grasped her left claw, the outer ring jumped off of her digit and zipped to the metal monstrosity’s hand. “Hey–!” Ariael began to call out, but instead reached into one of her little pockets for something.

“No way…!” The ring floated out of his hand and slowly rotated in the air above his beak. “Fern, look at this thing!” he marveled, eyeing the gold ring glinting from the sun.

“Yes, Phoenix, I see it,” she replied, giving up on the facade of a guide. “Can we hurry this up a little? It will be dark soon.”

Phoenix’s brows narrowed at the opopi in frustration. “No, you dolt. The redminding!” Ariael felt a moment of hesitation at the genuine excitement in this man’s voice, like for a moment his heart opened up to the world for all to feel its warmth. “Look! Look at how much they fit into the inside of the ring! Oh, I bet this thing isn’t even solid gold–probably a plated band with a hollow core to fit even more runes on the inside. Makes it easier to tendril into, too. Most solid mass is more energy resistant, so you’d want a liquid or gas. It’s tricky to do that though, as you’re sacrificing structural integrity to–”

This Phoenix kept talking more and more, ranting about all the intricacies of a redminded ring he had only just seen. Ariael would not let the opportunity slip her by. It was one thing to use tendrils for simple tasks, like turning a page of a book or reaching something on a high shelf, but it was another to completely manipulate an object of unique shape so delicately and precisely. Moreover, to do so with an enchanted object with a crystal attached. The fact he hadn’t accidentally activated the ring was proof of something extraordinary going on.

The kobold pulled out a pair of round, blue lenses and a small spare crystal. She placed the glass in front of her eyes and the world turned blue. When she linked the crystal to the glasses, however, the world returned to normal with the sole exception of a massive series of tentacle-like tendrils surrounding Phoenix. With the power of the device, polarized, invisible, magical constructs could be seen. The blue from the lenses formed the shape of the tendrils before her–an astronomical twenty–maybe thirty of them slipping through and lining the metal suit, manipulating the ring with simple kinetic conversion, or just… lingering in the air.

It only lasted a few good moments, as one of the tendrils began to sway and before the mage could react, it had lunged and snatched the lenses right off her face. “Oh, man!” Phoenix reeled in excitement. “Are these obdurite goggles?! Oh please! Please let them be…! Ah, man. I wanted a pair so bad for the suit! I’m still working on a fully integrated optics system and they would be so useful! What are these things?”

Phoenix looked to the scowling kobold momentarily with the blue lenses. However, as the lenses suddenly cleared without the use of the crystal, Ariael’s expression shifted to pure confusion. “Oh, cool!” he said, now looking around to the tendrils around his body. “So that’s what you guys look like, huh? Oh, this is so interesting to actually see in action! Look at the way they move! I assume this thing visualizes magic constructs? I wouldn’t be surprised if the redminding was similar to obdurite goggles. I should get these, too–maybe a modular lens system for the mask?”

“Phoenix.”

Both the rambling man and the frustrated kobold went rigid with fear at the sudden serious demand. They turned to Fern, paws on her spear as it lowered to the kobold’s chest. “Enough of this. We’re here for a reason, remember? We need this. Halia needs this.” At the mention of the trili, Phoenix gave a pained breath and turned his head away. “If these things are as cool as you say they are, they’ll fetch more ryll than we need for the medicine. Fuck, you may even have enough to be able to take Halia back to her hometown like she wanted. So stop acting like a child and shake this lizard down.”

He didn’t move at first. The ring and the lenses descended slowly into his hands, holding them gently with his fingertips. The purple-blue eyes that had refused to look anywhere else finally drifted back to the kobold. Ariael brought her claws up, tendrils on the verge of linking with the remaining crystal bearing rings as soon as he took his first tentative step. This offensive jab caused hesitation, but not retreat.

His eyes. His smile. Everything Phoenix was before suddenly turned in a different direction. The sight locked on the kobold wasn’t full of desperation or anger–it was calm. The frown on his face was somehow still reassuring. It was for these reasons that Ariael didn’t unleash the full might of a magic barrage on him, instead letting him approach and descend into a squat in front of her.

Phoenix didn’t say anything. All the metal man did was look into Ariael’s eyes. Observing. Watching. Appreciating. A small, pleased breath escaped with the return of his smile. With it, he held up the two objects to her.

“Oi!” Fern called, poking the tip of her spear into the metal joists of his armour with annoyance, “Phoenix! Are you out of your mind? We’re this close to getting out of this forest and saving your mother, and you’re just gonna throw away this perfect opportunity for… what?! Kobold pussy?! There have been other kobolds–the circus ones wanted you bad–why not them!”

Ariael took the items back, quickly securing them in their rightful place. “Aye–because it’s always about getting laid, isn’t it?” Phoenix lashed back with a roll of his false eyes. “Nothing more valuable than getting your dick wet. Fire, consume the thought of having–oh I don’t know–morals?” Fern let out a frustrated groan and turned to kick the tree behind her. Ariael looked back to the faux fowl, who smiled kindly. “Don’t mind her, she’s just antsy to be done with this.”

Ariael glanced again to the frustrated opopi, then felt the medallion hanging from her neck and the returned ring on her claw. “I was told the phoenix always robs adventurers that venture into these woods,” she admitted with caution still in her heart. “I was never told that he was merciful.”

His expression dimmed a little bit, tipping slowly into melancholy. “I take from those who come looking for trouble–looking to kill a legend without any thought as to if that would benefit anyone other than themselves. I don’t attack those looking to help or are in need of help.” His eyes began to drift down to the dirt between them. “Or those who try to hide their scars.”

These words struck a chord in the kobold’s heart, and in that moment her guard dropped enough for her to dispel her tendrils. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Phoenix took the opportunity to strike her heart again. “You’ve… been alone for a while, haven’t you?”

A deep-seated feeling of gratitude suddenly washed over Ariael. His eyes–his tone–everything was honest. He was pure, without any hint of ulterior motivation. He knew… and from the look in his eyes, he had experienced it, too. “H-how did you–?”

“Sorry, I just–” he spoke at the same time, both sharing brief smiles.

In the next few moments, the air completely changed as a rapid clicking came from Phoenix’s suit. His eyes widened as he looked to the inside of his wrist as the forest suddenly came to life. The ground began to rumble, trees shook, and Ariael watched as the man looked to his left into the shadow of the woods.

Ariael followed suit to see bellowing death crashing through the woods towards them, smashing through bush and tree alike. It was a stone calamite easily seven feet tall, and it was nearly upon them.

The kobold didn’t get a chance to ready herself. A force pushed her hard, shoving her as far away from the calamite as possible, into the adjacent bushes.

There was a colossal crash of stone against steel. The air itself ripped as a shockwave passed over the kobold struggling to get free of the thick green of the woods.

When Ariael finally stood back up and stumbled towards the two natives, all she found was a great many rocks lining the ground. In between the two rams of Phoenix’s gauntlet, there was a long, glowing red gemstone.

Both Phoenix and Fern turned to Ariael after the rather brief attack with relieved smiles, though they were quickly replaced with horror. “Fuck!” was all Phoenix managed to say before the world began to spin.

“You idiot!” Fern chided. “It’s in her claw!”

Ariael could stand no longer. The nausea and the encroaching darkness around her brought her to her knees. With the last of her strength, she looked towards her claws to find them pincushions for thorns.

Specifically, purple thorns with green tips. With that horrific realization, the darkness took her mind before she even hit the ground.

To Ariael, there was always an intimacy to warmth. Not heat mind you, as she was cold blooded, but soft and gentle warmth. The heat would kill her eventually–fire, the burning summer sun–the cold-blooded always downplay how essential thermal balance is. Ducking out of social gatherings in order to find something cold–drinks were good, but a cold rock would work in an emergency–avoiding ceremonial fires and flames in general, refusing work due to it being outside on a hot day, the list goes on. These weren’t annoyances, they were dangers. Some people understood and others didn’t. Ariel didn’t mind either way.

But warmth? Warmth was special to her. In a society where sex was as common as a handshake, it was the only way someone like her could feel that connection. They called her a marble heart. Although the term was coined for those who avoided sexual advances in sexually designated areas, it was still generally used for those who avoid “the Midrian Spirit.” She hated that name. She hated being labeled as something dead on the inside for simply not wanting to be touched by strangers. She had a heart, she had the desire to be touched–some days it was unbearable–and she had a life!

Warmth was the sole connection she had with other people. A hug, cuddling, even something as simple as occupying the same space as them. It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t want to kill her. It was information–like red magic. It told her that someone was close. It told her that someone liked her enough to stay by her side, not abandoning her to the extreme heat or cold. It told her that their connection was balanced. She was balanced in their warmth.

And as her eyelids slowly fluttered open, warmth was abundant. It enveloped her, hugged her tight and lined her scales like armour. Her sore muscles were slowly being mended by the gentle warmth, and despite the lingering pain, her mind slowly came into sharpness. Other sensations hit her as she awoke from slumber: the smell of ash, like a campfire, and the distant sound of soft windchimes. She could feel the weight of a heavy, yet soft blanket pushing her deeply into the bed, threatening to pull her back into sleep.

The world was blurry at first, but soon she found herself laying on quite a nice bed. The pillow had a feather filling, and the mattress seemed to follow suit. Though, it felt hand-made as it was quite lumpy in some areas. She was laying on her side with her claw under the pillow supporting her head. The part of the room she could see was illuminated poorly, flickering under gentle candlelight. The light revealed the absence of windows against a stone wall, though that was only obvious from the top of the walls, as every wall was lined with bookshelves of varying quality. Some were rotting away–the smell of mildew and mold playing their respiratory requiem for the tomes–and others looked to be of good quality. Some of the books seemed to be placed in large and small stacks around the room, too.

Ariael rolled onto her back, wincing at the muscle pain and a sharp pain in her arm. Sitting upright, she looked to her right arm to find it mildly wrapped in a slightly blood-spattered bandage around her elbow. Her claws, where she remembered the thorns being, seemed to be fine. Looking up, she found many tables around the room bathed in books, parchment, blueprints, gadgets, trinkets, ink, tools, machines and so much more.

Movement to her left startled her. With his head down against the bed, a multi-coloured mummy slept in a chair next to the kobold. The metallic mask was still upon his face, but its true, unilluminated face was revealed. As she thought, it was a remarkable piece of engineering, but upon closer inspection, the actual craftsmanship of the metal was quite shotty. The metal had obvious forging marks on it, uneven and amature. The slots and holes for the controlling rods were machined roughly and too large in some areas. The mistakes were hidden well, though. It was enough for the kobold to ignore the imperfections and to look to the side of the mask at a strange device holding it to the straps securing it to the man’s head. A button sat as an anchor between the cloth and the metal–or maybe a clasp was more accurate. A quick release?

Ariael moved her claw slowly to press it, but the clap of a book closing startled her. Hidden in the candlelight was Halia Carthoo in her natural habitat: surrounded by books and knowledge. “Don’t.” She spoke quietly so as to not wake the sleeping man. “There is another on the other side. You would only succeed in waking him, and he needs sleep.”

The bed-ridden kobold opened her mouth to speak, but Halia beat her to the point. “A calamite rushed you and he used kinetic conversion from his tendrils in order to push you back. He overshot. You had eight thorns of Kivirue Vine lodged into your claws. One thorn is enough to kill a normal person. Three–a naga. By all rights, you should be dead.”

Halia’s thumbs suddenly became quite intimate with each other and all she could do was watch. So, Ariael responded with the obvious. “But I am not.”

“Clearly.” Halia gave a frustrated breath and looked over with a soft smile to the sleeping man. “He was beside himself with worry–cursed his mistake–wanting to throw himself into the eternal fire. Instead… he saved your life and made good on his mistake.”

The way her eyes looked at him reminded Ariael of her mother’s when she thought the kobold wasn’t looking. In that moment, she felt rather homesick. “It is him, then,” she declared, though with a modicum of melancholy at the encroaching line of logic. “Phoenix is your son.”

The trili looked away, an uncomfortable look in her eyes. “Never did like it when he called me that at first. I stole him from his real mother.”

“A real mother wouldn’t experiment on her unborn child.” The close proximity of the sudden, groggy voice startled Ariael. Phoenix slowly rose, mask flickering to life as he stretched and popped his spine back into the right shape. “Are all mages this loud?”

“Sorry,” both mages apologized at the same time.

His eyes rolled. “Then don’t close your book so loudly next time, eh? You’re not as slick as you think, Haihaiea.”

The strange, made-up word earned a genuine chuckle out of the stoic trili. “You’ll get it eventually. It’s pronounced–” Halia let out two chirps in the same cadence Phoenix attempted, but with the perfect pitch only a true avian could manage.

“Haihaiea,” he attempted again.

“Little Bird,” Halia began to chide, but failed due to the smile wide across her beak. “Go back to bed.”

The world seemed more crooked as of late, as the kobold’s head tilted yet again. “You are… trying to trill?” she asked, knowing how impossibly difficult the avian language was.

A tired laugh escaped the man. “It makes sense: I’m trili after all.” The laugh gained some momentum at the perplexed and slightly concerned expression the kobold took. “Raised trili, at least.”

“And good trili chicks go back to bed,” Halia said again, though with a bit more force. “Take the collar and go upstairs. I will follow–”

Phoenix shot to his feet as Halia began to hack and cough her lungs out, running over to his mother and gently rubbing her back. “Look who’s talking… there, there,” he comforted as the coughing fit died down. The esteemed magus waved off her son, gently pushing him away. However, Phoenix caught her wing and looked into her claw. “Oi!” he growled angrily. “When did the blood come back?”

“Just go upstairs, Phoenix,” she urged, pushing him gently away, “and put the tea on. You can sleep in my bed for tonight. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

A silence reigned over their heads for a moment where Phoenix simply looked at his mother. It may have been because of his mechanical face, but his expression was unreadable. “...I’ll be back soon. Don’t do anything too strenuous–I’ll carry you up.”

Halia waved her son away as he took his leave. He shot one more glance towards Ariael, his eyes narrowing in concern, before opening a door on the other side of the room and heading into the night. The door closed behind him, but it was open long enough for a cold wind to flicker the candlelight and chill the kobold to the bone.

Halia did not seem bothered in the slightest. Her eyes were locked into something in her hand, a small thread hanging behind her palm. With a sigh, the magus shook her head and placed the bronze medallion onto the table next to her, her eyes unable to look away from the pendant. Ariael felt around her neck to find her suspicions correct. Before her frustration and fury drove her to speak, a melancholic voice arose from the trili.

“Twenty-three years,” she reminisced, the metallic majesty of the flickering light reflecting off the bronze capturing her. “I can hardly believe it. It feels like a blur now that I’m here. If you had asked me what I would be doing now twenty three years ago, I probably would have laughed in your face. It’s an astronomically long time for us… it felt like a blink of the eye. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this mark.”

Something about the trili’s tone disarmed Ariael. If honesty had a voice, it would sound like this: happy, resourceful, and almost pleading. “Is this the part where you kill me?” Ariael ventured, looking hard at the magus’ expression to catch any sign of deception.

She found none. “After my son worked so hard to save your life? Please.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” Ariael did not mean to be so blunt with her wording, but something in her gut was tugging at the back of her mind. She was cornered, she didn’t know where she was, she was without her crystals, and she was severely outmatched. Why was Halia–a woman who wanted nothing to do with mages anymore–forcing this conversation to happen?

Even more strange, Halia could not respond. All that happened was that her frown deepened, so Ariael took the moment to vent some of her frustration through her words. “I do not care if you want to lay down and die, but do not drag him with you. All my mother wants is to see you both safe and happy. There is no ulterior motive as far as I can tell. In fact, how could there be? What has she to gain from sheltering a fugitive and her son under her roof? Can you imagine the risk? Can you see the paperwork and bureaucratic nightmare that she would have to go through to have you back in the capital? Why not just come with me and–!”

“Stop.” The command was enough to overpower the kobold’s voice, but it wasn’t angry or vengeful. “Stop it. Stop beating around the bush and ask what you want to ask.” Halia’s eyes were distant, and as they closed, she looked to be bracing for something.

Ariael’s eyes narrowed and her scowl deepened. “What is he?” The words caused the mother to flinch, like the mage had grabbed a handful of her feathers and yanked them out.

She still didn’t answer, however, so Ariael continued. “He may have saved my life, but who is saving his? I am assuming that from the rumors of his exploits here in this forest, he had been wearing that suit daily for long periods of time.” The mage looked at the iron maiden suit hanging in such a way to make it look as if it were standing. She could see the insides now, and runes ran along every single surface. “He connects to it using tendrils, and although the cost of that conversion is not that high, he is interfacing with the entire suit daily. The nulk alone should kill him. That is not even mentioning the fact that he is just… casting tendril magic for no reason! And there are no crystals–he interfaced with my equipment without any crystals! And the costs of his own gear–how in all of the realm did he afford this? Through stealing? Absurd! Ignoring the steel, the cost of the redminding materials would be astronomical for a project that size! And how did he heal me?! If I was poisoned, then sarcomancy would be useless for–!”

Halia raised her claw, stopping the onslaught of questions and contradictions. The trili slowly placed her claw upon the top of her beak, beginning to stoke it in a calming manner. “Those are all very good questions,” she stated. Ariael waited for the statement to continue, but it never came. With a breath, Halia looked back to the medallion in thought. “You chastised me before about knowing what’s best for my son. I don’t want you to think I’m heartless. I love that boy more than any other thing in this world–for he is my world. His happiness is the only thing that I care about.”

“That being said,” she continued with morose dispassion, holding the medallion in her hand once more to examine it closer, “I am going to die soon. There will come a time where he will be on his own. So you’re going to sit there and listen, girl, and when I am finished with my explanation, we will decide whether or not I let you leave this place. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” The words left her mouth before her brain could formulate how much danger she was in. Even then, there was a tinge of excitement. She was about to know a deep and terrible secret that only one other person–a forsaken magus–knew about. It was just like in one of those old storybooks she used to use as practice for reading and speaking. Her heart was pumping loud enough to hear.

“Good.” Halia took another breath, surely preparing herself for the words she swore never to speak to another living soul. “The short answer is that I have no idea.”

Again, words betrayed Ariael. “What?!” the sinking disappointment in the kobold’s stomach demanded. “What do you mean you do not know?! You have spent over twenty years with him!”

“That’s right.” The magus’ eyes said everything that Ariael needed to know, blanketing the kobold in a sudden sense of dread. “Over twenty years and I still don’t have the full picture. I have theories. I have reasonings. I have partial evidence. The only thing I don’t have is conclusive proof. The only way to obtain that… is through experimentation.” The mother’s eyes locked onto the kobold with death nestled in her pupils. “And that will never happen. Do you understand?”

“I… I understand.”

“That boy is far kinder than what he lets on. He risks life and limb daily to ensure that the people in Faultfeld can live easily without the threat of calamites reigning down on the town as they once did. Furthermore, he is bright-minded and seeks to understand calamites in order to destroy them for good. He sought out ways to improve prosthetics for those injured in battle, in tragedy, or in accidents. He found ways around his disabilities in order to help people–to heal them not just in body, but in soul! Never in my life have I ever been more proud of someone–proud to call them my son–my kin! If there has ever been a trili worth mentioning, then it is him! Let them say he isn’t–I accept him as one of us, and I am damned sure that my kind would agree!”

The trili magus panted, exhausted from the zeal of her love. “He is good,” she summarized finally. “He has every right to life as any other person. I want you to remember this when I tell you what I know about his condition.”

Ariael nodded. “I understand. Please, I want to know more.”

Halia paused for a moment with a look of recognition in her eyes. “Curious young thing,” she breathed. “Don’t let it cause your demise like it did mine. He’s not a project to be fixed.”

“All I ever wanted was to offer you both help. So let me help, even if all that is… is just to witness and know who he is.” There was a breath of relief from the magus. She closed her eyes and began.

“His birth was under abnormal circumstances, as you very well know. I had to perform a cesarean section as his mother was already long dead from the nulk burden placed on her. It was in the middle of a raid led by your mother and other promising mages–I believe one of them is an archmagus now. The cover was enough to slip away with Phoenix. We both very nearly died several times from spells cast by both parties, but eventually we made it away from the building and the chaos. When I found stability, I was able to fully examine and see if he was healthy or not.

“Nearly ninety-five percent of his epidermis had scar tissue similar burn victims. I believe it was caused by the sheer amount of destabilized magic flowing through his mother’s body at the time of birth. The inside of his eyes, too, had foreign objects within the tissue of the vitreous chamber. They never seemed to affect his sight, so I’m glad for that. However, the way light reflects off of them leads me to believe that they are microcrystals. I am worried that they will undergo further crystallization and grow into larger crystals and render him blind.

“As time went on, he grew quite quickly. At the time, I thought that maybe it was another symptom, but later on I learned that’s just how children are. Because of our status as fugitives, I hid us away in several places, but this became our permanent home. I had thought to leave him with an orphanage, but it seemed irresponsible of me, considering he very clearly had a different biology than other humans. We stayed here with the help of Fern’s father, Fleck. Wonderful man. He passed not too long ago. Phoenix helped her with the loss–never daring to stray too far until he was sure she was fine. I digress.

“When Phoenix was about nine, an incident occurred. I found him in an alarming amount of pain, screaming bloody murder. He was burning up far hotter than any fever could ever hope to reach. When flames sprouted from his body, I understood. That was the day I learned that he had no control over the regulation of magic in his body.”

Ariael raised her claw to stop the lecture. “Wait wait wait–no,” the mage shook her head in utter disbelief. “No, that is impossible. The draw of magic has to be taught, like walking or moving another set of appendages. You cannot just start drawing magic from nothing.”

“A good point,” Halia agreed. “For a normal mage, the draw is controlled by the mylynic stem. The draw of magic, the containment of it within ourselves, the weaving into spells, and the expulsion are all controlled by one’s mylynic stem. It’s why tendril exercises exist–they help develop that part of the brain.”

“So… what?” Ariael began again. “He has brain damage?”

“That is the most blunt and rude way of putting it, yes,” the magus confirmed. “His stem is… altered. I don’t know to what extent. He cannot stop the draw, and like a balloon, he was swelling with polarized magic with nowhere to go. He would, eventually, pop. That incident was like the lining of the balloon becoming dangerously thin. Raw magical power began to pour out of him, burning him both inside and out. Obdurite solved the issue momentarily, but I would not have my little bird in shackles the rest of his life.”

The information clicked into Ariael’s mind like a puzzle piece, aligning nicely with her memories. “His tendrils,” she reasoned.

“That’s right. He needed a constant output without the obdurite to stem the constant flow of magic through him.”

“No, that’s also… impossible,” Ariael began to argue again, her disbelief giving her pause. “He would need to be weaving constantly–not periodically– constantly. Even if it were just tendrils, the amount of concentration that would take is beyond anyone. He would not be able to focus on anything else!”

The kobold’s question remained unanswered by the magus, deepening the pit in her stomach. Halia looked like she wanted to say something more profound, but all that would leave her tongue was, “I don’t know how he does it. The best I’ve managed to come up with is that tendril conversion is his temperament, much like how other mages find one conversion easier than another. It could be something like grey magic, too. Since his life is constantly in mortal danger, the red magic he is constantly generating could be feeding the instruction to his body. Either way… he just knows. All it took was a little initial instruction from me.”

“If what you’re saying is true, then he’s been casting his tendril conversion for… for over ten years,” Ariael rationalized.“He would be even better than an archmagus at tendril conversion.”

There was hesitation, but Halia eventually nodded in confirmation. “There is no other choice for him–it was learn or die. His mylyn sheathes near his skin are frayed, no doubt from the circumstances of his birth. He is unable to draw from anywhere other than his mouth, which I shouldn’t have to explain is hard for humans. With a lack of dexterous limbs to weave the magic, and with the constant need to keep his mind occupied with concentrating on his tendrils… he will never be able to cast anything more than a simple conversion. Weaving is impossible for him.”

The doting mother, despite her pained expression at the memory, smiled. “He put on a brave face, but I knew it hurt him far beyond the pain of immolation. Phoenix has always wanted to follow in my footsteps, both as a healer and as a mage. He would talk at length about being the first magus taught outside of Runehaven.” Tears welled in her eyes as she relived his pained smile. “He told me not to worry–that he would find a way around it and live up to my reputation. And you know what? He did. He poured over every little scrap of text about redminding, even going as far as to walk through these woods into town every day to beg the blacksmith’s partner to teach him the art. It’s where he learned how to work steel and fuse it with his magic. I still don’t know how he convinced them.”

“Lyleen and… Loak, right?” Ariael clarified, earning the attention of the reminiscing trili. “I met Lyleen in her shop. She had some words for me. I guess she really did have a reason to protect him.”

“They built the foundation of what he is now. Everything he learned afterwards was thanks to them,” Halia added. “It’s not just them, either. He owes his sense of style to that folrixi tavern maiden–Vesalia, I believe her name was. She was the one who taught him how to sew and stitch together fabrics and costumes. The carpenter, a fenn named Dekk, was cast out of Eynic by his own kritt due to a misunderstanding. He felt a kinship with both Phoenix and I, and decided to help us restore this place to living conditions. He also taught Phoenix how to carve wood and make trinkets and masks. There are more–nearly everyone in Faultfeld knows him. I don’t know if they agree with what he’s doing, but they agree with the results enough not to sell us out.”

For some reason, Ariael’s mind began to wonder if this was how Arola spoke of her when conversing with others. The love in the hen’s eyes spoke of the depth she would go to for her son. And the way she spoke reminded Ariael of her own mother. “We help,” the mage stated simply.

The proclamation earned a genuine chuckle out of the magus. “What a stupid motto they hold,” she wondered with a shake of her head, “considering just how much damage our meddling has caused over history. The great fire, the wars… I taught him all of these things, and he simply said… then, we heal.” Halia began to play with the medallion again. “I don’t deserve that boy. He feels responsible for Faultfeld and its people. He goes to them and makes sure they’re of sound body and mind, since I cannot make the journey alone anymore. He’s a better healer than I ever was.”

Ariael cleared her throat, catching Halia off guard. “Oh, right. My mistake. You care about his condition.”

“You were speaking about his tendrils and equipment,” the kobold mentioned. “I understand how he would learn the skill, but how ever did he manage to find that much material in order to build… that.” Ariael motioned over to the suit, emphasizing her point. “The cost of such material would be enough to buy a small house!”

Halia took on a grimace as she glanced over to the armour. “That… is a bit complicated,” she warned, looking back over to the kobold. “It’s best that I continue where I left off. The logical conclusion I came up with in observation will help explain that mystery.” Ariael gave a small sigh, but motioned for the hen to continue.

“Like I said, he found ways around his condition. Tendril magic was one, and redminded equipment was another. We learned very quickly that basic conversions: kinetic, electric and thermal could be done with effort through his tendrils, but the others… they were lost. They required far too much concentration in order to produce results.”

“I witnessed that firsthand,” Ariael interrupted. “Occular-wave technologies have advanced quite a bit. I have spectacles that allow the user to see magic-born constructs, both physical and material. His mastery over tendril conversion…” Ariael began to shake her head again in disbelief. “The nulk should have killed him by now, no?”

“Yes, he should be dead in far more ways than one,” Halia confirmed. “I do not know for sure how he’s managed his nulk accumulation, but the one thing I can say for certain is that he’s doing it unconsciously. At first, I thought that maybe the sheer amount of tendrils he could produce increased his surface area enough to counteract the nulk, but then every mage would be doing that. The root of the problem is that nulk is not very understood–it describes the symptoms and not the cause. If you’re curious about it, you should ask Phoenix yourself. He’s studied himself more than I.”

Ariael cocked her head in confusion. “One would think you would be more than zealous in researching your son’s illness. How come he–?”

“Because life isn’t about knowing.” The statement was firm, but not cold. She spoke it with the strength of someone who had lived through these words before. “Sometimes it’s better to just… leave things alone and enjoy the world for what it is. Ignorance really is bliss.”

The look in the magus’ eyes spelled everything out for the kobold. “You found something,” she reasoned.

Halia rolled her eyes. “Something,” she scoffed. “Yes, something indeed. It was something I realized was meant to be buried.” Although the magus had steeled herself against the oncoming glare, it was as if her old friend were sitting there instead, giving the hen one of her draconic death stares. “You don’t want to know,” Halia warned. “Once you know, things will be different.”

“If I had to assume,” Ariael reasoned, “it has something to do with the fact that none of the redminded equipment he uses have crystal powersources.”

Halia was silent in thought for a moment, but eventually nodded in confirmation. “They do have a crystal powersource. That powersource is also the reason he could build these machines. That powersource is also the reason you’re alive.” Instead of explaining immediately, Halia stood and hobbled over to the side of the bed where Ariael lay. She put her cane against the side of the mattress and reached underneath the bed, pulling out a wooden tray of some kind.

The wooden box was a horror-story come to life: stained with blood, large needles, tubes, and waterskins nested within the hand-held casket, along with some other redminded equipment Ariael had no intention of looking at. “What do you two do in this bed?!” she complained.

“He saves lives,” Halia curtly explained. “The blood isn’t yours. It’s his.” The mage’s eyes snapped back to the trili, more confused than ever. “I was suspicious, too, when he started activating redminded objects without a crystal. Mylyn can’t do that on its own. I thought maybe the tissue had crystalized, but he would have died long ago if that were the case. I thought then maybe there was some other explanation, so I examined his blood.”

“And?” Ariael urged.

Halia sat against the bed and thought about how to respond. “The ink that connects the runes in modern redminding is actually a mixture of crushed crystal and the artisan’s medium of choice. I’ve heard of paint, ink, and even chalk used as a medium for redminding.” The magus looked at the bloodied equipment next to her. “Red blood cells form in bone marrow. I thought, perhaps, if the hollow space of the spongy bone could be crystalizing, then maybe that could be his powersource. I had no idea how right I was.”

“So… his bones are more brittle?” Ariael asked, trying to grasp the point.

“No,” Halia, again, responded curtly. “His bones are fine. The crystals in them break apart when red blood cells form. These new microcrystals end up within the new reticulocytes. Low and behold: his blood is a redminding medium. He can draw from it, too, since they’re crystals. I used to believe his constant draw and release was like a river, when in reality, it’s more like an overflowing dam.”

Ariael shook her head in disbelief. “You sound as if that is a bad thing.”

A haunting silence answered the kobold, and when Halia spoke, the feeling only got worse. “Have you ever seen a crystal destabilize?” Ariael shook her head. “It’s rare, but sometimes when a crystal sits in an area of unstable mana, it can take on that instability. That’s why Runehaven forbids petrosylabite and crystals being stored in the same room. An accident will happen, and petrosylabite will be spilled eventually. When this happens, the magic seeks a lower area of concentration–violently. A crystal the size of an apple could decimate even load-bearing walls or pillars. It becomes a bomb.

“Crystal capacities are measured by a formula that checks against the natural polarity ratios of mages. The bog-standard is that of a human: red ratio of forty five. The energy drawn from a crystal is converted fourty five percent into red magic, and fifty five percent into blue. Since the ratio is almost fifty-fifty, we simply multiply the maximum energy able to cast from that size of crystal by two, giving us the total energy range of that crystal. I did that calculation for his blood. One blood cell is roughly equal to two joules of energy: one for red, one for blue. Fifty-Fifty.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Ariael mentioned.

“There are about twenty-five trillion blood cells in his body at this moment.” The kobold felt the world sink through her stomach. “If the crystals in his blood destabilize, the blast could overtake even Eynic in size. He is a walking weapon of mass destruction, girl–a bomb.”

CRACK! The door to the room was suddenly thrown open hard enough to crack the stone on its impact with the wall. “ Bed! Time! ” Phoenix articulated sternly, yet somehow excitedly. “Sick birds go to bed! Them’s the rules! I don’t make ‘em!”

Much to the surprise of both Ariael and Halia, the hen squawked loudly as she began to suddenly levitate up into the air and was pulled towards the impatient man. “We talked about levitating me, Phoenix!” Halia chided, partially out of frustration and partially out of fear. Ariael couldn’t believe her eyes. He was ten meters away using at least five tendrils for this stunt, not including the kinetic conversion necessary to actually grab Halia.

“We also talked about being honest with our symptoms, now didn’t we!” He complained, reaching out to catch his mother in a princess carry pose. When they did collide, it was very gentle and controlled. Ariael noted the acceleration control–it wasn’t masterful, but it was advanced for someone who never had formal training. “But no~! We’re not going to tell your son that it’s progressing!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Little Bird!” the trili squawked back.

“Would you prefer I use my tonomancy module?!”

These were the last audible words Ariael could hear from them as the door slammed shut by itself, but the sound of their argument carried even through the wood and stone. “Why must trili be so loud?” the kobold muttered to herself, shaking off the tonal whiplash.

This was when she realized she was alone. Her heart began to pound: this would be her only chance to snoop unrestricted. Ariael threw back the covers and slid off the side of the bed, being immediately met with the world wobbling beneath her feet. Nausea hit fast, but after a moment of rest, she slowly stood and met the cool air.

She looked down at herself to find her pale blue scales and cream ventral scales exposed to the candlelight. Ariael never understood the bottomless fashion that had grown so large and dominant over the millenia. According to the records left of the old world, clothing was primarily a human invention to help keep themselves warm and adapt to more extreme climates. The adoption of the invention by others was merely a form of cultural mimicry so as to have better relations with humans. It had to be. After all, dragons and ferals never needed to cover themselves, and to this day they still don’t. It had gotten to the point where one would stand out if they covered themselves, much to Ariael’s chagrin.

The kobold’s eyes flicked to the once open door. That man would definitely see everything, including… her eyes traveled down further to the singular slit in her scales, between her legs. She wasn’t sure if it was the aftereffects of the poison or if it was her insecurities, but her stomach flipped and her legs felt like gelatin. She needed to remedy this: and so she took one of the pillowcases and tore it asunder. With three extra tears, she slipped on the loose cloth and it sufficed for the time being, even if it was a bit drafty.

With wobbling steps, the ethical investigator began to walk slowly around the room, sweeping her eyes along the books. The collection was impressive with a variety of interesting topics, though most aligned with what she has seen. A majority of them were anatomy manuals of almost every known race–several kobold-centered ones were laying open on the tables near the bed. It was almost mandatory for those that practice sarcomancy to be constantly referencing these texts, or sometimes even having cadavers at the ready to properly visualize the inside of the body. She peered into the tomes meant to help her, finding hand-written notes and instructions–even unrelated comments about theories and appreciating the aesthetics of a kobold’s shape.

Other books she found included manuals on construction and tinkering, redminding theories and runic dictionaries, hand-to-hand combat manuals, gardening and farming, several journals of theoretical magic and their applications, investigations into red magic and knowing the unknown, ways of storing data, calligraphy and etching, guides on the relation between innate magic and materials, joke books–especially on puns, cooking and meal preparation, several books on rare illnesses and treatments, trili societal customs, how to properly communicate, how to break the ice, acting guides, philosophical quandaries about life, the ethics behind the value of a life, self-help books regarding appearance, how to care for elderly avians, coping with loss–

Ariael had to look away. The picture these words constructed was getting more and more depressing as she kept looking at titles. She moved on to all the different diagrams and equipment laying out for her to examine. Some of these blueprints were accompanied by journals filled with research, their sources, design philosophy, and personal comments. Nearly every single one of them had a redminding component in one way or another, but there were some exceptions: a telescoping shovel, for instance. Those that required redminding also had lists of runes and strange pictures with lines connecting symbols. Ariael, with her limited knowledge on the art, couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

The actual use of these theoretical contraptions varied greatly, from combat to commerce. One was more of a theoretical crafting guide for how to make a piezomantic bubble around physical objects–the combat applications of such an idea were rather horrific to Ariael, but the example of landscaping and mining were mentioned as intended targets. Another diagram was for a prosthetic arm with modular components: a repeating crossbow component, a cannon in the forearm, electric-shock fingertips, and weirdly enough, a whisk replacement for the index finger. Yet another was for a set of mirrors that acted as a connected looking-glass. With the insertion of a crystal, one could look through the other as if looking through a window. However, for every strange idea she found, she found a diagram about a device that would theoretically make a person fly. Most of these had the word “OBSOLETE” written in the corner, as well as several corrections and line upon line of arithmetic and vectors. The number of attempts to recreate the feat only reserved for chirlings and dragons was rather staggering, actually.

In regards to the non-theoretical equipment, she found plenty of odd devices related to sarcomancy and healing. While she didn’t understand what the runes did, she did recognize the brown stains of dried blood over the devices. Several of the devices had ports for needles and syringes to dump their payload into a chamber–or perhaps it was to take whatever was inside out? There was one such device in the blood-stained tray at the foot of the bed. It seemed to be half full of separating blood: the dark-red clot submerged underneath clear, yellow-ish liquid. The kobold grimaced at the unsightly biological concoction. Had this been used in her treatment? She hoped not.

As if hearing the insult to his work, Phoenix barged into the room with a huff of frustration. “–just a little blood,” he mocked in his mother’s voice as he slammed the door behind him, “nothing bad ever happened to someone coughing up blood! Surely it means nothing in someone with arcane lung–”

Phoenix finally looked up from his own frustration to notice the one regal-looking kobold perusing his tools while wearing the carcass of his pillowcase. The sheer amount of red that entered Ariael’s cheeks was enough to cause dizziness in the poor kobold. “I-I can explain,” she weakly mustered.

“No, I really don’t think you can.” The mummified man squinted his robotic face towards the kobold in something resembling indignation mixed with inappropriate thoughts, if his false blush was anything to go by. “Is that my pillowcase?”

“No–Yes, actually, but–!”

“Is that my good pillowcase?” he asked with bewilderment. “What…? Why…? Just walk around naked! I thought kobolds were all about that!”

A small pang of insult breathed new life into the blue kobold. “I am not most kobolds, good sir! And since when have you been an expert on my own kin?! You seem to be a professional recluse!”

“I’ll have you know I’m great with people!” he countered, his tone and eyes slowly trailing off as he began to reflect. “...when they’re injured, or being robbed–”

Ariael shook her head in confusion at the sheer amount of confusing, new information that she hadn’t properly digested yet. “I have met dungeon-dwelling, moss-eating prodigies at the academy that make more sense than you!”

“...moss-eating?”

“You somehow have the technical know-how not only to construct such intricate devices and redminding, but you also somehow know sarcomancy–and–and you look so young!”

“You’re not supposed to eat moss?”

“You should be an old man, but you act like a complete child! Just who are–?!”

Phoenix slammed his fist against the nearby table, cutting the kobold’s bravado short and locking her legs in shock. “I am your flame-damned nurse, and you need to go to bed right this second!”

However, the proclamation was a little underwhelming as Phoenix’s neck craned so far up it was as if he were trying to break his own neck. Exasperated, the little mage shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“I will answer all further questions in the morning!” He proclaimed, his tone a mockery of confidence. “I’ll show you everything: all the cool gadgets, all the secrets–some of the secrets, the entire shop–everything tomorrow.” Finally, he turned away and let his neck rest as he pointed over his shoulder to the kobold’s general direction. “While…uh… you were pacing and having your rant, the pillowcase… your uh…”

Ariael looked down in horror to find that, indeed, the cloth had rolled up to just below her waist, allowing the man to see everything she intended to keep secret. The mage didn’t know if it was the blood rushing to her face or the grievous poisoning she had just survived, but she began to feel light-headed. “Did you see–?”

“...yea,” he admitted with embarrassment in his voice. “Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence. The mummified man could only bite his tongue as he awaited the surefire attack from the kobold. However, all that hit him was cloth conforming to the back of his head. Reaching back, he found that a destroyed pillowcase was used as ammunition against him, and turning back, he found the pale-blue kobold with hanging, floppy ears and white horns, with the most intense fire in her eyes peaking out of the covers of his bed like a belligerent child.

“I guess you no longer have to undress me with your eyes,” she muttered with frustration, the intense blush still on her cheeks.

Phoenix smiled. He had been doing a lot of that recently.

He suddenly saluted the mage with exaggerated glee. “Goodnight! You’ll love what I have in store for you! Maybe I can even convince you to buy some things, eh?”

“Your friend has already robbed me blind.”

“It means she likes you!”

“Doubtful.”

Phoenix didn’t remember closing the door on the kobold. In fact, it took a little while for him to register that he was even outside. He stayed there in the complete darkness holding the doorknob.

He was still smiling. She was still here. She wasn’t dead.

The man collapsed to his knees, biting his concealed lip hard enough to add another bloodstain to his wrappings.

He hoped the kobold couldn’t hear the choked, exhausted sobs.