#wizard cleo

“King Sormena, when should we make the turn into one of the fjords?” Cleo questions, turning to face the monarch. Sor is gripping the railing to the wheel tight, fear and panic evident by the purple and yellow tones of his hair. 

“Search for the one with the frozen waterfall! And just Sor is fine!” He doesn’t really feel like a king right now. Not when his teeth are too frozen to chatter and his knuckles have turned as white as snow from fear. 

“We can hardly even see the shoreline!” TFC’s grey hair traps the snow and ice, forming like crystals. Even he was terrified for his life as they beat on through the storm. 

There was only one other hermit who didn’t fear the freezing temperatures. Stress, though nervous about Cleo’s sailing, was used to the biting chill of the cold. It just gave her all the reason more to bundle up in soft cozy clothes and snuggle under blankets by the fire, drinking warm drinks. She was not immune to the cold, but she welcomed it, and could feel the strength of her powers grow with the blizzard around her. She felt like lightning, full of energy and power. And she can see through the storm, see beyond the white out. “Up ahead! The next finger has a humongous waterfall!” 

Cleo and the other hermits squint, daring to ebb closer to the spiked shoreline. Sure enough, frozen water cascades from the top of a mountain, turning to a solid sheet across an archway over the fjord entrance. In the few warm months, the water must fall freely from the overhang, all the way into the waves, a curtain between the ever rough Ashioll  sea and the supposed city beyond. But for now, it’s suspended half way, half drawn. 

Turning into the thin finger through the mountainous, rocky shores, Cleo bites her lip as they drift under the frozen fall. The peak of her mast scrapes against the blue ice, chipping and scratching with a horrible screeching noise, but never disrupting the jagged teeth of the fjord’s maw. 

Entering the belly of the beast, the waves die back and the wind stops howling. Within the fjord, the hermits and their ship are protected from the elements by the mountains surrounding. The tide pushes them further in, silent as the snow that drifts to the wooden deck. The hermits are slow to recover from the sea, but no one dares think about the fact they’ll probably have to leave the same way. “I can see why the Ancient Ones chose this place.” Doc states. “It’s so well protected. No one in their right mind would sail through that.” 

“Actually this place wasn’t always as frozen as it is now. The harsh cold probably occurred around the same time the magical mist in the lower Ashioll sea appeared.” Sor points out. “According to my studies with my brother, this place was quite lush.” 

“Do you think it had something to do with why the Ancient Ones disappeared? Or did the Ancient Ones cause it, King Sormena?” xB questions, flicking his fins to rid the ice from the scaly appendages. 

“Please, just call me Sor.” The king smiles weakly. “But I’m not sure. We don’t know why, how, or even when exactly the Ancient Ones disappeared. It’s an unfortunate gap in our history I hope this expedition will help fill.” 

“But I don’t even see a city!” Iskall points out. The hermits look across the rocky shoreline, but only find trees and boulders. No sign of the carved buildings and stone aqueducts that the Ancient Ones were known for. Were they in the wrong fjord? Everything looked undisturbed, pristine wild forests. Everything looked normal. 

Except for a crystal, sitting in the center of the water, peeking out from the surface and resting on a stone platform. Every hermit’s hairs stand on end at the sight of a crystal- and some even draw weapons and circles in preparation for destroying one of Dolios’s corrupted gems. But as they dare to sail closer, slow and with bated breath, they realize the gem is blue rather than black. Glowing faintly, rather than absorbing all the light. Cleo’s ship bumps against the stone platform, floating on the freezing fjord, but the platform doesn't move. 

Grian is the first to escape the rocking vessel, praising Stratis for being freed. Basking on the solid rock in the center of the water. Stress, False, and Ren help tie Cleo’s ship to the stone dock while TFC eeks closer. His curiosity gets the better of him, and almost like a child, he can’t help but reach out and touch. The rest of the guild, except Sor, flinch. Preparing for some sort of dark magic attack, or for the crystal to take over TFC like it did so long ago. 

But nothing happens. The only shift in the fog around them is from the wind, only the creaking of Cleo’s ship speaking into the silent air. Bolstered by the reactionless crystal, TFC raps his knuckle against the blue, glowing stone. Gazes deep into its luminescent core. Even licks it. “I think it’s chalcanthite. But what use would a crystal like that have out here?” 

“What are its properties, T?” Ren questions, circumambulating the stone. 

“Uh, give me a minute. This is a pretty unusual gem, and this old mind isn’t what it used to be.” The dwarven wizard rubs his temples, massaging the information to bubble to the surface. “It...it deals in time, removing obstacles within time by…” 

TFC goes quiet, staring out at the waters. The surface is calm, but its nearly opaque as he attempts to search the murky waters. What is hiding beneath the waves, disappearing beneath as time eroded it away? TFC’s thoughts are running a mile a minute, piecing together all the information presented before him like a puzzle. Creating a story in his head. 

So lost in the gemstone and history, he doesn’t hear Xisuma call for him to return to the present. Not until X shakes the guildmaster, bringing him back. “What does it do, TFC?” 

“Chalcanthite deals in time, the shift from present to past.” TFC continues to ramble, trying to piece together everything in his mind. But explaining time travel through magical crystals is hard, and then adding on the history of the Ancient ones? 

Most of the other hermits aren’t listening. Some are bouncing in place, trying anything and everything to stay warm, while others are talking through chattered teeth. Including Grian, and King Sor. 

“Why in the world did your guildmaster lick the gem?” Sor questions, shaking his head. His frozen locks of hair tickle at the base of his neck. 

Grian shrugs in response, summoning his wings and fluffing his feathers in an attempt to gain warmth. Blue and white ruffled in a cocoon. “Hey, King Sormena. I dare you to hit the stone.” 

“Please, for the love of the gods, just Sor is fine. And why on earth would I do that?” What did the crystal ever do to deserve being hit? Grian’s only response is another shrug, this time matched with a mumbling series of noises. 

“Cause why not? Do it, Sor, I dare ya.” If it wasn’t for Sor getting to hear just his name, his nickname, fall from Grian’s lips, so casual and friendly, but he’s been conditioned by his brother never to say no to a dare.

Sor walks up behind X and TFC, the former much more confused than the latter, and gazes into the crystal. SOmething about the power within it, so strong and ancient, tugs on Sor’s own magic. Not like it’s trying to steal it, but rather- amplifying it. Strengthening him. Sor breaks out of his trance at the whispered encouragement, the egging on of Grian. 

Before Sor, or any other hermit can think about what he’s doing, he smacks the crystal with the palm of his hand. 

Despite being king, Sor is just about as clever as all the other hermits. He probably shouldn’t have hit the gem so hard his hand stings and goes numb, much less make the ringing sound he can hear in his ears. 

It’s not just in Sor’s ears. The low toll can be heard, slowly rising higher in pitch. It echoes across the fjord, silencing the wind, the creaking ship. Freezing everything for one brief second as the crystal glows brighter. 

The blue gem pulses, and rippling from the lattice, a bubble of light engulfs the hermits, the stone circle, the ship, and the entire fjord. Too bright, the hermits are all forced to avert their gaze, closing their eyes and praying for the chance to open them again. No one dares to attempt until the ringing has disappeared, fading off into the mountains and distant snowstorm

Grian, used to the idea of potentially waking up dead at this point, opens his eyes first. 

They aren’t alone in an empty fjord, freezing to death. There is no snowstorm, and the entire fjord is filled- not with ice floes or soft waves. 

No, it’s filled with a city. 

Stone buildings, floating on the water like driftwood, so tall they challenge the mountains to touch the top of the world. Vines, carefully tended, creep down the building sides, and people- hundreds of thousands of people- take stairs, vines, water tunnels- just about any and every mode of transportation to get around the city. The stone and the greenery are one and the same, the people just as alive as their own buildings and streets seem to be. A group of children run by, kipling and naga and human and bacca, laughing and screaming as they play some kind of game within their own imagination. A few people watch the hermits as they stand there, just as confused as the team. 

TFC is so deep in his explanation to Xisuma, he doesn’t even notice time has already shifted around him. At least, not until a leaf flutters past, bright green and broad. Not any of the pines that they saw daring to grow in the rough terrain and even rougher weather. Both X and TFC watch the leaf drift between them, before landing on a roadway a short distance off. Revealing to them where they are. When they are. 

With the help of rattling skeletons, their bones held together by magical muscle and sinew, the hermits unload food, meats, fabrics, and more. Enough for months, as if they were preparing to be snowed in after a massive blizzard. Almost all the hermits were a part of the flow of supplies. 

Almost. Only three hermits stayed behind. Zedaph had an accident with his two explosive friends, and while it wasn’t the first time, Grian wanted to keep an eye on the burns in case the magic lingered. Mumbo stayed behind as well, but for very different reasons. One, he was easily recognizable. Everyone knows the multimage that Dolios wants captured alive. Him and Grian are the only two who Dolios demands be captured alive. He also was in the middle of inventing some new contraption, and was not about to leave it behind and lose all his progress. Last Cleo saw of him, he was extinguishing burning locks of hair. She wonders if he’s made any progress, or if he’s burned all his hair away at this point.

Once Impulse and Tango have unloaded their share of the shipment, they go in search of their friend. Both still feel bad for burning Zed, even if it was by accident. And they’ve all been burned at this point in all their years together. But it doesn’t mean they don’t feel bad, especially leaving Zed behind. At least they brought back a caramel apple from his favorite stall in the market, as well as fresh hay for his barn and animal friends. 

“Zed? We have a surprise for you!” Tango calls, his voice twinged with mischief, as if they plan to prank their friend rather than give him a gift. No response comes from the flat roofed barn, except the distant bleat of a sheep. Tango looks at Impulse, fiery hair remaining vertical even as his head tips to the side. “Could he be taking a nap?” 

“You know Zed and his sleep schedule, he wouldn’t interrupt it, even when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.” Impulse waves it off. “He probably just isn’t listening, or maybe pulling a prank of his own. Let’s go in.” 

Impulse waves Tango through the gate, careful to keep the sheep, goats, and other farm animals from getting between Tango’s feet and causing his hair to ignite the dry hay in his arms. A horse nips at the bale, but Tango keeps it well away from catching fire. He’s relieved to lighten the load he’s carrying as soon as they're inside the barn. Both mages look to the bed tucked in the corner, but no Zedaph. Tango tosses the haybale aside. “He should be resting.” 

They clamber over the piles of hay, searching every nook and cranny for Zedaph. Even his cookie stash, which they let him believe is still a secret. But Zed is nowhere within the barn he chooses to live in. 

Concern pales both Impulse and Tango’s face, and Tango’s hair reacts in kind to the revelation. “Perhaps he’s being treated by Grian?” 

Tango doesn’t answer, already following the path across the width of the island, from one shore to another. Grian’s floating cloud, the quartz tower with large archways and a glass domed roof. Perfectly built for a sky angel, his wings and speed. Not so perfect for his roommate, and all of Mumbo’s redstone machinery, his own lanky body climbing up onto the solid cloud and stairs to sleeping quarters.

The redstone workshop at the base of the building has been cleaned up, though a few vials seem to have rolled away, as if they were grabbed then subsequently dropped. But, just like the barn, no sign of Mumbo. 

But there is a sound. Echoing from the glass dome, a sniffling, stifling cry escapes from above, followed by a gasping, shuddering breath. Impulse runs up the steps as fast as possible, each bounce from stair to stair accentuated with a tiny explosion to give him more speed. Tango blazes behind, fire burning bright as the sun as energy courses through him. He notices on the way up grey streaks against the pure white quartz. 

“Zedaph?” Impulse breathes, screeching to a full stop. In the center of the room, Mumbo and Zed are huddled close, holding on tight. Their eyes wild with fear, and in Zed’s eyes he can see a shared memory. A shared trauma him, Impulse, and Tango all share. Two hermits, holding onto each other like its their last hope. 

Only two. “Where’s Grian?” 

Mumbo opens his mouth, but a strangled cry only escapes. Tears fall from both their faces, shaking like leaves. Something bad has happened to their friend. Tango slides across the floor, grabbing Zedaph and Mumbo. “What happened? Where’s Grian? Are you hurt?” 

They both shake their heads, but finally Mumbo gathers enough of his voice to speak. It’s weak, broken apart like glass shattering. “He took him.” 

__________________________________________________

A cold, wet air fills Grian’s lungs, biting into his skin like ice on a cold morning. When he tries to open his eyes, the dull ache of his skull becomes sharp, forcing the angel to screw them closed again. Grian grimaces, trying to figure out why he has such a terrible headache. Did he hit his head in training? No, he wouldn’t have been allowed to sleep with the hermits hovering over him. Perhaps he drank too much. Once again, impossible. Grian knows what his hangover is like, and it’s not this. 

He realizes he’s definitely hanging, but not from drinking. Cold, hard metal presses flat against his wrists, suspended over his head. The iron bites into his skin, all his weight rubbing his wrists raw. 

“Good, you’re awake. I was starting to get bored waiting, though I do quite enjoy relishing in finally having my prize thirty years in the making.” The snide, even tempo of Magistrate Dolios’s voice hurts worse than any headache or wrist, and Grian finally manages to open his eyes. The cavern he finds himself in is foreign, not even remotely similar to the brick and iron dungeons where he last woke up in Dolios’s clutches. So long ago, it feels like. The Championship. At the time, he felt like he was at the top of the world. Now? Now he feels like the world was crushing him. 

Grian resists his bindings, but even when he kicks outward, his feet don’t even scrape the dank floor. He tips his head back, until the crown of his head collides with a smooth, hard material. Just at the touch, he can feel the oppressive energy of the crystal. In his vision, he sees the sharp tip of the massive gem. Each wrist is locked tight against the crystal, the nails buried deep in the crystal lattice. 

He looks around, searching for other hermits. For Mumbo, the last face he remembers before…

The memories flood in, cascading alongside the fear and panic. He remembers everything, every terrifying second. Leaving Zedaph to meet with Mumbo, he remembers the scent of marigolds on his hands, just after crushing the petals to make a paste for Zedaph’s burns. The quiet island, most of the other hermits gone. He remembers patting his pocket, the note from his best friend telling him to meet at Iskall’s place. 

But when he arrived, Mumbo was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t unusual, Mumbo tended to get distracted and be late. So he waited, plucking orange petals from his clothes, hair, and hands. He should’ve noticed the way the wind shifted, becoming cold and stale, before disappearing completely. 

He should’ve realized something was very wrong when the grey stormcloud appeared. But he didn’t. He was so focused on waiting for Mumbo, then on getting rid of the flowers in his feathers, that he didn’t see the husks crawl their way free of the ocean. At least, not until the husk of a soldier came barreling for him, empty glowing white eyes and ashen, flaky form charging with halberd drawn.  

Grian squeaked, dodging the attack. Stumbled over the writhing form of a cactus cat, the fading spines still quite sharp, he was saved by a pair of not-grey arms. 

Not grey arms draped in wine red fabric, the hems decorated in gold thread. He realized who it was immediately, and scrambled to try and get away. But Dolios’s magic kept a strong grip, vines of black twisting and tying Grian’s wings to his back, while a hazy fog had grown around them. 

He remembers the feeling of Dolios’s hands in his hair, pulling him to his feet as he struggled and fought against the vines and the fog that filled his mind. Hands clawing at his binds, even biting the magistrate at one point. He remembers the taste of blood, iron on his tongue and Dolios swearing, blasting Grian with magic. 

And the last thing he remembers, before being knocked out and torn away from his home, was Mumbo’s face. Rounding the corner, completely oblivious to the fight occurring. It was at that moment that Grian realized, when his eyes locked with Mumbo’s that it wasn’t him that sent the letter. The confusion, of seeing Grian, the surprise on his face. He was walking towards the infirmary, dropping the box  in his hand upon seeing the sight before him. 

The fear on Mumbo’s face matched Grian’s own, as he was dragged into the sea. A second later, a swift burst of sonic energy knocked him out. 

And now he’s here. Dolios saunters across the room, gathering ingredients and writing down notes. Grian swings his legs, and summons his wings to try and be free. But as soon as the blue and white feathers appear, they crumble into ash. Crushing weight sets in on his head, his shoulders, his lungs, and his magic, and the crystal he’s trapped against hums with power. “You’re quite different from the last angel I hunted. At least you fought back, but in the end they left me without the gift of their magic. This time, I’m not letting anything go to chance.” 

The magistrate sets his bowl of guts aside, approaching the crystal and Grian. His hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and head held high. The weight of the oppressive dark magic doesn’t bother him. Grian’s not ready to give up just yet. He attempts to kick Dolios, but the dark mage stands mere centimeters out of reach. So Grian decides to use his words. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told that once or twice before, yes. But the rest of Lairyon loves me. And why wouldn’t they? I’ve brought prosperity to this kingdom, done more than that stupid rainbow king could ever do, and all of this because of my power.” Dolios sweeps his hands, vapors of dark magic swirling from his fingers as his fingers clench to fists

“Stolen magic. If the citizens knew, they’d hate you just as much as I do.” Grian reels back his head, and does the best he can to annoy Dolios. He spits on him. The glob of spit lands on Dolios’s cheek, the magistrate flinching, then reaching up and wiping it away. A fresh anger in his eyes. 

“And who would believe you? An outcast mercenary orphan? The last of your kind?” Dolios stoops low, plucking a husked feather from the floor. He walks back to the table, mixing the components and ingredients from his jars of death with Grian’s feather. “Your power is rare. Angelic mages are always powerful, a power I crave. You will be a wonderful addition to my collection of magic. The last of the angels to complete my set!” 

A fearful shiver ricochets down Grian’s spine. “You’re going to turn me into a husk?” 

“Oh, gods no!” Dolios laughs, so loud that it echoes off the cavern walls as he throws his head back, brown curls dancing across rich fabric. “I wouldn’t dare waste such magic to become simple energy for me and my beast. No, no. Do not fret, little bird, you will become so much more. I don’t plan to drain your energy. I plan to steal it.” 

The hunger in Dolios’s eyes as he turns, the concoction in his hand, Grian realizes what he's seen all this time in Dolios’s eyes. Hunger. A madman hellbent on taking what he sees as rightfully his.. A predator stalking his prey. And Grian was cornered, pinned. Unable to fight back, unable to fly away. Fear is replaced by terror, a sensation Grian struggles to fight back. He needs to think clearly if he hopes to survive. 

“The last angel died before my powers were…” Grian pauses, seeing the coy smile on Dolios’s face. 

“I always had a-” Dolios pauses, waving his hand nonchalantly before marking the ground around the crystal spires with dark seal. “-fascination with angelic wizards. A dear friend of mine in my youth was one. Ever since then, I knew I had to have that kind of magic in my collection. So strong, each and every one of you. With magic even the ancient ones revered. And now?” 

Dolios steps back, casting his magic circle. Rather than emitting color and light, it absorbs all color to make the pattern of his magic. He raises his hands, and two satellite crystals awaken. Darkness swirls in the lattice of the gems, mist eeking out through pores and filling the cavern with darkness. When the mist reaches the seal surrounding the crystal Grian’s chained to, the spire behind him, pressed against his back, activates. The pressure on his body, his magic becomes unbearable, breaking into pain. Like a harpoon through his chest, the dark magic takes hold. Biting down, biting in. 

Thankfully, the other two are more than happy to visit the forges of Coral Shores. Plus, it’s more time to themselves, and for Stress it’s more time free from the wretched rolling of Cleo’s ship. At this point, she’d rather walk across the water than get sick over the side of the sailboat. 

“So if you’re making more weapons, think you can give a look at my saber? I think she could use some fine tuning, a bit of that good Falsie touch.” Cleo bumps False on the shoulder, rounding the corner into the dry heat of the forgery area. Stress and Cleo recoil at every bang and explosion of fire from the mouths of the forges, like maws of dragons, but False never felt more at home than in the center of the chaos. She watches a bladesmith heat treat the blade of a battleaxe, fire bursting at the oil’s surface, before cooling as the heat travels from metal to grease. It comes out slightly bent, to which the smith races to fix before the metal sets. 

At the center of the forges, a warehouse of alloys operates as the hub. Smiths come and go, picking up all kinds of metals and materials for their craft. False joins the busy bustle, nabbing bars of iron and steel, even a few bearings and sheets. False prefers to make her own tools, and she knows she’ll need some rods and ball bearings to forge a new pair of tongs. The last one she broke when she fell asleep at the forge, and they melted beyond repair. She’d have likely perished as well had it not been for Wels checking in on his friend. 

When False returns, stowing the metal in her pocket dimension for later summoning, Cleo and Stress are staring at the ground. “What did you two find?” She questions, peering over their shoulder.

At the girls’ feet, a wanted poster catches on the cobblestone, the edges of the parchment singed black by wanton flames of the forges. It’s not something they haven’t seen before, a wanted poster of Doc. Even though his days of crime and revolt are mostly past him, every once in a while some arcane guard captain stirs up the reminder that Doc escaped jail, and they print a few new ones. 

But another paper catches False’s vision, this time bearing another familiar, all though very different face. xB. She stoops down, picking up the wanted poster. She flicks the undried paste from her hands, reading it aloud to the others. “Wanted for crimes against Lairyon, treason, political divide between kipling kingdoms and Lairyon, illegal congregation of a guild, and resisting arrest.” 

Stress has disappeared around the corner, but her gasp lures the other two to see what she’s staring at, wide eyed and shaking in her fuzzy boots. 

The entire wall of the tavern is covered in wanted posters. Every last face on each unique poster depicting every last hermit- including Jellie. Mumbo’s depiction is the most accurate, though his mustache is a little off. But whoever designed these sketches got the multi-mage’s constant look of concern down pat. They also notice who carries the heaviest price on their head. Grian, with almost a million rupees more than anyone else, his wings talking up most of the picture. 

False pulls down her own picture, tucking a blonde lock of hair behind the glass and metal of her goggles. She reads of the list of crimes she’s been charged with. Treason, theft, crimes against the Council and government, illegal congregation of a guild, resisting arrest, mercenary activity, illegal manufacture of weapons… the list goes on and on, more and more bullshit than the last. Most of these are laws she’s never heard of, or are so dated she’s sure they were dredged up from the early history of Lairyon. 

And at the bottom of every last wanted poster was the personal signature and insignia of the Magistrate of Lairyon. Dolios himself created these orders, and the Council approved them. She feels her heart stop, her head swimming, a sensation of vertigo as she realizes what this means. 

The hermits are wanted criminals. Not just lawbreakers, but Lairyon’s most wanted. “We need to get back to Eremita. Now.” 

“I knew things were going on with the Council, but I didn’t expect this.” TFC picks up his wanted poster, brushing out his beard and shaking his head. It’s clear the artist that drew this has no clue how to style dwarven hair. 

“I had heard rumors that there’s discord between the guildmasters of the Council. Do you think our work is affecting them?” Xisuma is half perched on the side of TFC’s desk, rifling through all twenty-something  papers in search of his. He pulls it out, looking at the masked face before him. His fingers brush the corner of the rendition where the mark of him and his brother would be, then runs his fingers over the scratched out metal on his face. 

“Perhaps Dolios is putting more pressure on them to maintain their power, to hinder us. Put enough stress on anything, and even a diamond will fracture.” TFC hums. “Well, as bad as this looks on the outside, we can also take this as good news.” 

“Good news? How in the world are we supposed to take being Lairyon’s Most Wanted as good news?” Cleos snorts, waving a green hand at the stack. Her’s is the only one that says ‘wanted undead or dead’. 

“Because it means it’s working. We’re backing Dolios into a corner. He’s threatened by us. It’s not just enough to deal with us on his own, now he wants all of Lairyon to do his bidding.” TFC stands, quite proud. All of their time spent breaking crystals, hunting down husks, and now discovering the monster in the forest is showing results. So much work, and it’s finally starting to crack his resolve. 

“What do we do about this?” Stress whispers. “The arcane guard and most of Lairyon will be after our heads. That’s a lot of money on each of us.” 

“We keep doing our work.” TFC walks out of the cave he calls home, standing in the sunlight and watching the other hermits train. “When isn’t the arcane guard after us? But the more work we do to stop Dolios and whatever he plans to do with that… abomination, the more we help the people of Lairyon, the less inclined they’ll be to turn us in.” 

“We’re already the champions of the Chimaera’s Cup.” Xisuma points out. Would people see their fall from grace as the pitfalls of victory, or would they read more into the lies spread by their leader. 

“And the Asklepions. Shellor, the other teams from the championship.” False straightens her shoulders, thinking of the people they’ve met so far. “They know we aren’t the villains of this story.” 

“The top of the mountain, isn't it? I-I’m not sure, I’ve never gone here. But this weather...my word is it dangerous!” Mumbo stutters out his words, but he’s not sure if it’s because he can’t remember for sure or because he can feel his breath freezing in this throat. A heavy gust of wind catches on Mumbo and Cleo, sending the two stumbling towards the cliff face. If it weren't for TFC grabbing their collars, they’d be meeting Natasiel in person. 

“Nothing is as dangerous as me!” Iskall booms, raising his voice above the weather. “You can’t take me down, mountain! I am an S-Class nuclear mage, I take your nature and turn it on it’s head with my magic!” 

TFC shakes his head, continuing forward. In his frozen, gloved hands, he grips the tattered banner as tight as possible. He’s not losing such precious cargo entrusted to him. It’s time to lay them to rest, to give the guild long gone some peace. 

Zedaph handed the banner to TFC before they left, fingers tightening for a second before letting it go. “This belongs somewhere better than that bastard’s office. Can you take this to Hanshaa’s mirror? Let Natasiel take care of them.” 

Of course TFC took the banner, took the route to the tallest mountain in Lairyon. Mount Hanshaa, the crown to the Queen of Death. And at the peak, the Shrine of Natasiel. TFC has only been up here a few times before, to pray to Natasiel and thank her for her work. To protect those alive, and care for those who have moved on. 

And of course Iskall has to challenge everything. Whether it's a creature on the side of the road or the mountain itself, he can never back down from a challenge. TFC lets go of Mumbo and Cleo, and climbs higher into the sky.  They’re almost there, he can already feel the soothing calm of Hanshaa’s Mirror. 

“I...I don’t think I can do this, TFC. I can hardly breathe, and it’s so cold. I’m not cut out for climbing this, or any, mountain.” Mumbo complains, hands shaking when they clasp onto the guildmaster’s. He hauls the newest member of the guild over the lip. Just one more face to climb, and they’ll be there. So close, and he wants to give up. Cleo, on the other hand, refuses his offer to help, her green skin digging through the ice, snow, and rock and pulling herself forward. 

“We’re almost there, Mumbo. You’ve already made it.” TFC breathes, lowering his voice as the wind lowers it’s howls. A sense of calm washes over TFC, watching the snow settle. “Just one more climb, I know you can do it.” 

Over the lip, and there on the peak. On top of the world, the Evershade mountains tumbling out beneath them. The winds are quiet, playing with flecks of snow and dancing down the mountain. Peace comes from the fierce bite of snow, and at the center of the peak, the Shrine of Natasiel sits. 

Despite it being well below freezing, the round pool has not a single vein of ice in it’s waters. Perfect and calm, not even snowflakes breaking the mirror. In the reflection and around Hanshaa’s mirror, the shrine opens. Multicolored flags flutter in the wind, stone statues resting beneath the pennants. Intricate carvings in stone and wood, offerings to Natasiel, poems of love and loss, food for friends and family, and blankets against the cold. At the center of the shrine, the guardian of Hanshaa stands. A stone monument, intricately carved feathers and fur of Natasiel’s griffin, with it’s head tucked and eyes closed, watching the world unfold before it and the shrine guarded by it’s gaze.

Sprouting from the snow and rock, against all odds of survival, delicate blue flowers glow in the low light of the snowstorm. Petals as thin as paper, bursting from the ice, opening their white pistils to the thin air. The rarest, the most beautiful flowers in all of Lairyon, fighting the harsh climate at the top of the world, growing around the goddess of the dead’s shrine. Finding life in the cold, the death, rising in the meditative peace at the water’s edge.

A calm and quiet washes over TFC, Mumbo and Cleo. But Iskall finds no sense of reverence upon seeing the shrine. He does notice the flowers, and stoops down low. Fingers wrapping around the slight stem, gripping and tugging on the hardy plant. Silence is broken by a loud, harsh shout that nearly teeters Iskall off the edge. “Don’t pick it!” 

It’s TFC, one hand crossing Iskall’s torso and pushing him back, the other still gripping the tattered banner. The snap was severe, but not aggressive. Enough to make Iskall stop, but not enough to scare him. “Why not dude? It’s just one itty bitty flower among hundreds.” 

TFC lets go of Iskall’s arm, turning back to the griffin statue. Open eyes watching them as the guildmaster kneels in the snow. He gazes at the old banner, the embroidered symbol frayed and color faded. A guild long gone, murdered for power. Massacred for control. He’s here to lay them to rest, to give Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango the peace they deserve. “It’s not about that.” He whispers, looking over his shoulder and boring his gaze into Iskall like a mole in the dirt. “It’s about respect.” 

Iskall steps back, his foot scraping off the ledge of the mountain. His heart leaps into his throat, the wind picking up just enough to cause him to teeter. Just one gust, and he’d be plummeting to the earth. Falling from the top of the world, and no way to stop it. No one can fight gravity- even Grian will eventually plummet if he doesn’t counteract it. In that heart pounding moment, no way to stop a gust of wind from sending him over, he realizes that there's one thing he cannot fight. He cannot challenge. Life and death, and that thin line between it. He has to respect that. 

And he has to respect life and death. Especially in the presence of Natasiel’s shrine, the goddess of death’s realm so close. The wind dies down and Iskall can regain his footing. He stumbles forward, away from the mountainside, side stepping from the flowers and sitting beside TFC. All four hermits take in the silence, the sound of the strung flags flying in the wind the only commentary to the world. It’s an eerily calm silence, a reverence and connection to those who passed on. Iskal looks down at the banner, ZIT’s first family destroyed by Dolios. He may not be able to challenge life and death, but he will challenge dark magic. And win. “Can...can I put it up?” 

TFC raises an eyebrow, but when his eyes lock with Iskall’s, he can only see respect glimmering back in his green eye. Even the blue jewel shines with the same calm TFC feels in his body. He offers the ensign to Iskall, who picks it up as gently as he would an unstable rod of iskallium. Fingers tight enough to keep from losing the fabric, but laid out between his arms. 

He stands, walking past the pool, watching the water reflect the sky and himself. Careful not to step on a single flower, he approaches the guardian of Hanshaa’s Mirror. The guardian of the shrine, protector to the entrance of the underworld, Natasiel’s griffin companion. Strong, stony eyes watch Iskall as he approaches, climbing up the podium and avoiding the precarious rock cairns stacked around the statue. A cold brush of wind causes Iskall to shiver, fingers sapped of heat by the stone statue. 

“It’s mega cold up here, but you still keep watch.” Iskall wraps the banner around the stone statue’s neck. He folds the insignia out for all to see, and knots the tattered ends together. “Watch over them, for our friends. They’ll keep you warm.” 

He steps back, watching the gold and blue press against the stone, blocking out the wind. Behind him, he hears Mumbo sniffle, tears freezing on his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes. TFC reaches out, patting Iskall on the back. His son, if not by blood then by guild. And a soft expulsion of breath escapes Cleo, mist dazzling in the air. “I can feel souls here...they’re at peace. It’s so calm, so content.” 

They remain in silence for a little longer. Just taking in their time at the top of the world, in between life and death, at the shrine to the goddess of death. Watching the glassy pool, the snow drifting in the air and waltzing through the flowers. TFC stood first, one hand over his heart and whispering thanks to the guardian before turning around, eyeing the descent they must make now. Mumbo stands beside him, tucking his fingers under the pits of his arm. “I can’t believe we climbed all of that to make it here.” 

“You have more strength than you give yourself credit for, Mumbo. You climbed the tallest mountain in Lairyon, you are one of the strongest mages I’ve ever met. Just because a task seems daunting, you shouldn’t doubt yourself. You are more than the sum of your parts, Mumbo Jumbo.” TFC glances over his shoulder to the others, then begins his descent. And all but Cleo accept his help. 

-----------------------------------

From the tallest peaks of Lairyon, to the depths of the kingdom are where the group find themselves next. Swallowed whole by the mouth of the Golden Hearth mines, they follow a set of hastily drawn directions marked on a scrap of leather. The dwarven miner they had interviewed was more interested in returning to his mining than telling a bunch of mages where they noticed missing gems. 

And for the first time ever, the hermits see TFC lose his parental demeanor. He’s a kid in the candy store, bouncing from deposit to deposit. He pulls free a chunk of amethyst, admiring the deep purple hue with glittering excitement in his eyes. The deeper they go, passing miners and other mages connected to the earth, he can’t help but pick up a pickaxe of his own and mine out a few crystals to add to his collection. Kyanite as dark as an unlit cave, pyrite that lusters against the illuminating energy from an iskallium rod. 

Cleo strides ahead, plucking a torch from the wall. “This way. Come on, we have to find Esten’s Spring.” 

“Hold up, Cleo, take a breather.” TFC pauses, grabbing at her shoulder and forcing her to stop. She can’t keep running through the mines this way. “Esten’s Spring is deep, one of the deepest parts of the mine. It’s hardly been explored, and the underground river leaves it unstable.” None of them know how to explore caves like TFC does. They didn’t grow up playing in caves, didn’t spend their early years mapping out the crystal mines. They can’t read the seams in the stone, the rolling of rockfalls. 

Cleo raises the fire, distracted by the ores and geodes that gleam against the light for a second before returning to her trailblazing. She doesn’t need anyone’s help but herself, she is strong and clever. She knows the way all by herself. She’s independent, even in a group. She’s the captain of her own ship.

The narrow passage opens up to a deep, yawning chasm with only a broken wooden bridge to cross the immense drop. Cleo looks over the edge, biting her lip as she notices sharp stalagmites piercing through the darkness, teeth of some ancient stone beast waiting to swallow an unsuspecting miner whole.

Beside her, TFC hums. “Let me rifle through my bag, see if-” 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Cleo strikes her saber between a stone pillar and the ground, tipping it forward and pressing a magic circle against the stone. The rock erodes, decaying to sand at her fingertips, and with one swift yank of her blade it falls across the canyon. She flashes a smile over her shoulder, and struts across the bridge. 

She got lucky, TFC knows that. She did that all on herself, but had the rock fallen the other way, they all could have been crushed. She could have hurt herself. As strong as she is, no mortal can withstand the crushing blow of the very earth itself. But Cleo just keeps moving, on her own journey deeper into the caves. 

Whether crawling through gaps, jumping across chasms, or skirting across ledges, Cleo was always ahead of the others, doing things her own way, and refusing help. She doesn’t need help. She’s strong, she doesn’t need anyone’s help. 

TFC stops, hearing the sound of water dripping through the teeth that rise from the ground and fall from the ceiling. He clambers through the mouth, stepping between the stalagmites and into the open well. “Here we are. Esten’s Spring.” 

For a moment, the only light within the cave is the luminescent rocks, a soft glow that ricochets across the smooth stone, casting shadows along the walls and turning the cavern ceiling into a reflection of colors. Arches and ledges run along the side of an underground river, crystals beneath the water illuminating and rippling all around them. 

To any person, Esten’s Spring was a godly sight. Gems as tall as buildings and wide as tarasques growing from the earth. But for a mage like TFC, who’s magic draws from the earth and it’s shimmering gifts, it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Rare stones buried deep in the belly of the earth, all collected together and growing in one mutually exclusive place. Stones that would never be seen in any other place at once, all here. But with such beauty also comes danger. “Watch your step, hermits. The ground is unstable.” 

Cleo hardly hears TFC’s warning. She’s already charging ahead, like a ship into battle. She notices a mar in the earth, dirt overturned and scraped aside. And the rusty, dusted ground turned grey like ash. “He’s been gathering them from here.” 

Dolios was here. Multiple times, if the marks and stains of darkness were any indication. All across Esten’s Spring, the ground has been uprooted, entire clusters of crystals missing from their perches. Of course he would create the crystals here. In the depths of the mines, the dangerous passage deterring even the bravest miner from wantonly exploring this deep. And here, among the rarest, strongest crystals in all of Lairyon. They were ripe for his corruption, and for TFC to know he’s stolen them from here is heartbreaking. 

“He has no respect.” TFC grumbles, picking up a broken quartz stone. Spared from the staining of dark magic, left shattered on the ground. He takes without remorse, without respect for the mountains or the land. Mining isn’t just about taking. It’s about giving back as well. Thanking Lairyon and the Earth god, Esten, for such amazing creations. He feels Iskall’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, a knowing gaze on the mismatched eyes. Even Iskall knows to respect nature now.

“To think, we’ve gone to the highest peaks and the deepest abysses, and no matter where we go, his darkness still follows.” Mumbo breathes. To think that he’s made it to both places, he’s still not entirely sure how. It’s like TFC said, he has to believe in himself, even when he thinks he couldn’t do it. 

Cleo’s shoes skitter as the ground beneath her feet collapses, the lip of the ledge falling into the underground river. She doesn’t have time to deal with the past, and whatever the boys are up to. If they hope to stop Dolios, they need to cut off his supply of crystals. Stop him from making more, and for TFC to round up more crystals to use in his spells. 

A dim corner catches her attention. All along the cavern, shadows are cast from stalagmites and stalactites. But the purples, greens, blues, yellows, and reds of the incandescent crystals turn even the darkest corners into a misty glow. But down a passageway, one place is devoid of all light. As if the rock swallowed it whole. 

Or the crystal within it. Cleo scrabbles across an arch, careening off the rock wall and ignoring the light shower of stone dust in her hair as she comes face to face with the gemstone. It’s taller than her, the faceted edges a milky white, rising like a tower with thin lines perpendicular to the ground. Except for the peak of the tower, which was darker than night. Night still has light, color, whether from the moon or the stars. This is pure darkness, empty of all color, all light. 

Dark magic. Dolios must have been trying to corrupt this gem, to use it to siphon magic like the crystal in Gildara, at the championship. “Cleo? Where’d you run off to now?”

She turns, slapping her hand against the crystal. “I found one in the works!” She yells, her voice making droplets of water fall from the cavern ceiling. “I can take care of this myself.” 

TFC looks up, eyes following Cleo’s bright orange hair, the white crystal, and the cave wall that it rests against. And he sees the seam in the rocks, the thin planes of stone on the precipice of gravity. The soft shower of dirt, sprinkling like pixie dust in her locks. The dust turns to pebbles, pebbles to rocks. “Cleo, look out!” 

The cavern roof collapses inward, and TFC has less than a second to react. His hand is already digging into the depths of his  bag, pulling out a jasper and clasping it in his gloves. By the time the rocks have turned to boulders, he’s already summoned his magic and is casting the spell. He pushes his hand forward, and Cleo stumbles back. 

His last sight of her is that bright red hair, pale green skin and fear written across her face. Boulders ricochet into a pile, cutting Cleo off from the rest of the hermits. Mixed with the clattering of rock, the soft sound of bone cracking and skin scraping. Iskall and Mumbo race forward, but TFC grabs them both. 

“We have to help her! She could be buried!” Iskall howls, fighting against TFC. 

“Hold on! The rockfall is still unstable.” He huffs. It kills TFC to have to wait as well, but rushing in will only lead to more disaster. “C-Cleo, can you hear me?” 

“I can hear you! There’s a boulder, it’s pinned me to the ground.” A soft chuckle escapes, but it’s strained and high pitched. “Better my leg than the rest of me.” 

TFC steps forward, brushing past Mumbo and Iskall. One of which is about to succumb to his nervous jelly knees, the other racing alongside their guildmaster. “Just stay calm, Cleo, we’ll get you out of-”

“I can do it myself!” Her voice snaps through the stone wall. “I don’t need to wait if I just-” 

“Cleo no!” The rockfall shifts, growing thicker. Boulders roll towards the boys, and a stifled yelp can be heard through the cracks. 

“S-see? I freed my leg. Now I...now I just need to break this wall.” 

“Stop, Cleo! You’re going to hurt yourself.” TFC’s voice is strong, but soft enough to make Cleo pause. “Let us help.” 

“I don’t need your help! I’m strong enough on my own!” TFC and Iskall leap backwards, a boulder narrowly crushing them both. 

“But true strength is knowing when to reach out for help instead of letting it destroy you!” TFC shouts, his voice echoing across Esten’s Well, causing droplets to fall from stalagmites and ripple across the underground river. His harsh breath is the only voice, and TFC brushes back his hair, his braid. “Cleo, you’re one of the strongest hermits in all of the guild. We all know that. How many other of us are literally too strong for death to hold us back? But sometimes there are things that can’t be done alone. No one is stronger than the mountains themselves. It takes an army of dwarven miners to take on the earth. Each one of them strong on their own, but stronger together. Let us help you, let your family help you.” 

Silence fills the cave, thick and hot against the stale air of the deep chasm. TFC’s ears prick at the sound of fabric shuffling through the wall of boulders. His shoulders fall, believing that Cleo is attempting to do it on her own again. That is, until her voice calls out. “I will come back as a ghost if you three crush me. I will come back and break your legs.” 

Iskall grins, neon green magic reflecting off the glittering gem for his eye, meeting Mumbo’s worried expression. And together, with Cleo’s commands, they free her from the stone tomb. As Mumbo clasps Cleo’s hand and helps her stand, TFC notices a pale blue gem laying at his feet. Stooping low, he picks up the crystal. Iskall peeks over his shoulder, seeing the rock. “Whatcha got there, T?” 

This is bigger than the hermits. This is bigger than Gildara, or Danes, or anything they’ve ever faced before. This is beyond a scope they can even understand. Why is Dolios doing this? How far has his corruption spread? Who can stop Dolios, the Magistrate and leader of Lairyon? If the king is silent, and the Council is a part of his cabal, then no one is able to stop him. 

The hermits take the news in different ways- though no one celebrates their victory. Not after nearly dying in Dolios’s dungeons they only believed were rumors. The training field is empty, except for False. Anger burns through her pain, her kukri digging into the slime dummies she had Jevin make until the bodies rip in half. She decapitates one with a swift swing and turns around, ducking and rolling, before throwing molten blades into the chests of three more. The slime sizzles and burns, as hot as her anguish. 

At the sidelines, Wels watches as he buffs out the dents on his armor. He scrubs the metal till he can see his reflection in it, and then a little more. Trying to rub out the memories of the chess game, the dark magic that had trapped them in the sick game. 

Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango are together as always. But rather than trying to find trouble, all three sit on a haybale, just watching the animals of Zed’s farm. Tango twirls a stick full of leaves, much to the annoyance of the goat at his feet, eyes distant. Zedaph has been having a sleepover in their part of False’s forge, not wanting to leave his friend’s side. Not after knowing who killed their last guild. He doesn’t want to lose them as well. Impulse has no energy to be his bubbly, happy self. He feels like a cannon with a wet fuse, unable to light up and explode outward. Instead, he just mindlessly runs his fingers through the woolen fur of the sheep chewing on his clothes. 

Grian and Mumbo sit on the open windows of the angel’s house. Just watching the sun rise into an afternoon sun across the sea. They say nothing, a rare silence from Grian and even Mumbo. The two friends have nothing to say. They won the championship, but Grian still feels the horror of watching Mumbo forced to move like a chess piece. A pawn, set forward and open to attack. He knew he should have trusted TFC, but in the moment all he could think of was losing his best friend. 

Exiting his cave, TFC feels the oppressive mood in the air. He feels like he’s underground in Gildara again. That sense of hopelessness, that dampening weight on his shoulders. The guildmaster looks around, looks at his team, his island. A storm rolls in the distance, likely to come by evening and bless the island with life giving rain. But the hermits are like wilting flowers. Crumpled, lacking the color and life they normally carry with pride. Even the rainbow flags of the guild hall look muted. 

TFC hates this feeling, this suspension. Waiting for something to break, something to happen. If it won’t happen, he’ll make it happen. TFC picks up a stone from the mouth of his cave home, feeling the weight of the stone as he wanders to Xisuma’s tower. It’s a good piece of granite, a nice heavy weight without being too strong or sharp. It’s perfect for his plan. He rests the stone in his dominant hand, looking up at Xisuma’s tower, the gleaming telescope at the peak of the building. 

And he throws the stone. It clatters against Xisuma’s windowsill, rattling the metal frame but not breaking the glass. The stone falls, and he does it again. And again. Halfway through reeling back for a third throw, the window finally opens. X ducks just in time to miss getting a rock to the head. “What in the name of the gods are you doing?”

“Group meeting. Round up the others.” TFC crosses his arms, looking up at the wizard in the tower. 

“What? Why?” Xisuma sighs, but pulls on his mask all the same. It’s too bright for him right now. 

“If no one else is going to change the world, then we will.” TFC growls, then walks away. He motions for team ZIT to follow, and even dares to get between False and her training to call her to the guild hall. The open air space, enclosed only by clawlike stones and a ring of younger oak trees beneath the massive, entangling branches of the centerpiece, quickly fills with hermits. Sitting at the tables, Cleo tries to ease some of the tension with her good mead. But even Cleo’s best brews taste like swill right now. 

The last to arrive was Grian. Iskall was practically dragging him by the cloak into the guild hall, across the wooden grains of the floor, across the twining knot of birch and dark oak. Once the architechs were seated, Iskall and Grian with their own mugs of mead, TFC looks at the guild before him. 

He sighs, shaking his head. “I know what we faced was grim. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be you guys, forced to be pawns in Dolios’s sick game.” TFC notices False’s hands ball into fists at the mention of his name. “Especially to be moved by me, I wish I could’ve thought of a better way to stop him. 

“But we went to Milliara to discover who the dark mage was. We did that, and more. Dolios thought he could scare us, silence us. Make us turn on each other, make us choose who was more important and who wasn’t. But we’re not just a guild- we’re a family. It was terrible, but we got through it only because we worked as a team.” 

Silence meets TFC’s words. None of the hermits answer him. Normally, he struggles to get his guild to stay quiet for more than a minute. He feels he would have better luck teaching toddlers than talking to this lot. And it makes TFC’s stomach burn like magma to be able to hear rustling leaves, the distant bleat of a sheep. 

“And he’s winning.” He growls, looking at them all. “Look at us! Silent, still! Wallowing in what’s happened while Dolios is continuing to steal magic for his own nefarious desires! He’s winning, because we are doing nothing!” 

“What can we do?” Jevin sneers, leaning back. “We’re nobodies. An outlaw guild of misfits. We don’t have the power like the king, the prestige like a legal guild.” 

“That’s exactly why we can do it! We have our freedom, our strength in being beyond all that. If no one else will stop Dolios, if no one else can stop Diolios, then we should. Look at us,” TFC waves around as hermits pick up their heads. “We’re victors of the Chimaera’s Championship. We have more power and strength in this one hall than most guilds have in their entire history. We have a variety of magic and the creative minds to wield powers. To weave unlike magics into something greater.” 

“Why us, though?” Even Xisuma is sitting up, though his voice still has a twinge of doubt and exasperation. 

“If we don’t, who will?” The guildmaster looks around, seeing a spark return to the crowd. Thank Artyne, they’re finally talking over him again. “We know who the dark mage is, we know how to break a crystal, we’re not afraid of breaking a few rules! We may not be the heroes Lairyon needs, but we’re the only ones who can do it.” 

The surge of pride and power shocks across the hermits. A coy grin parts Doc’s hybrid face, sharp teeth revealed and glinting in the hot summer sunlight. Ren’s tail is wagging so fast it’s smacking Stress and Joe with each hemisphere completed. And TFC knows he’s gotten them hooked when he sees angelic feathers plume out from a gremlin smirk on Grian’s face. 

TFC pulls out a map from the nook in a tree, brushing an acorn aside that was stashed along with it. Using now empty mugs from Iskall and Grian, he unfurls the map and gazes at the crescent shaped continent that is Lairyon. He pulls out a piece of charcoal, and sketches four marks on the map. One where Gildara was, a diamond shape that is matched with one in Milliara. But the one in Milliara is crossed out. Danes and their home island get swirls, neither crossed out. “We know of four events that for certain included dark magic. In Milliara, we were successful in breaking the crystal.” He taps on the x-marked diamond. “Unfortunately, we can’t be certain if those husk storms will reappear in Danes or here.” 

“We should gather information. Listen in to town gossip, meet with contacts, just try and find any stories that match what we saw.” Cleo hums, running her dead fingers along the map. “Go all across Lairyon, destroy any crystals and do our best to weaken Dolios.” 

“And try to find a way to stop his reign once and for all.” Doc adds, his voice growling. 

Which is a challenge in itself. Half of the hermits want to jump right into training, ignoring the guild hall and insistence of TFC. The other half are easily enticed by the scent of food. 

Grian is practically vibrating in his seat, to the point that Iskall has to reach out and press his hand on the blond hair to keep him seated. “Who thought it was a good idea to give him syrup?” 

“It’s not the breakfast, I can’t wait to get back to sparring!” Grian grins, turning to Mumbo. “You ready for another round of quickdraws?” 

Mumbo groans, head falling back and mouth falling open. “Gri, you know I can’t quickdraw my magic circle.” 

“Like, at all, dude.” Iskall hums, picking the skin off an orange. 

“That’s how you’ll get better! Learn by doing!” Grian points out. He knows that Mumbo struggles with his magic- it’s a lot of magic to handle, being a multi-mage. But he’s seen Mumbo’s strength, he sees the potential in his best friend. And only someone as equally powerful as him, like Grian, can take on that power. Once it shows itself. 

Stress walks by, rolling up her sleeves and brushing the rat’s nest from her hair. She sits down next to False, squeaking as the sharp slice of rock against metal cuts into the air. Stress realizes the shining alloy isn’t a plate. “False, haven’t we said before- no weapons on the tables?” 

“It’s no used weapons. This is brand new, just finished forging it last night.” She picks the chakram by the handle in the center, tossing the disk blade across the table to Wels. “Why don’t you give it a try today?” 

Wels laughs, giving the weapon a slice and a spin. “Let’s see Etho dodge this.” 

Etho, hearing his own name, abruptly stands up from his seat and scurries into the nearest shadow, a strip of bacon shoved into his mouth as he pulls up his mask. Doc and BDubs only laugh, divvying up the remains of Etho’s breakfast. 

Under the quiet seats under the massive oak, as old as the island itself, Keralis and Xisuma are studying. Keralis stopped by his family’s bookstore on the mainland, sifting through ancient tomes in hopes of finding something about dark magic. 

“Ugh, why does no one write about dark magic, sheshwammy?” Keralis growls, his thick south Lairyon accent struggling to say Xisuma’s central name. 

“Probably because it’s illegal to practice it, so no one knows anything about it.” Xisuma sets down another book, picking up the egg sandwich he made and taking a frustrated bite. “Though someone obviously does. But we need proof that this is dark magic, written proof.” He knows they can’t stop it themselves- that’s the arcane guard’s job. But after seeing all of Gildara abandoned, and most of the Asklepions killed, the least he can do is this. 

“You really think the pen is mightier than the sword?” False questions, raising an eyebrow. She presses her knife into the sausage patty on her plate, daring Joe to answer.

“I mean, when my pen can make a giant magic sword with fire and lightning, yeah.” Joe grins, pressing his chin to his open palm. A dangerous glint appears behind his glasses, and he uses the other hand to push them up. Sun reflects off the spectacles, making it impossible for False to see anything beyond the smirk and the light- infuriating her. 

“Cleo,” False grabs the pirate by her long coat and dragging her into the conversation. Without the paladin here to back her up, she needed someone else with a way with words. “You get what I’m saying. Tell me your blade there wouldn’t completely destroy Joe in a fight. I mean, all I’d have to do is cut up that journal of yours and your magic is useless!” 

“Well, Joe does have a point. Sure, your forged weapons are the best in the kingdom, and Joe is screwed if he ever has to face you without his magic.” Cleo pauses, watching the two. “But I’m inclined to believe that words should come before violence- which is why anytime Mr. Joe of the Hills here refuses to finish his breakfast, I remind him with my words that I’m going to break his knees before i actually do.” Cleo pulls out her sword, setting the tip on the wood table. 

Joe shoves the last of his pancakes into his mouth, quick to retreat from Cleo. He was asking for trouble with False, but he knows any of the women could easily kick his ass. Even as an S-Class. “Hey False, why don’t we take this debate to the training field, see how mighty the sword is to the pen?” 

“You can’t escape me forever, Joe!” Cleo calls, watching as the two S-Class mages run down the hill and onto the latter half of the island. Their home island, Eremita, was separated into two parts. The southern side of the island lays claim to where the hermits live. An odd mix of towers and forges, ships and caves. It was up to the hermits to chose their own style of household- which created some disunion of the overall complex, but allowed for each member to express themselves. Everyone helped, whether Scar packed stone bricks or False forged iron nails. 

The other half of the island, however, was left mostly untouched. A large field of grass, combed by the salty sea air, dotted with targets and barriers. A dirt circle cuts into the field, where hermits can duel one on one. Beyond the field, a large pond expands like an eye to the face of the island. Caressing the other shore, a dense forest grows on a slow rise of a hill, before stopping at the edge of the cove of a broad, sandy beach. It was a perfect home, a perfect place for an illegal guild to lay claim. 

Training grounds quickly filled with groups and teams, even TFC getting in on strengthening himself. He wasn’t going to let some little rock keep him down for long. “Hey Cub, lets show these guys a thing or two about magic.” 

The two silver haired, bearded men join the others well settled into today’s training. Deep in the forest, a soft explosion can be heard, followed by the giddy laughter as Zedaph leaps from tree to tree. Tango and Impulse struggle to follow him, and the birds diving for their heads don’t help. At the interface between trees and grass, Doc and Jevin have teamed up to amass an army. Objects under the devious control of Doc’s puppeteering magic, violent and unshaken to mimic the husks they fought. Jevin’s slime soldiers add bodies to the battle, flanking Iskall, Ren, and Xisuma. Hiding behind a barrier, Etho is waiting for the sun to reappear and for shadows to return, ducking his head as the chakram whizzes past. Despite his terrifying predicament, he has a coy smile on his face. 

In the field, BDubs is practicing his aim with Scar, shredding apart haybales with their unique magic. Plants grow from one, thorns dug deep into the tightly bound material. The other has been knocked over and crushed by a boulder, Scar cheering his success. And in the center of the dueling ring, Mumbo and Grian stand still as stone. The quietest Grian ever has been. In a flash, as simple as a shift in the wind’s direction, Mumbo rushes to summon his circle. A second later, he’s blown off his feet, Grian grinning with blue embers fading away from his fingers. Mumbo groans, rubbing the dirt stained fabric on his rear. “You couldn’t have given me a few seconds? It’s not like I’d ever win.” 

Grian offers an easy smile, waving Mumbo closer. “Come on, let’s practice the basics again. I know you can do it, friend.” 

The hermits continue into the afternoon, only stopping their training briefly for lunch under the cool relief of the oaken guild hall. Groups disband and reform, training and practicing and learning from each other. Trying to be better, stronger together. So that next time they come face to face with an enemy, or the dark magic, they can win. They will win. 

No guild is quite like the Order of Hermits. Apart from being illegal, they’re a mix of just about every kind of magic. A healing mage like Grian can stand side by side with Cleo’s underworld magic, no set skill required on requested. Varying strengths train side by side, not separated from better or worse. They all have something to learn from each other, even the strongest S-Class can be surprised by the newest mage. And often, Grian is. The magic is just as diverse as the people, the hermits that call Eremita home. 

Training is cut short by a squall, appearing like magic and blowing across the Ashioll sea. Broiling grey clouds engulf the sun, and quickly send the hermits scattering into shelter. Well, most of them. The ZIT trio remained wrestling in the mud, and BDubs couldn’t help but join in. 

Wels returns the chakram to False, a number of other hermits huddled around the blasting heat of False’s outdoor forge, nestled under the stone roof. Stress jumps back as an ember sparks out, nearly catching the trim of her robes. She rubs her exposed arms, the warm material of her fur coat wrapped around her waist. So much for the hot summer day. 

Joe and Cleo have made up, and are plucking books from his library to read as the rain pours down, laughing as they watch Ren skitter away to his home, ears and tail tucked. 

Xisuma sits at a window, looking out across the clouded green sea from his tower. He chose the Ashioll sea for a reason to make this his home. To start a guild here. No one else dared called these waters home. Old magic, magic so wild and arcane that not even the kiplings can control, residing here in these waters. Merchant vessels and battleships avoid the sea, and even the hermits don’t have every island mapped out. Though Grian and Xisuma are working on it. The sea was their safe haven, the island their home. 

Xisuma turns his head, glancing at the white envelope on his desk. The yellow seal bearing a sun remains unbroken. He’s not ready to think about his brother. He knows he could have valuable information, and is likely concerned about him, but he can’t bear to open the letter today. He turns his head back to the storm, watching lightning streak across the sky, smelling the scent of the void left behind by the bolts. He doesn’t need his brother- he has his own family, right here.