Chapter Text
The hallways were never ending. A labyrinth of cold stone and shifting shadows that smelled of ancient rot and wet earth. Scott ran, his boots thudding against the floor in a rhythm that matched his frantic heartbeat. He didn’t know what he was running toward, only what was behind him, a silence so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
Suddenly, the floor betrayed him.
Vines, gnarled and black like charred bone, burst from the stone cracks. Unlike the vibrant plants he tended to in his garden, these were hungry. They coiled around his ankles, thorns biting deep. The hallway air thickened and chilled, frost settling in his lungs, not just on his skin.
He tried to scream for his father, but his throat felt stuffed with dry earth. A violent spasm shook him. He doubled over, coughing dryly and harshly. At last, a cloud of grey ash burst from his lips, swirling in the moonlight like a dying ghost.
The darkness rushed in to swallow the mist, and then, Scott snapped awake.
The silence of the cottage in Barrowhill was deafening. Scott sat bolt upright, his hand flying to his throat, half expecting to feel the grit of ash on his tongue. But there was nothing. Only the familiar scent of old wood and the distant, rhythmic snoring of his father in the next room.
He went to wipe the cold sweat from his brow, but stopped. His hand wasn't there.
He stared at where his arm should be, seeing only the quilt and floorboards. The invisibility, his magic's "glitch" that always flared when his heart raced, had taken hold again. He was a ghost in his own bed.
With a shaky, invisible hand, he reached for the bedside table. His fingers fumbled against the parchment that had arrived the night before, the heavy wax seal of the Blue Kingdom glinting like a drop of dried blood.
He began to read, his voice a low, raspy whisper that sounded foreign in the quiet room.
"By order of the Crown and the High Command... Scott Springwell is hereby summoned to the Blue Kingdom. Your lineage and your gifts have been recognized as vital to the survival of the realm. This is not a request. You are to report to the capital at once to serve."
Scott let the paper flutter back onto the table. "A week," he whispered, his invisible eyes tracing the map in his mind. "At least a week’s journey... through the forest, past the Deadwood, and across the shoreline."
He looked toward the closed door, thinking of his father, the only person who still saw him even when he was like this.
"I’ve never been further than the village gates," he murmured, the weight of the word Mage feeling more like a shackle than a title. "And they say I have no choice."
The invisible boy stayed motionless until the first pale sliver of dawn bled through the shutters. Only then did the magic begin to recede, starting at his fingertips and slowly weaving his skin back into reality. He looked down at his solid hands, still trembling, the phantom chill of the blackened vines from his dream still tingling against his ankles.
Downstairs, the floorboards groaned under a heavy, familiar step. The smell of frying ham and toasted oats began to drift up the stairs. It was a warm, domestic scent and a sharp contrast to the cold dread sitting in Scott's stomach.
He forced himself to stand, getting dressed in his plainest travel tunic, and went downstairs.
Darius Springwell was already at the table, his weathered face practically glowing in the morning light. He was humming a jaunty melody from his own youth, one Scott hadn't heard in years. When he saw his son, he slammed a heavy mug of cider onto the table with a celebratory grin.
"There he is! The pride of Barrowhill!" Darius boomed, his voice echoing off the low-beamed ceiling. "I’ve already told the neighbors. Old Man Miller didn't believe it until I described the seal. A High summons, Scott! Recognized for your talent! I always knew those little 'fades' of yours were meant for something greater than scaring the local cats."
Scott slid into his chair, his appetite gone. "Dad, please. It’s... It’s not talent. It’s a glitch. I can't even control when it happens. How am I supposed to serve a Kingdom when I can't even stay solid for breakfast?"
"Nonsense," Darius said, sliding a plate piled high with food toward him. He leaned in, his eyes shining with a fierce, honest pride. "The Blue Kingdom doesn't send royal messengers for 'glitches,' son. They saw the potential. They saw the Springwell lineage in you. You’re going to be a pillar of the realm. A protector. It’s for the greater good, Scott. Think of it, no more scratching for copper in the dirt. You'll have a castle, a title, and the respect you deserve."
"I don't want a title," Scott whispered, picking at a piece of ham. "I just want to be sure I won't let them down." He hesitated. "What if I get there and they realize that I'm just me? What if I'm not the Mage they think I am?"
Darius reached across the table, his large, calloused hand covering Scott's much smaller one. The warmth of his father's touch was the only thing that kept the icy memory of the nightmare at bay.
"You are exactly who you need to be," Darius said firmly. "You’ve always been too careful, Scott. Too quiet. This is the world calling you out of your shell. It's an honor. A chance to be part of something legendary. Don't let your nerves blind you to the fact that you were chosen."
Scott looked into his father’s eyes, seeing a version of himself that was brave, powerful, and certain. It was a beautiful image, and for a moment, Scott desperately wanted to believe it.
"I have to leave today," Scott said, his voice steadying slightly. "The letter said at once. It’s a long way on foot—at least a week if I keep a good pace through the Deadwood and along the coast."
Darius’ grin softened into something more sentimental, but no less encouraging. "Then we'd best get your pack finished. The world is waiting for you, Scott. It’s a long walk, but every step takes you closer to the man you’re meant to be. I’ll be right here, telling everyone who’ll listen that my son is the one keeping the Blue Kingdom standing."
Scott nodded, forcing a small smile for his father's sake. He looked down at the heavy walking staff leaning against the wall. Miles of lonely road awaited him. The greater good, he thought. I just hope I can find it before I lose myself in the woods.
Scott pushed back his chair, the wood scraping softly against the floorboards. "I need to visit Mom one last time before I head out," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
Darius’ expression softened, the boisterous pride in his eyes turning into something more grounded and tender. "Of course, son. She’d want to know. She’d be the first one telling you to keep your chin up." He reached out and squeezed Scott’s shoulder. "Go on. I’ll get your kit sorted."
Scott spent the next hour in a daze of preparation. He moved through the small cottage, gathering the gear that would sustain him for the long trek ahead. He packed a sturdy bedroll, an extra set of wool tunics, and his leather-bound spellbook, its edges worn from years of secret study.
In the kitchen, Darius was a whirlwind of practical affection. He wrapped thick slices of dried venison in wax paper and tucked several heavy rounds of hard tack into the bottom of Scott’s pack. He added a small tin of salt and a pouch of dried apples, packing them with the practiced efficiency of a man who knew exactly how much a long road could take out of a traveler.
"There," Darius said, tightening the leather straps of the pack. "That’ll keep you until you reach the shoreline. You can trade for fresh greens once you hit the coastal villages."
Scott thanked him with a distracted nod. He stepped out into the small garden behind the cottage, the morning dew still clinging to the grass. Near the shaded fence line, a cluster of white lilies stood tall, their petals pristine and luminous in the early light.
With careful, steady hands, Scott harvested a small handful. He trimmed the stems and bound them together with a bit of twine, the fragrance of the lilies, sweet and heavy, filling his senses. They were the same flowers he had seen in his nightmare, though here, in the waking world, they felt untainted.
"I won't be long," Scott called back toward the cottage.
"Take your time," Darius replied from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "The road isn't going anywhere."
Scott turned toward the wooded path that led to the village cemetery. As he walked, the bouquet of lilies felt remarkably light in his hand, a fragile piece of home he was about to leave behind. He didn't notice that as he moved further from the cottage, the edges of his vision seemed to shimmer, his magic reacting to the grief he was already beginning to carry.
The cemetery was a quiet, forgotten corner of Barrowhill, where the grass grew long, and the wind seemed to hold its breath. At its furthest edge stood a single, massive willow tree, its sweeping branches creating a private curtain of swaying green over a solitary headstone.
Scott ducked beneath the heavy boughs, the air suddenly turning cooler in the deep shade. He knelt in the soft earth at the base of the trunk where his mother’s grave rested. The familiar ache of the roots beneath his knees provided a grounding weight.
He didn't just lay the lilies down. With the careful, practiced movements of someone who spent more time with plants than people, he used a small trowel to partially plant the stems into the damp soil of the grave, ensuring they would stand tall and drink from the earth for as long as possible.
"Hey, Mom," he whispered, his voice cracking in the hollow silence.
He stayed there for a long moment, his fingers tracing the moss-covered letters of her name, Liliana Rune Springwell. The bravery he had worn like a mask in the kitchen crumbled.
"I got a summons," he said, looking down at his hands. "The Blue Kingdom. They want a Mage... a High Mage, they said. But I think they’ve got the wrong person. I’m still just the boy who accidentally vanishes when the lightning gets too loud. I’m so scared I’m going to get there, and they’ll see right through me. That I’ll let them down, or worse... that I’ll be the reason someone gets hurt because I wasn't strong enough."
A stray breeze rustled the willow leaves, sounding like a faint, collective sigh. Scott leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the marker.
"Dad is... he’s so happy, Mom. He’s boasting to the neighbors and packing my bags like I’m some kind of hero returning home instead of a kid leaving it for the first time. I didn't have the heart to tell him how much I’m shaking." He paused, a different kind of shadow crossing his face. "And I’m worried about leaving him. Without you... It’s just been us. If I leave, who’s going to make sure he eats? Who’s going to keep him company when the winter gets long?"
He reached out and adjusted one of the lilies, its white petal a stark, pure contrast against the grey stone.
"The letter said I don't have a choice. But I wish you were here to tell me if I’m walking into a dream or a nightmare."
He stayed for a few minutes more in the silence of the willow's embrace, drawing what little strength he could from the quiet earth. Finally, he stood, wiping the dirt from his knees. He took one last look at the vibrant white bouquet, a small piece of his heart left behind in the soil. “I love you Mum. I guess I should get going now.”
As Scott turned and pushed through the willow branches to begin his long walk back to the cottage, he didn't see the shift. The moment his back was turned, the vibrant white of the lilies began to bleed away. Starting at the tips of the petals, a dull, sickly grey began to spread, the flowers wilting and curling as if a sudden, invisible frost had touched only them. By the time he reached the cemetery gate, the "Ode to Springwell" had already begun its first mournful note.
The walk back from the cemetery felt shorter than usual, as if the world were impatient to push him toward the horizon. When Scott pushed open the heavy oak door of the cottage, the sight of his father standing by the hearth, his pack meticulously cinched and waiting, made the air in the room feel thin.
"All set then?" Darius asked, his voice a little thicker than it had been at breakfast.
Scott nodded, sliding the heavy leather straps over his shoulders. The weight was significant, a physical reminder of every ration, every spare tunic, and the heavy spellbook that now served as his only anchor.
"I'll write," Scott promised, though they both knew the post between Barrowhill and the war fronts was a gamble at best. They weren’t even sure how long ago the summons had been sent out, honestly.
Darius stepped forward, gripping Scott’s upper arms with a strength that felt like he was trying to transfer a lifetime of courage into his son’s bones. "You’re a Springwell, Scott. You’ve got the earth in your blood and the stars in your head. Don't let those city-folk make you feel small." He pulled Scott into a brief, crushing hug. "Go on now. Before I start thinking I should come with you."
Scott didn't look back. He knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to lift his feet. He walked through the village gates as the sun hit its highest peak, the familiar sights of the blacksmith’s forge and the local tavern blurring into a smear of green and brown as he stepped onto the main road.
~~
The journey was a blur of aching joints and shivering nights.
Scott quickly realized that the map he had tucked into his pocket, a dusty relic from his father’s younger days, was a map of a world that no longer existed.
Landmarks had been burned away by war, and roads that were marked as "well-traveled" were now choked with thorns and debris. Fearing the open vulnerability of the coastal trade routes, Scott made a choice that would cost him his breath: he turned toward the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the mountain range.
The nights were the hardest. Wrapped in his bedroll beneath a canopy of indifferent stars, Scott stayed awake, his hand white-knuckled around his walking staff. On the horizon, the long, mournful howls of wolves echoed through the canyons. They never drew close; their cries always seemed to stay exactly at the edge of his perception, but the sound kept him in a state of constant, low-grade panic.
By the seventh day, the "High Mage" was a ghost of a man. His hair was matted with pine needles, his face was smudged with soot from small, sputtering campfires, and his boots were starting to lose their soles.
He was navigating a narrow, shale-covered ridge when the earth finally gave way.
It wasn't a dramatic collapse, just a sudden, treacherous slide of loose rock. Scott let out a strangled yelp as his feet went out from under him. He tumbled, the world spinning in a chaotic kaleidoscope of grey stone, blue sky, and the dark green of the valley below.
He slid and bounced down the steep embankment, his pack acting as a clumsy shield against the jagged rocks. With a final, bone jarring thud, he rolled through a dense thicket of bushes and landed face first in the soft, damp grass of a wheat field.
Gasping for air, Scott rolled onto his back. He was scratched, bruised, and his cloak was torn, but he was alive. As he squinted against the bright afternoon sun, he realized he wasn't alone. He hadn't come through the front gate; he had literally fallen into the heart of the Kingdom from above.
Towering over him was a man in gold-and-red armor that glinted like a lion’s mane in the light. Behind him stood a small, ragtag group of warriors and rogues.
"Well," the man in the lion armor said, looking down at the muddy, shivering half-elf at his feet. "The summons did say 'report at once,' but I didn't expect anyone to take a shortcut through the sky."
Scott tried to speak, but only a dry, dusty wheeze came out. He had reached the Blue Kingdom, but as he looked up at the battle-weary faces surrounding him, he felt smaller than he ever had in Barrowhill.
Scott groaned, the air in his lungs feeling like it had been replaced by mountain silt. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hands shaking so violently they threatened to vanish into thin air. Fumbling with the strap of his pack, he finally managed to tug out the crumpled, mud-stained parchment, the red wax seal now cracked and dull.
"I... I have a summons," he wheezed, holding the paper up like a white flag. "From the King. Scott Springwell. I’m here to... to serve."
The man in the lion-crested armor didn't move. He stood like a golden statue, his visor down, completely obscuring his face. Behind him, the others exchanged looks that ranged from pity to outright disbelief.
"The King is dead, lad," the armored man said, his voice echoing with a hollow, metallic gravity. "He fell weeks ago in the final siege. I am Owain, Head Knight of what remains of the Blue Kingdom."
Scott blinked, finally taking in his surroundings as he stood on wobbling legs. His father’s stories of "shining castles" and "towers of light" crumbled instantly. The perimeter walls were jagged and scorched. Half-collapsed wooden structures lined the paths, and the "Great Castle" in the distance looked more like a hollowed-out ribcage of stone.
"Decimated," Scott whispered, the word tasting like copper.
"We prefer 'recovering,'" a woman said, stepping forward with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach her tired eyes. She wore the light, dark leathers of a rogue. "I’m Maezes. Don't mind the mess; the ceasefire has given us a chance to breathe, at least. We're all just trying to put the pieces back together."
Beside her, a man who seemed to be made of shifting, translucent green slime nodded once. He didn't speak, his posture stiff and guarded.
"That's 4C," Maezes added softly. "He’s a man of few words, but he’s the best scout we’ve got left."
"And I’m Graecie," an older elven woman said, stepping toward Scott with an outspoken energy that felt like a warm breeze. She was dressed in practical knight’s plate, her silver hair tied back. "Welcome to the mess, Scott. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a fresh face, especially a High Mage who prefers mountain climbing to the front gate."
"He certainly made an entrance," a younger knight chimed in. He was leaning against a nearby fence post, his helmet tucked under one arm. He had a rambunctious glint in his eye, looking more like he was at a festival than a war front. "I’m Nom. Tell me, 'High Mage,' is falling out of bushes part of the official curriculum where you come from, or are you just a natural talent?"
Scott flushed a deep crimson, his fingers twitching toward his spellbook. "I... the map was old. I thought the mountains were safer than the coast."
Nom laughed, a bright, irreverent sound that seemed out of place in the ruins. "Safer? You’re lucky you didn't end up as a snack for a goat. But hey, if you can survive a mountain slide, maybe you can survive being a Mage in a kingdom with no roof."
Owain stepped forward again, his heavy boots crunching on the dry earth. The silence behind his visor was heavy. "The war is at a standstill, Springwell. Both sides are too broken to swing a sword. But a ceasefire is a fragile thing. We need mages to reinforce the foundations before the Red Kingdom remembers how to fight. Can you do that, or did you leave your power on the mountainside?"
Scott looked at his hands, then at the skeletal remains of the kingdom he was supposed to "save." The weight of his father’s pride felt like it was going to crush him.
"I... I'll do my best," Scott managed, though even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.
The heavy silence following Nom’s teasing was broken by the sound of rhythmic, heavy wings. From the direction of the skeletal watchtower, a woman descended with a grace that felt entirely out of place in the mud. Eloise landed softly, her swan-like feathers shimmering even under the layer of dust that coated everything.
"I am not a soldier," she said, her voice like wind through tall grass. "But I have watched this kingdom bleed from the treeline for too long. If you are rebuilding, you will need the air to carry your messages and the storms to guard your borders."
Owain shifted, his armored head tilting toward her. "A local? And you stayed out of the reach of the Red spears all this time? You’re either very lucky or very dangerous, Eloise."
Before she could answer, a frantic screaming erupted from the main gate. A woman in tattered blue robes, her massive, bushy brown hair wild with twigs and leaves, came sprinting into the ruins.
"They're insane! They're absolutely feral!" Shandrea shrieked, clutching a crumpled summons to her chest. "I only stepped an inch over the line! A woman with a spear, she nearly pinned me to a tree! Is this the Blue Kingdom? Please tell me there are walls here!"
Graecie caught the trembling water mage by the shoulders. "You're safe, dear. The ceasefire holds, mostly. That was likely just a Red scout marking her territory."
With three mages now standing in the center of the debris, the atmosphere shifted. Nom rubbed his chin, looking from the stoic Eloise to the frantic Shandrea, and finally back to the mud-caked Scott.
"Well," Nom grinned, his rambunctious energy returning. "We’ve got a bird, a bush-vined runner, and a mountain-tumbler. Do any of you actually know how to use those fancy staves, or are they just expensive walking sticks? Show us what the 'High Command' saw in you."
Eloise didn't wait for a second invitation. Her expression remained cool, almost detached. She didn't reach for a book; she simply opened her arms.
FROOOM.
A violent, localized blast of pressurized air erupted from her center. The shockwave was invisible but absolute, slamming into the knights and rogues like a physical wall. Owain’s heavy plate clattered as he was shoved back five feet; Nom tumbled into the dirt, and even 4C’s liquid form rippled violently from the impact.
"Impressive," Owain grunted, digging his heels into the mud. "And terrifying."
Shandrea, eager to prove she wasn't just a "bush-runner," stepped forward next. "I can—I can do more than run! Watch!" She held her staff aloft and began her casting, her face scrunched in fierce concentration. A sphere of water began to pull from the moisture in the air, swirling in front of her. She took aim at a nearby charred fence post, but as she went to launch the blast, her magic fizzled. The mana lost its shape, and the water simply collapsed, splashing harmlessly over her own boots.
"It's a work in progress!" she squeaked, turning bright red.
Then, all eyes turned to Scott.
Scott felt his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at Owain’s faceless visor, then at Nom, who was currently picking himself up and waiting for a show.
"I... I specialize in subtlety," Scott stammered, his hands trembling as he pulled out his leather-bound book. "Invisibility. For scouting. It’s better if... if you don't watch. It helps me focus."
The group, sensing his genuine panic, turned their backs. "Go on then, Springwell," Nom called out over his shoulder. "Make yourself scarce."
Scott stared at the sigils on the page. He whispered the incantation, pushing every ounce of his nervous energy into the spell. He felt the cold rush of mana, but instead of the quiet, folding sensation of invisibility, he felt a jagged snap in the air.
"Did he do it?" Nom asked, turning around before the signal.
He stopped dead. The clearing wasn't empty. It was crowded.
Where there had been one mud-stained Scott, there were now seven. They were identical—every scratch on their faces, every pine needle in their hair, perfectly mirrored. The doppelgangers stood in a daze, mimicking Scott’s own panicked breathing.
"Mirror Image?" Graecie whispered, her elven eyes widening. "Scott, that's... that's not scouting magic. That's a hall of mirrors."
Nom, never one to let a mystery sit, marched up to the nearest Scott. "It’s a trick. Just light and fog." He pulled back a fist and punched the image square in the chest.
CRACK.
The image didn't just vanish; it shattered like a frozen sheet of glass. A blinding flash of white light exploded outward, followed by a concussive pop of magical force.
"MY EYES!" Nom shrieked, stumbling back and clutching his face as the blast singed the air. "I can't see! Everything's white! Why does it smell like ozone and failure?!"
The real Scott, tucked away near the well, watched his own fakes shift and shimmer. He hadn't hidden himself; he had multiplied his own shame.
"It wasn't supposed to do that," Scott whispered, his voice echoing from six different mouths at once.
The sudden, violent crack of the magical feedback left a ringing silence in the clearing. Scott stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He could see Nom stumbling back, clutching his eyes, and the armored form of Owain tensing as if he were ready to draw his blade against a threat he couldn't see.
I’ve ruined it, Scott thought, the cold dread of his nightmare washing over him. I haven’t even been here an hour, and I’ve blinded their knight.
As his panic spiked, the tether to his mana frayed. With a soft, musical chiming sound, the half-dozen doppelgangers shattered into harmless light, dissolving into the afternoon air like morning mist. The "High Mage" was alone again, standing small and mud-stained near the well.
"I... I’m sorry!" Scott gasped, his hands flying to his mouth. "I was trying to focus... it was supposed to be invisibility. I didn't mean to...."
"Blimey!" Nom’s voice cut through Scott’s apology. The knight was blinking rapidly, tears streaming down his face as his vision cleared. He rubbed his eyes with the back of a gloved hand, a wide, lopsided grin slowly spreading across his face. He let out a sharp, barking laugh that echoed through the skeletal remains of the nearby houses. "That’s one way to win a fight! If I can't see you, I can't hit you, can I?"
He shook his head, looking at Scott with a new, albeit mischievous, respect. "A bit more 'boom' than I expected from a guy who falls out of bushes, but I’ll give it to ya—it’s a hell of a trick."
Owain didn't laugh. The golden lion on his chest seemed to glow in the fading sun. "Powerful magic," the Head Knight observed, his voice heavy and unreadable behind the visor. "But unpredictable. We are a kingdom built on stone and iron, Scott. We need stability. I hope your 'glitches' don’t end up holding us back when the Red Kingdom decides the ceasefire is over."
He turned his head, surveying the wreckage of the Great Hall and the leaning cottages. "There are no servants here. No royal chambers. Most of the buildings are unoccupied because the people who lived in them are gone. Find a roof that doesn't leak, if you can find one, and make it yours. We are all that’s left of the Blue Kingdom. Every hand that isn't holding a staff will be holding a broom or a hammer by morning."
Graecie gave Scott a reassuring pat on the shoulder before she turned to help Shandrea, who was still trying to dry her boots. One by one, the group began to drift away. Maezes and 4C vanished toward the perimeter to check the traps.
Scott stayed by the well, his heavy pack still pulling at his tired shoulders. He watched in silence as the "legends" of the Blue Kingdom began the mundane, gritty work of survival, hauling charred timber, clearing debris, and trying to find home in a graveyard.
The weight of the parchment in his pocket felt heavier than ever. He was a Mage in a land of ruins, and for the first time since leaving Barrowhill, he realized that "stepping into the light" meant there was nowhere left to hide.
Scott adjusted the heavy straps of his pack, his boots crunching on the packed earth of what used to be a bustling thoroughfare. It was barely a dirt path now, choked with weeds and the grey dust of pulverized masonry.
As he stepped around the skeletal remains of a merchant’s stall, he caught the low rumble of Owain’s metallic voice and the melodic lilt of Eloise’s. They were standing near the center of the path, surveying the damage. Scott took a steadying breath and approached, his voice small in the vast, open ruins.
"Excuse me... Sir Owain? Eloise? What... what should I help with first?"
Owain turned his lion-headed helm toward Scott, the bronze scales of his armor catching the late afternoon light. Without a word, he began to walk toward the inner citadel, gesturing for Scott and Eloise to follow.
"The paths are in shambles, and the homes are little more than hearths," Owain said, his voice echoing with a heavy, grim history. "A month ago, this was a kingdom of a hundred souls. Now?" He gestured vaguely at the small handful of people scattered through the wreckage. "We are all that remains. The Red Kingdom had double our numbers—two hundred strong. They hit us hard, Scott. We’re only 'equal' now because they suffered worse."
He looked toward the jagged mountain peaks that cradled the valley like a stone crown. "They wrecked our home, it’s true. But stone remembers where wood forgets. Their kingdom was built of timber; when the fire came, it took everything. We have the mountains at our back and the gatehouse at our front, but a fortress is only as strong as the people inside it."
They reached the stone bridge that arched over the lake toward the ruined castle. Below them, the water lapped against a submerged windmill turbine, its blades tangled with silt and lake-weed.
"The turbine," Owain muttered, a hint of frustration in his tone. "Useless until it's cleared."
"I've decided to take charge of the windmill," Eloise said, her voice like a cool breeze. She gave Scott a small, encouraging nod. "I’ll have the blades cleared and the air moving again soon."
Owain grunted. "We’re currently monarchless, which is a dangerous thing for a kingdom in recovery. There’s to be a ceremony later today, a formal naming. We need to look like a kingdom again before then."
"It’s all a bit overwhelming," Scott admitted, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his blue cape. "I promise I can do the magic better. It’s just that there are so many new people. My nerves just got the better of me."
Eloise reached into the folds of her white robes and pulled out her golden, curved staff. "I understand. The first time I held this," she said, running a finger over the polished wood, "it felt floppy. The magic wouldn't catch. It was a mess."
Scott looked at her staff, then thought of Shandrea’s ornate staff from earlier. He looked down at his own hands, which were empty save for the heavy, weathered spellbook tucked under his arm. A fresh wave of inadequacy washed over him. They all have staves, he thought. Actual focuses. I'm just a boy with a book and some gardening shears.
"I... I have other skills, too!" he blurted out, desperate to prove he wasn't just a 'glitch' in a cape. "I’m very knowledgeable in plants. Herbs, vegetables... I can grow things."
Owain actually stopped walking. Even behind the mask, Scott could feel a flicker of genuine interest. "A gardener? We lost ours in the siege. The stores are low, and the soil is sour. If you can make things grow in this ash, Springwell, you’ll be worth more than any High Mage."
Before Scott could respond, a cold, wet shiver ran down his spine. He whirled around to find 4C standing less than an inch behind him, the slime-man’s translucent body rippling silently. Scott let out a tiny yelp, nearly tripping over his own boots. At the same time, Nom approached from the other side, a smirk already playing on his lips.
"Gah! 4C!" Owain barked, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his Zweihänder. "I thought you were going to jump the lad! Give him some space."
4C tilted his dripping head, his voice a soft, gurgling murmur. "Never. Just... observing."
Owain let out a huff of air through his visor. He looked 4C up and down, his stoic professionalism slipping for a moment into pure, blunt curiosity. "Actually... what exactly are you? I've seen many things in the King's service, but never someone made of... well, that."
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the group.
"Owain!" Graecie shouted from across the path, her silver spear catching the light. "You can't just ask someone that!"
"Honestly, the manners on this lion," Nom muttered, though he looked more amused than offended.
Owain froze, his armored shoulders slumping slightly as he realized he’d stepped over a social line he didn't even know existed. "I... my apologies, 4C. I meant no offense. My loyalty is to the kingdom, and sometimes my tongue is as blunt as a training sword. I didn't realize it was... sensitive."
Scott looked between the shimmering liquid form of 4C and the immovable bronze of Owain. "Have you... have you seen people like me then? Elves?"
Eloise let out a soft, airy hum. "Surely he has, Scott. We aren't that rare, even in the ruins."
"Yes," Owain rumbled, his head dipping in a stiff nod. "I have seen your kind before, Springwell. My apologies again, 4C. It was a lapse in conduct."
Scott bit his lip, his curiosity momentarily outweighing his nerves. "What about you, Sir Owain? If you’re so curious about other races... what do you look like under the armor?"
The air around Owain seemed to grow cold. He stood straighter, the scales of his plate catching the low sun. "I took an oath," he deflected, his voice flat and final. "This armor is my skin. It does not come off while the Kingdom breathes."
Then, in a sudden, brash movement that made Scott jump, Owain reached for a hand-axe at his belt and tossed it. It landed with a dull thud in the dirt at 4C’s feet. "I have insulted you," Owain announced, his voice echoing with a strange, martinet-like intensity. "I must atone. Take it."
"Owain, stop!" Graecie cried out, rushing forward to put a hand on his gold-filigreed pauldron. The rest of the Blue Kingdom members were gathering now, their faces pale. "It was a slip of the tongue, not a declaration of war! No one is hurting anyone."
4C didn't pick up the axe. Instead, he rippled, appearing a little closer to Owain than he had been a second ago. Owain grunted, his hand instinctively patting his side pockets. "Sneaky devil... you've been in my pockets, haven't you?"
4C didn't answer, but the slight shimmer in his green form suggested a silent, liquid smirk. It was a fair trade: one prying question for one prying hand.
"Come on, the sun is setting!" Graecie shouted, steering the group toward the castle. "Let’s see the state of the old girl!"
They crossed the bridge in a chaotic line, hopping over jagged gaps in the stone where the Red Kingdom’s catapults had found their mark. As they pushed through the massive, charred oak doors, Graecie took the lead with a welcoming chatter. "Don't mind the spiders, everyone! She just needs a bit of a scrub and some new masonry. A little love and she'll be glowing again."
Inside, the Great Hall was a forest of shadows and dust motes. Owain stood in the center, his lion helm tilted toward the hole in the roof. "The war took the ceiling," he muttered. "The Red Kingdom is recovering, but they are restless. We must be ready."
A murmur of agreement and dread rippled through the group. Scott leaned against a cold stone pillar, muttering under his breath, "This is a big step up... the worst I had to worry about at home was getting pricked by the rosebushes."
In the background, a blur of motion caught his eye. 4C was being particularly rambunctious, darting in and out of Nom’s personal space. Nom’s pockets seemed to be emptying at a record pace.
"Hey!" Nom laughed, spinning around as 4C snatched a coin purse. "You slimy little—give that back!" 4C chirped a gurgling laugh and bolted up a collapsed staircase. Nom took off after him, yelling playfully, "I need that for the ceremony, you menace!"
"Should we... is the stealing a problem?" Scott asked, looking worriedly at Graecie.
"Oh, hush," Graecie smiled, waving a hand. "The rogues are harmless, Scott. They won't cause any real trouble. It’s just how they show affection."
Owain finally turned his head toward the shadows where Maezes had been standing quietly. "And you, Mae? Are you planning on pickpocketing the Head Knight, too?"
As if on cue, both Mae and 4C seemed to simply... cease to be. They didn't move; the light just stopped hitting them. Their stealth took hold, washing them into the stone's grey background until they were practically invisible.
Scott watched the spot where they had been. A spark of determination lit up his green eyes. He pulled his leather-bound book from his belt, flipping to the page he had struggled with earlier. I can do this. I have to do this.
"Springwell, wait—" Owain called out, his hand reaching out as if to stop another explosion of mirror images.
But Scott didn't panic this time. He whispered the incantation, visualizing the way the light bent around Eloise's wings and 4C's slime. Blink.
Scott vanished.
The air where he stood shimmered for a fraction of a second before becoming perfectly clear. Moving with a silence he didn't know he possessed, Scott took a light, nimble hop back onto the banister of the stairs, looking down at the group from his hidden perch.
"Well," Graecie laughed, looking at the empty space where the boy had been. "Look at that. We have another sneaky one among us now."