It was already a blow to lose Kevin—he was a decent fighter, and they needed every sword. But taking a child out there, into that dying city, was a death sentence.
Leil crossed her arms, a skeptical look settling over her face. "There aren't that many strongholds left. Even if you find your parents, who's to say there'll be any knights left to join you?"
Lessa shook her head. "It's reckless. Even knights don't travel alone anymore."
Through it all, Bolton stood silent, his dark eyes fixed on Kevin like he was watching a slow-moving tragedy unfold.
"She should stay with the refugees," Lancelot said at last, his words measured but final. "Endangering your own life is one thing. Endangering hers is foolish."
Kevin's face darkened, but he didn't flinch. "She shouldn't be here. No one should be here." His voice was quiet, but firm. "The rogues already know about this stronghold. They'll get through eventually, even with the traps. We should be moving—now."
A sharp silence followed.
He wasn't wrong.
And yet—
"That's an incredibly emotional argument," Bolton finally spoke, his voice as even as the crackle of the torches. He turned his sharp gaze toward Kevin. "Leaving to see your family. Taking this child you've grown attached to on your perilous journey." A pause. Then: "But I only have one question."
Kevin squared his shoulders. "What?"
"Can you protect her?"
The weight of the words settled between them.
Kevin's hand curled into a fist. "I can."
Fee stirred. Not quickly. Not angrily. But something shifted in her posture, subtle but absolute.
"No."
She wasn't looking at Kevin. Or Meili.
She was looking at Silver.
The wolf perked her ears, sensing something unspoken in Fee's quiet tone.
Fee exhaled through her nose. "Leave the wolf here."
Silver flicked her tail, then turned toward Fee, tilting her head in question.
Kevin frowned. "She won't leave Meili."
Fee swallowed, hard.
Her fingers twitched, but she didn't move.
Silver stepped forward, pressing her cold nose to Fee's hand for just a second. A fleeting moment.
Fee stiffened.
Then—without a word—she turned away.
Kevin took Meili's small hand in his.
And together, they disappeared into the tunnels.
Fee didn't watch them go.
"Now that that's been settled," Bolton continued, oblivious to everyone's pain, "the rogues should be off our scent. And it should be nearing evening. Shall we leave now?"
And so, carrying supplies—meager rations and equipment—we left the refugees to their devices in the strongholds, going ahead to save the kingdom.
. . .
There are four elements of reality.
Space. Time. Matter. Void.
These elements formed the very fabric of existence.
Space was the playground—the volume we occupied and existed in.
Time was entropy—its flow allowing us to move forward in reality.
Matter was everything else in the space-time continuum. Ants, mountains, stars, bread dough.
Void was the glue between multiple worlds, the unknown substance linking realities. But that was just my theory. Bolton found it ridiculous.
Then there were the four types of magic. Magic was the ability to influence reality.
Creation. Manipulation. Transmutation. Destruction.
Manipulation bent the elements of reality—space, time, or matter—to the caster's will.
Transmutation transformed different types of matter into one another. Turning a snake into an apple. Turning space into light.
Creation and destruction were the ones that shattered physics.
Creation magic allowed matter to be formed from nothing.
Destruction magic allowed the void to erase matter from existence.
No mage had ever succeeded in either. Not even those brats up in Caelum Cloudveil. So, for now, it remained theoretical.
Space. Time. Matter. Void.
Creation. Manipulation. Transmutation. Destruction.
Magic is the ability to influence reality.
Living things performed magic instinctively, drawing arcane energy from the atmosphere, using their consciousness as a conduit to convert it into physical magic.
Why was I telling myself all this?
Because it was standard procedure. Five hundred times this past week alone, I had performed this single spell, drilling it into my mind, forcing focus into every movement. I could never forget what it meant to truly use magic.
Everyone used magic daily—walking, eating, sleeping. Each was an act of influence over reality, a form of magic. But only those who had transcended basic understanding could wield it deliberately, bending the world to their will. And that was how I, manipulating space itself, performed the space warp—pushing my abilities to their peak.
I imagined the space on the other side of the rubble. I twisted it in my mind, siphoning its form, until a hole opened in reality, shortening the distance and bypassing the obstacle in our path.
"This is one of the few times I'm glad to have you by my side," Bolton muttered sarcastically, resting a hand on my shoulder. My mind was hazy for a moment, the strain of magic pressing against my consciousness—but it was bearable. My cooldown had improved considerably since last week. I was far from my peak, but I was getting there.
Lancelot, Bolton, Hogan, and I stood before the wrecked tower. The entrance had been sealed during the early stages of the invasion—massive slabs of rubble forming an impenetrable barrier. That was where my magic came in. And now, the way forward lay open.
"Are you sure we aren't being followed?" Bolton asked, perched on the roof of a building nearby.
"I don't see anything." Fee reported. "No trolls, no wild creatures, no slime. This area is surprisingly clear."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Every trickle of luck had to be built upon.
"Good, then. No time for dilly-dallying. Everyone, come in," Bolton called out. "Apart from the plans to the cannon, there's something else I need to show you."
So we went in. I already had an idea of what that "something" was, but I followed regardless. It had been a while since I'd gone into the tower anyway.
Darkness greeted us on the other side of the portal. I collected what little light remained from the dying sun, manipulating the space on my staff to refocus it and shine it into the room. Light-borrowing. That's what I called the spell.
Bolton, Lancelot, Hogan, Lessa, Leil, Fee, and I walked silently through the corridors, the only sounds the clatter of our feet and the scuttling of vermin in the walls.
Cobwebbed portraits lined the halls—mages from Caelum Cloudveil, the floating island in the sky, known for its magical progression.
PrideFall never had enough funding for magic. The real advancement was all in the sky, and the basics of magic were freakishly hard to learn anyway.
Broken vials, staves, and tomes littered the ground. This tower was the only magical hub in the whole kingdom. The only place where magic was professionally practiced.
"This place is a dump," Fee commented uncharacteristically.
Bolton sighed. Hogan, ever curious, shuffled through the debris as we walked.
"I've always wanted to learn magic since I was younger," he said sheepishly, ruffling his ragged red hair. "Maybe this could be my chance. Under Master Bolton's guidance, of course."
"Skip the honorifics," Bolton yawned. "Magic is incredibly difficult to master. It took me ten years to grasp basic glyphs and ten more to cast my first lightning bolt. You don't seem too bright, so it might take you even longer. Your job is just to carry the hunks of metal and follow my instructions in constructing the cannon."
Hogan's enthusiasm deflated. Bolton was always harsh with people he deemed beneath him, even if his sister had long since gotten used to it. Fee, watching the interaction, shoved Bolton's shoulder.
"Maybe the reason it took you so long is because you're so daft!" she said cheekily.
Bolton scowled and stomped ahead up the stairs.
Their personalities didn't mesh. Probably for the best that their tasks kept them in separate groups.
The air was thick with dust and mildew—but at least it didn't smell like slime. That was the only reprieve.
Goddesses, I hated that smell.
"We're here," Bolton said finally, reaching the heavy door at the top of the staircase.
"Good, because it felt like we were walking forever," Leili groaned, stretching her arms. Lancelot kept silent, but his exhale was a little heavier than before.
"I'm twice your age and my bones barely ache," Bolton shot back, furrowing his graying eyebrows. "Mage, would you like to do the honors?"
"Always relying on me, dear brother. It's quite tiring," I mock-complained, reaching for my staff. The familiar motions came instinctively, muscle memory guiding me as I channeled the spell. For a moment, I recalled the teacher who had first taught me this technique—how her fingers traced the air, shaping space itself. The arcane crystals pulsed as the space in front of the locked doors bent, twisted, warped. A hole tore open, connecting seamlessly to the space beyond.