The Game Of Souls

The Obsidian Chamber was alive.

Shadows stretched across its walls, writhing like living things, twisting and pulling as if drawn toward the woman seated at the center of the room. Naeria-- Velmoria's High Mantra-- perched upon her throne, a jagged mass of stone pulled from the depths of The Void itself. It didn't shine like ordinary rock. Instead, it swallowed the light, refracting faint hues of purple and black like an open wound.

Whispers, faint and ceaseless, filled the infamous meeting chamber, spiraling and twining into a chorus just low enough to know they only spoke for her. For the woman sitting there, with her leg propped up on an armrest of her seat. The one that everyone feared-- the one that only mattered. The High Coven stood before her throne in a perfect semicircle, their robes marking their respective schools of magic. None dared to look too long into her eyes-- void like pools threaded with silver.

On this day, The High Mantra took form as a mid-aged woman. Beautiful, unnerving, with pin straight black hair and a perfectly angular face. She leaned forward slightly, resting her pale, spidery fingers on her thigh.

"My dear children," She began, her voice loud and demanding, "Tell me. Are we ready to open the gates?"

One woman, with coils of black hair, purplish-red eyes, and a pinstriped black dress, sneered at the notion. That was good enough proof--Scarlet certainly wasn't fond of the thought of outsiders flooding in already.

Selkie stepped foward first. Her icy blue robe rippled like ocean waves as she moved, a faint mist curling off her as if she had just been in a snowstorm. "The storm barriers are in place, High Mantra," Selkie said. "Once the competitors enter the Games, they will not be able to leave Velmoria until the Games are over."

The High Mantra tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, "Good. And the waters themselves? Have you prepared them to... greet any who stray?"

Selkie's lip twitched, though whether it was in amusement or discomfort, it was hard to tell, "I have. If they wander too far, the sea will claim them before they reach the shore."

The Mantra smiled faintly, her teeth white against her bloodless lips, "Perfect."

Her eyes lingered around the group before landing on Scarlet. She smiled a bit wider, tilting her head even more, "Scarlet. Do you have any updates on my contracts?"

At that, Scarlet finally cracked a faint grin. Her clammy complexion, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes made it come off as uncanny and unsettling.

"They are ready to be sealed at your command, High Mantra," she spoke.

"Good," The Mantra purred, her voice curling slightly though the chamber. She leaned back into her throne, her fingers drumming lazily against the armrest, "Ensure every stroke of ink and every drop of blood is precise. You know how much I detest... imperfections."

"I am well aware," Scarlet replied, bringing up a raven skull engraved with cryptic runes. "My little friend and I have it all planned out, down to the last drop."

The High Mantra's smile stretched wider. Her gaze lingered on the raven skull, "You've outdone yourself, Scarlet. I trust you'll oversee their oaths personally? I'd hate for even the smallest clause to slip past unnoticed."

"Of course, High Mantra," Scarlet replied.

The Mantra's attention shifted again, her dark eyes sweeping over the other members of the Coven. Finally, they landed on Furia Grail, with her long pipe, black cloak with red inner-lining, and a wide-brim black hat shadowing her eyes. Furia met her gaze without flinching, the only one who dared to let her defiance shine through.

"And you, Furia?" The High Mantra said, her tone deceptively sweet, "How do your flames fare? Are they prepared to remind these... participants of the consequences of arrogance?"

Furia removed the tip of her long pipe from her lips, the smoke still trailing out from its bowl. She smirked playfully. "Of course. Only the best for you, High Mantra."

"Always," The Mantra grinned, pointing at Furia's pipe, "Give that to me."

"Well, I did just stock some fresh leaves in here..." Furia took another long breath on her pipe, the smoke starting to circle her as if to signal who the conduit belonged to. "It would be a shame to let them go to waste."

Naeria's eyes narrowed slightly, her smile remaining, but now with a razor sharp edge. The room seemed to darken in responde, the shadows stretching closer to Furia as if summoned by the Mantra's pure irritation.

"You mistake me, Furia," The Mantra said, her voice dropping to an eerie calm, "I wasn't asking."

Before Furia could respond, the pipe disappeared from Furia's hand with a flick of the Mantra's wrist, dissipating into thin air. The Mantra chuckled, "Such naive children. Get out of my chambers, Furia."

Despite the sharp edge gained to Furia's golden-amber eyes, shadowed by the wide brim of her black hat as if to emphasize their bitterness. However, her cheeky smirk remained as she just barely dipped her head to the Mantra and turned to leave.

Naeria's gaze locked onto Saffira, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she observed the woman before her. There was something unsettingly still about Saffira. A serpent in the grass, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Saffira," Naeria purred, "How fares the Epidemic Bloom?"

Saffira's lips parted into a chilling smile, "It is ready, High Mantra. The pollen is finely tuned. A touch in the air, and those who breathe it in will fall victim to my... little bloom. It will spread through their veins, forcing them into endless slumber-- or worse, depending on how much they inhale. Some will suffocate from it. Others... well, they'll wish they had."

Saffira's fingers twitched at her side, and for a moment, the faintest floral scent filled the air.

"Impressive, as always, Saffira, but tell me..." The High Mantra smiled, as if edging her on. The Mantra found entertainment in Saffira, she admired the Poison Mage's insanity. It reminded her of the Void itself. "What would happen if you -- just you-- were to breathe it in? Would you fall asleep like the rest of them? Or would you be... immune?"

Saffira's eyes glittered with something akin to madness-- sharp, electric, and wild. Her smile remained fixed,"I am the bloom, High Mantra. I control it. It bends to me. I am it's creator, its mother," she cooned, "No, I wouldn't fall asleep. I would savor it. But if you were to try it... perhaps you'd like the results even more than I do."

The High Mantra shook her head, "Oh, I'm sure I would. But lets not test your creations on me just yet. Not when there is so much more to be done," she turned her attention to Circe, the Coven's spirit and fortune mage, "Circe. What have you been working on, my dear?"

Circe stepped forward. Her black and bluish-purple robes swished with her steps, as did her long black braid and the sheer violet veil hanging from its base.

"High Mantra," she spoke calmly. "My predictions remain rather solid. The odds of anything...unsavory arising from our selections have only decreased. No sign of any ill omen yet."

"Wonderful. Last thing we need is Ardere to try and get this whole thing shut down again. Remember what happened fifty years ago when your prediction was wrong?" The Mantra hummed, tilting her head again.

Circe masked any sign of doubt and stood firm. "I've honed my skills since then and doubled down in my search. I believe these participants will bring no serious trouble, and we have prepared for just about everything that could possibly go wrong."

"I would hope so. You always impress me, do not falter this time around. This one is important," The Mantra shifted her gaze to Phyra, the Coven's beloved air and sky mage, "Phyra, how about you?"

The air mage stepped forward, pushing her her long, curly blonde hair behind her shoulders. She didn't make any expression, and refused to make eye contact with the Mantra. Phyra was... different, atleast in the Mantra's eyes. She always did her duties and excelled, but rarely spoke or showed any type of emotion. Naeria could respect it, but sometimes it got on her nerves. After all, the Mantra did love entertainment.

Phyra spoke gently, her voice barely heard over the tapping of her shoe on the polished wood beneath them, "The skies are ready, High Mantra. I have a few storms brewing already."

"Lovely," The Mantra clicked her tongue, eyes scanning the group for the the last remaining Coven member-- Sable. Naeria didn't speak, and instead waited for Sable to make the first move.

"High Mantra," Sable tilted her head in respect, but cleared her throat as if she wasn't taking any of this seriously, "The tremors have been locked. Seismic shifts have been adjusted for precision. Everything is ready."

"Music to my ears!" The Mantra jumped up, "So we're all set then!"

"Yes, High Mantra," Sable adjusted her footing, "We are ready for the participants."

"Bring them in, then," The High Mantra chuckled, "I'm ready to make some deals."

The wind howled as it swept through the cliffs of Velmoria, carrying the scent of damp earth and mist. It curled through the valleys and jagged peaks, sending an electrical current through Nyx's body. A storm was coming. Nyx could feel it in her bones, in the way the pressure shifted in the air, in the fine tremors crawling up her spine.

She sat on the edge of a rocky boulder on a cliff, one leg bent, the other dangling over the abyss below. The drop below was steep, the kind that would welcome a body with open arms and never return it. But she wasn't afraid. She had never been afraid of falling. It was the silence she feared, the stillness-- the moment before a storm where everything held its breath.

And yet, Velmoria had been silent for far too long.

Nyx twirled a small, jagged rock between her fingers, her eyes locked onto the horizon. Above, the clouds stirred, shifting like seafoam. It was always like this before a storm. She knew because she had spent her whole life chasing them, standing beneath their bellies-- almost daring them to strike down at her. She liked challenging the storms. She could feel her ancestors fueling them. Still, no matter how often she challenged the skies, they never struck down on her.

Lightning didn't strike it's own. That's just how it was.

Her parents had once tried to sheild her from this hunger, from the storms she chased. Her mother, with her blood rituals and incantations, had tried to bind Nyx's power, fearing the storm rage might become her. Her father, the blacksmith, had forged her wand, Bolt, with a heavy heart-- knowing that nothing was going to change, no matter how much he had prayed to the Mantra.

Nyxira assumed her parents died to their bargain lost to the High Mantra. She doesn't know what it was, but she knew what to expect when two of the Mantra's soldiers showed up at her doorstep with a crinkled parchment letter in their hand.

Sometimes, she could still feel her mother's hand around hers when she summoned the clouds. And when she used Bolt, there was something about the way the handle grew hotter that let her know her father wasn't dead. She could feel it.

She reached into the folds of her mother's old red cloak and pulled out a letter that arrived at her door that morning. The same old parchment from the day her parents left. Black wax seal, with the sigil of the High Mantra, a snake intertwining a rose. With a sharp inhale, Nyx broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Her eyes skimmed the words:

To Nyxira Vaelith,

The Void has sung of your light and your hunger. You have been chosen.

The Game of Souls awaits. You seek power, you seek control to become something greater than what you are.

The Void watches. And so do I.

Step into the storm, Nyxira. Come make a bargain with me. Saffira Thorneclaw has chosen you to be their participant, so meet me at the Coven's Keep as soon as you get this letter.

Yours,
The High Mantra

The wind tore at the parchment in her hands as Nyx read the words again. And again.

She had always known this moment would come. It was a quiet, inevitable thing. The Games, the ultimate test of magic, will, and survival. For some, this was a death token, for others, an opportunity. For Nyx, it was a damn reckoning.

She exhaled, slow and steady, before folding the letter and tucking it inside her cloak. No hesitation. No fear. The storm rumbled above her, and she stood, brushing the dust from her cloak, and turned back to the winding path that led her home. It wasn't a long walk, Nyx usually hung out on the cliff to get away from things. The trail that led back to her house was quick, only about five minutes in total. On the way, the raven's chirped and the tall, evergreen trees swayed with the wind. She smiled as a raindrop hit her cheek.

Eventually, there Nyx stood, at the threshold of her home. She stared at the weathered, wooden door that used to be her fathers. The hinges creaked as she pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit foyer. Dust motes clinged to the wall, illuminated by the lanterns that she left burning the night before. The scent of iron, soot, and aged parchment was something she got used to.

She didn't own much. A few sets of clothes, worn and practical. A handful of books, mostly filled with scribbled notes on storms and magic. A dagger her father had crafted. Everything else had been lost over the years, swallowed by time. She moved quickly, grabbing what little she needed. A satchel slung over her shoulder, filled with her essentials. She strapped Bolt securely to her side and took one last look at the home that had never truly felt like one, then turned on her heel and stepped back outside.

Tonight, she would meet with the High Mantra and make the bargain she'd been waiting to make for years.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

After a long four hour trip by foot, Nyx found herself on the High Mantra's doorstep. It was located on the east side of Velmoria, its spires clawing at the sky. For as long as Nyxira lived in Velmora, she had never seen the Coven's Keep in person. It was just as beautiful and intimidating as she imagined. No torches burned along the walls-- it seemed like light had no place here. The Keep breathed magic.

Nyx's boots echoed against the black stone steps as she ascended, her fingers tightening around the strap of her satchel. The guards at the enterance-- witches clad in deep violet robes and faces covered by silver masks-- didn't stop her. They just simply watched, as if they already knew exactly who she was.

She pushed forward, stepping through the massive iron doors and into the heart of the Keep.

It was colder inside. The halls twisted unnaturally, and Nyx could practically feel the High Mantra's influence. This place just simply radiated power. And then, from the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

She was clad in black and crimson-- a pinstriped dress, its slit revealing wine-red stockings. Her skin was pale, and her hair was black and wild, cascading in thick curls past her waist. But it was her eyes that stood out the most-- a haunting mix of red and violet, sharp as a dagger.

"You've come to bargain," she said, her voice smooth.

Nyx squared her shoulders, "I have. I got chosen for the Games. Nyxira Vaelith."

"Good. I know who you are," the womans lips quirked with something that wasn't quite a smirk.

She turned without another word, walking deeper into the Keep, her heels clicking softly against the stone. Nyx hesitated, eventually following. Was she supposed to follow?

"Scarlett Everbleed," the woman finally introduced herself, not looking back, "I write the contracts. I ensure the bargains are upheld. And I will be here to watch you sign your soul away."

"W-What?" Nyx stuttered. What was this woman talking about?

"All jokes. Maybe." Scarlet sighed before reaching a door that looked unlike the others. The door was bone. Not carved wood, not metal-- bone, blackened and charred. Scarlet placed her palm against it. The markings on the door slithered, rearranging themselves, and the door swung open by itself. Nyx stood there in awe, but didn't say a word.

Beyond it was darkness. A throne room with no torches, no visible walls. And at the center, waiting, was who Nyx assumed to be the High Mantra. She did not move, nor did she need to. Her presence was enough to send chills down Nyx's spine.

Nyx took the image of the Mantra in, though she was sure this wasn't the Mantra's true form. She looked like a human, draped in flowing black. Her silver eyes gleamed as they landed on Nyx, and a delicate hand rested beneath her chin, fingers adorned with metal rings. The Mantra's long, black hair cascaded down the side of her throne, almost touching the floor.

"Nyxira Vaelith," she spoke at last. Her voice was shocking, almost warm and inviting, but with a speck of manipulation etched in.

Nyx did not bow. Did not kneel.

The High Mantra smiled. It was slow, deliberate. Pleased, almost.

"You wish to enter my games and strike a bargain," she mused, "I must say, storm mages have never been subtle creatures," she tilted her head, "Lightning is impatient. It does not ask for permission before it strikes."

Nyx's fingers twitched at her side, "I want power," she said, voice almost shaky, "Real power. The kind no one can take from me."

Scarlet exhaled sharply through her nose. Amused.

The High Mantra, however, leaned forward, "Power is such a... delicate thing to bargain for," she murmered, "it is rarely given freely, and when it is taken, it is never without consenquence."

Scarlet, unfazed, made a quick move and pulled out a roll of parchment. The paper was thick, lined wih faint crimson veins. She unrolled it with a practiced ease, revealing a contract already half-formed.

"You know the terms," Scarlet said, smirking, "Everything comes at a price."

Nyx glanced at the parchment, then back at the High Mantra. "What's the cost?"

The Mantra's silver eyes gleamed even more, "The peace in your soul," she purred, "the storm inside you will never end. If you win the games, you will weild the full untamed power of the skies. But if you lose... you will never again know stillness. No silence. No calm. No moment of rest. Only the tempest."

Nyx's fingers curled into fists. She lives with the storms, but this... this would be forever. And yet-- she thought of her parents. Their faces flickering in her memory. The way their lives had been stripped away, peice by peice, until nothing remained. She thought of the power she craved-- the power she needed to make sure she was never weak again.

She reached for the dagger.

Scarlet's lips curled at the edges, just slightly, as she handed over the parchment.

Nyx lifted the blade without hesitation, pressing it lightly against her palm until it punctured the surface. She dragged the paper across her skin, barely wincing at the light sting. The parchment absorbed it instantly. The contract sealed itself.

The High Mantra leaned back in her chair, satisfied, "Then it is done. Scarlet, show our dear friend to the Game Chambers. She can wait for the others before they meet their Guardians."

Guardians. Nyx forgot about that part of the letter.

Scarlet rolled up the contract and tucked it away swiftly before speaking, "Come on," she said, already heading towards the door, "The Game Chambers aren't far."

Nyx followed, wiping the excess blood from her hand on her robe. She really just made a bargain with the High Mantra. She just hoped that once the games began, she wasn't going to regret it.

The sky seemed particularly stormy in Jae Serenus's corner of Velmoria today. A blanket of gray hues covered the atmosphere, stirring a thick sense of moisture and petrichor in the air. It brought out the darkness of the dense evergreen woodland, and the cold feeling of the looming mountains in the distance, from which mist trailed down.

Jae had a near-perfect view of it all from his window, in the ebony tower of an ancient library. This was his territory; he knew every crack in the weathered floor, and had observed at it grayed to the hue of umber-tinted ash. The windows, set in the pale taupe walls, were traced with dark iron. He had these panes memorized, as well as each layer of the scenery. From the needles of frost that crept across the glass in winter, to the summer sun painting the mountains in golden light.

For now, Jae exhaled heavily, his breath fogging up the pane as he sat with his cheek against one hand. In the other hand, a worn book with the alchemical symbol for air was draping half-closed.

"Clouds this dense..." Jae sneered to himself, "Either very spontaneous weather, or someone in the coven is having a bad day."

He watched the clouds, swirling and dancing across the sky yet refusing to pass. It took another few moments before he ultimately closed the book and rose to his feet. As his white hair fell loose, nearly to his shoulders, he took a moment to re-tie the front and top layers into a short, high tail. Then he took a moment to adjust his gray quarter-sleeve shirt, navy-blue vest, and the sheer, slightly-tattered white drape that hung over his tight-fitting black pants.

Jae descended the spiral iron staircase leading back down to the floor of the library, not a creak to be heard, nor a click from his gladiator-style sandals. It was as if his steps were lighter than air.

Descending all the way to the main level of the ancient library, Jae took a moment to search out the keeper. She was down one of the isles of tomes, which emitted the strong scent of aged parchment and ink.

Jae approached and spoke, "Beg your pardon, Ms. Graves."

"Eh?" The keeper turned to face him, showing off an aged face. The rust-colored hair spilling out from her black hood was peppered with gray.

"Would you have a moment, by chance?" Jae asked.

Ms. Graves sighed, "I told you, I've no other tomes on air magics, at least not ones I can hand out freely. With that one in your hand there, you've read just about all of them."

Jae grunted, discontent. "Half the information focused on lightning manipulation, which isn't my focus, and everything else just repeated other books. Come now, Ms. Graves, you know me. You can surely trust me with something more austere, can't you?"

Ms. Graves shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no. I could get in trouble if I dole out any deeper tomes."

Jae narrowly held in an annoyed groan, letting it burn in his throat.

The primary reason he chose to stay in this town for so long was due to the library, one of the oldest yet standing in Velmoria. Tome after tome--sometimes he would dip into subjects that caught his eye, or splurge on lore and gritty adventure tales. But more than anything, he thirsted for knowledge of magic. Its origins, the Void, the Mantra, the High Coven, and anything that could boost his own skill in wind spells.

After all, how could he not be fascinated? The very concept of magic was bewildering. Fellow man, warping the elements around them with their own body, mind, and spirit. A gift to youths from the High Mantra herself, and who was this mysterious entity, to grant such incredible power with reckless abandon? Who were those among the coven, to take a position higher than anyone else?

Jae blinked hard, rubbing his temple. It felt like every day, his mind would flood with these questions and then some, yet answers were vague at best and nonexistent at worst.

Ms. Graves's eyes narrowed. "And before you try to talk any more information out of me, don't think I'm not wary of that 'reputation' you bring up."

This again, eh? Jae spoke smoothly, with a charming half-smile, "What do you wish to question? Of course I'm no perfect being, and bragging is the last thing I want to do, but coming from elite merchants and prime schools? I would hope that history carries the weight it does, given the tooth and nail you have to fight to get into them. Needless to mention the Arcanic Institution--they're the entire reason I've relocated here."

Ms. Graves sighed, "You're right. Sorry, Jae, I suppose I'm overthinking things; it's just not every day that somebody pops up in the town with those credentials."

Jae refrained from laughing, himself. Of course he had warped that truth. He didn't take pride in being such a seamless liar, but it was a skill he had refined just as much as his magic, and he wouldn't let it go to waste. Not when there were plenty of fools that would turn their nose up at his true history, coming from disgraced parents, a criminal record, a school for "correcting" delinquents, and one half-decent place for Sky Mages. No, why let his name be squandered when he knew every bit of language that would impress these types--and could convince them it was true?

"Anyway..." Jae handed over the book. "Are you sure there isn't anything else you can provide me?"

"Mr. Serenus-"

"Please, even just a few preserved pages," Jae insisted. "This would be incredible for my research. I could get a letter of recommendation from someone higher up in the Institution, if it would help."

Ms. Graves bit her lip, then lowered her voice, "Alright, I may--may be able to scrounge something up. For you alone. But you didn't get it from me, got it?"

Jae nodded. "Yes, of course. Thank you very much, Ms. Graves, I will owe you for this."

"Yeah, yeah," the old woman grumbled. "Now if you're done here, you ought to run back before it starts pouring. You may be a sky mage, but I doubt rain is your specialty."

Jae laughed--a charming, melifluous laugh that could easily become contagious. "You're right about that much. Alright, I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Once Jae crossed the threshhold of the library doors, heavy slabs of ebony wood featuring stained glass, his smile faded in an expression of mild irritation. Another roadblock in his quest for information.

As Jae meandered across the town's cobblestone roads, dodging buggies and steeds, he made note of the many people retreating inside the humble buildings of dark or ebony wood. Those with more prestige stood out with fine Gothic detail, from their spires to their lancet windows. The dip in activity was typically a sign that some sky mage had tipped off the locals about how severe the storm was going to be. Jae didn't care--rain wasn't his specialty, but he didn't mind it, especially when it came with strong winds.

Already, he could feel a light sprinkling and a moderately strong breeze. Caught up in the moment, Jae upped his pace, until he reached the stretch of tree-enclosed pathway leading to his isolated flat. With a single jump, a steady gust snaked off-course and under his feet, carrying him down the road in a flash. At the end, he hopped off, landing without a sound.

However, as Jae approached his humble home, a building with dark gray-toned walls and shingles like black scales, he felt something off. Akin to eyes watching him, even though the woods seemed emptier than normal.

Jae slowed down before opening the door, and immediately saw something amiss.

At his feet, slid under the door, was an envelope formed from silky parchment and a black wax seal. There was no label or name.

Jae picked up the envelope, then broke the seal and slid the note out.

The words stunned him.

The winds of fortune have been called to you, Jae. What will you choose to do with them?

If you are wise, you will follow them. To the Game of Souls, and on the other side, a chance to secure what you seek. Scarlet Everbleed has found promise in you, and I am eager to test her intuition. Come to the Coven's Keep as soon as you get this letter.

Yours,
The High Mantra

Jae slowly lowered the letter, his pale blue eyes fixed in a state of shock. The High Mantra herself? Naeria of the Void, the source of Velmoria's magic? What could he have done to warrant this kind of invitation, and furthermore, what was this mysterious 'Game Of Souls'?

Denial hit him like a knife in the gut--this would surely mean getting in over his head. Wouldn't it be dangerous as well? He had heard many horrific stories from people who crossed the Mantra, or caught the poor end of one of her infamous deals. What if he was the next soul to be trapped by one of those very deals?

Jae paused to think, calming the new storm that was brewing in his own mindspace. He had to be rational about this and think it through. At first, he remained in denial. The risks were surely too high, no matter the price, right?

However, slowly, another string of throught crept in. The Mantra must know the risks as much as they would,. That would imply the reward could be worth considering. Likewise, considering that the High Coven existed--and grew in its headcount since being established--it was obvious that there was a path to victory. Even if it was a narrow, treacherous one.

With another long period of thought, pacing up and down his own hallway, Jae made his choice.

"The wisdom I want is nowhere, not even the most obvious places here..."

He looked down at the letter again, and this time, he took something from a sheathe at his hip. A wand featuring pearlescent silver, a grip wrapped in white feathers, and piece of a flowing cotton veil at the tip. Lighter than air, yet as he gripped it in his hand, he could feel the power surging in his veins.

"This could be my only chance to find the answers I want."


\\\\\\


Jae spent hours reaching the Mantra's palace.

The strong gales of the rising storm allowed him to siphon more power, such that he could ride them most of the way. Likewise, where he did have to run on foot, it was practically a subconscious reaction to use the wind as it whipped around him, boosting each feather-light step to push him forward. The result was speed that would outrank the hares and foxes, and jumps high enough to clear the trees. Some would be able to see the spiraling mirage of air that would form around hit feet, or the scattered leaves and petals that got swept up in the crossfire.

Dismounting from a sweeping gale, at the edge of a path lined by black iron torches and purple flames, Jae took the final steps forward as the Mantra's palace manifested through the treeline. Its dark colors, ominous black spires, and shapes of pointed arches gave off a dramatic yet powerful energy.

He passed a couple of guards in violet robes and silver masks, none of them remarking on his presence. Yet he could feel the scrutiny of their hollow black eye-holes. Jae ascended the stairs and tested the dark iron doors. It took extra effort to force them open enough to step inside.

He could immediately see an array of branching corridors with rib vaulting along the roofs, twisting iron staircases, and ebony pillars engraved with runes. The cold, amber-scented air was dense with ethereal power, sending chills throughout his body.

He got a fair distance inside, as he made no sound to follow. Going far enough ahead, between two pillars, he could see a mosaic composed from dark, shimmering jewels. They depicted an obsidian-haired deity, reaching out to an cryptic force represented by a blend of deep crimson, violet, and onyx colors.

"Are you done snooping?"

Jae took a sharp breath, spinning to face the speaker. A pale woman with waves of black hair and a pinstriped black dress. He immediately felt threatened by her red-violet eyes, but his response to that was to stand firm, his brow lowering into a challenging scowl.

However, she merely snickered to herself. "I'm glad you made it. I just know you'll be a very interesting addition to the games. Although..." She stretched out one hand, hovering it above his head. "I didn't expect you to be this tiny. Even Phyra has you beat."

Jae smacked her hand away. "Do you mind? Who are you anyway?"

The woman hissed with laughter, a gravelly rasp in her voice. "Feisty! It's a good sign, but don't get ahead of yourself, kid. We're not the ones to be talking back to, that I promise you."

Jae felt annoyed already, but reluctantly bit his tongue.

"Good..." She stepped closer. "My name is Scarlet Everbleed."

Jae arched one brow. "Weren't you the one mentioned in the letter?"

"Most likely..." Scarlet chuckled again, "So you better not disappoint me. Anyway, first things first, it's time for you to meet the High Mantra. There's a little contract that needs to be taken care of, before you can proceed."

"Fine then," Jae mumbled.

Scarlet turned, leading the way. "Follow close now, no wandering. It's not a good idea to keep her waiting."

Through the dark halls of the palace, Scarlet led Jae with hardly another word between them. Jae used the time, taking in the views of the palace. The art and engravings told a story, and though many aligned with the history and magical knowledge he had already gleaned in his research, some of them stood out as cryptic and vague, shadowed in mystery. He could feel the hunger growing in him, eager to decipher them.

Eventually, Scarlet stopped at a looming door. At first, Jae thought it was ebony wood, but then went pale to realize it was charred bone. In a display of shifting runes, responding to Scarlet's touch, the door creaked open.

In the blackened room beyond, Jae could see a woman that immediately put him on edge.

She was cloaked in black robes, resting in an obsidian throne, and long locks of black hair nearly touched the floor around her. As her silver eyes fixed onto him, he felt like he was looking back into twin voids, ready to consume him.

"Jae Serenus," she spoke, her voice echoing with power.

Jae stepped forward, stopping a fair distance before her throne. His only greeting was a slight nod.

The Mantra formed the slightest, sinister smirk. "Silent. Yet cold. Much like the winds you command, hm? Judging from how quickly you got here, you must have quite the grip on them. Bending them to your will, forcing them to bow at your feet. It must feel...satisfying. Does it?"

"I break them, I use them, but then I release them," Jae spoke calmly. "They continue as if I never was. There's nothing more to it."

"Interesting..." The Mantra leaned forward slightly, gripping the edge of her throne's rigid obsidian armrest. "Tell me, Jae. What do you desire? What do you believe you reward should be, if you make it through my games?"

Jae took a deep breath. This much was easy. He took a firm step forward and steadied his voice.

"I want wisdom, your grace. Of magic. Where it comes from, why it is, how it is. Not just the magic that resides in me, or the magic of sky mages in general. Magic in the collective. I want know."

"Hmph..." The Mantra seemed less enthused by that answer. "Knowledge is a very personal thing. And knowledge of magic is personal to me..." She paused for a moment, leaning back into her seat once more. "I believe I could impart that knowledge onto you, should you prove your worth. However, I expect something equally personal to you..."

She watched him for a moment, and Jae quickly started to feel like her gaze was a dagger, cutting into his flesh. His stomach twisted itself into knots; whether from anxiety or an invisible power, this was making him sick.

Finally, the Mantra smirked again.

"That's it..." She spoke with chilling confidence, "In turn for all the wisdom I can give you, I'll need you to bargain your ability to lie."

There, Jae felt a shock course through his body. "W-Wait, what? My ability to...lie?"

"Oh honestly, that's a fair deal," the Mantra replied. "You've already gotten so many accolades with that silver tongue. Or you've convinced others of those accolades, anyway. You won't need it going forward, will you?"

The interrogative inflection in her voice read as a threat. How could the Mantra possibly bargain for--much less take--something so personal? Was that the reason for all the mortifying stories about deals gone wrong?

Even though Jae felt no pride in his lies, the idea of being unable to rely on them ever again made him more than a bit uneasy. Velmoria may have been a beautiful place, but it would eat the weak alive. It wasn't a rare instance when lying was necessary to survive, no different from having thick skin or even the slightest degree of magic competence.

However, the prize was strong in his mind--the very thing he wanted more than anything, from the highest source he could consult.

Jae took a deep breath and met the Mantra's gaze once more. "I accept these terms."

Scarlet grinned and produced a scroll. "Brilliant."

She flicked the scroll open in an instant, exposing the weathered parchment lined with crimson veins. Then, with one free hand, she extended a small silver dagger.

"Present your blood to it," Scarlet explained. "And the contract will be sealed."

Jae hesitated only for a moment, before taking the dagger. In one quick slash, he sliced into his palm and let the blood collect into a small pool in his hand. Then, he took the parchment and allowed it to spill onto it.

The parchment absorbed the blood, and Scarlet took both is and the dagger back.

"Well done," the Mantra spoke. "Scarlet, show him to the chambers."

Scarlet grinned and nodded. "Of course."

Balius missed the Wartorn Isles.

He'd been in Velmoria since he was sixteen, which was nearly a decade ago--though that was hard to believe. Velmoria had richer crops, with golden sunsets that dripped over the landscapes of tall-stretching wheat, spread out as far as the eye could see. Well--for a mile or two, anyway, at which point, one could re-enter the twisted forests, or take a road to the nearest village a few hours away. The Wartorn Isles, in contrast, were muddy and sunken. The beaches rarely had sand, only rocks and shipwrecks. Where there wasn't mud, there was dry, cracked dirt, and their crops had always been weak and withered. Every village he'd ever been to growing up had been in the process of rebuilding from the wars, or had given up on rebuilding, and was permanently scorched and collapsing, like the old, dead trees. He'd seen neighbors walk out of their houses every day by ducking to avoid the caving roof, and others with no roof at all. In storms, they'd all gathered in the biggest, most sturdy house--that of the baker--and huddled together to avoid the leaking rainwater and the lightning strikes that periodically slammed into the ground.

Anyone, including Balius, would agree that Velmoria was far more beautiful. It wasn't impoverished, and the children didn't run naked along the beach rocks, searching for dead fish washed ashore. Their children didn't limp home crying from feet impaled with shards of broken seashells-- an act Balius had had to do on numerous occasions, after not being careful enough. If someone were rich enough to take some sort of vacation, they were not going to choose the Wartorn Isles.

But still--he missed the smell of the sea in the air, and the sound of neighbors whispering about him. That wasn't something he'd expected to miss before leaving. Looking back though, it had all been out of kindness and concern. Not like here, where he was connected to nobody, and had no way of bridging that gap. Back home, it didn't matter if magic had made you a little crazy. The other kids hadn't cared--them with their dirt-covered bodies, ashen cheeks, ribs curving out of their sides. They'd been hungry, but they'd laughed all the same.

A hot, dry wind picked up, and Balius pushed his curly hair back from his eyes. Some of it had fallen out of the clasp at the back of his head. On instinct, he reached his hands up gently, pulling his straw hat off and tucking it under his arm to redo his hair. He replaced his hat and sighed as he knelt down again, setting his knees against the moistened dirt. It was too hot in Velmoria. For all the rain and storms, he missed the mist that clung constantly in the air back home. He'd never felt fully dry, not unless he was inside and under a blanket.

He needed to focus. He blinked a few times, trying to push the thoughts out of his mind as he went back to pulling weeds out of the ground. There hadn't been much weeding to do back home because hardly any plants grew in the first place. They'd had to rely mostly on imports, of course, but that hadn't been so bad, as long as Balius had been able to gather some valuable things to trade and sell.

He fingered the necklace he wore thoughtfully, nails tapping against the one pearl on the string. Back home, pearls had been valuable--sacred, even. If you were privileged enough to save up money, a pearl was the way to do it. It was harder to steal, and easier to keep with you at all times. It was also easier to hide than money, with its small size. You could build a sizable nest egg with a string of pearls. He remembered the day his father and him had gone to buy this one--the elation he'd felt. It was one of the few days he hadn't been hit hard with some sort of terrible vision of something awful happening to one of them-- lightning killing his father, or Balius himself slipping on the rocks and drowning in the ocean. None of them ever came true, of course. None of the visions like that, anyway.

It was an odd thing--his magic. It seemed like only once in every fifty visions he was given, did it actually come true. They were always so vivid though, as if he was there, as if he could smell the blood and taste the ocean water gagging him. He had visions about less important things too--foxes coming onto the property and killing a chicken. Finding some sort of treasure hidden beneath the ground. Hardly any of his visions ever came true at all, but the paranoia that they could come true--had been proven to sometimes come true--was enough to permanently ruin Balius. He was an anxious wreck all the time, and he could never ignore a vision because what if this was the one time it did happen? He was scared he'd ruined his father too, though he tried not to think about that, and he never brought it up.

His mind wandered back to the pearl between his fingers, and he felt the sudden urge to rip it off his neck and shove it into the ground--bury it away from his sight. Pearls were worthless in Velmoria, or near it, anyway. They could be manufactured magically, and wearing full necklaces of pearl seemed commonplace. Just another way their lives had been ripped away from them by moving here.

He knew why his father had done it-- he'd been in search of the best magical and medical treatment for Balius he could find. Everything he'd done had always been for Balius, which is why Balius hadn't complained when he'd said, "We're leaving." He'd cried on the journey away from home, and his father had hugged him and apologized for needing to leave, and that had made Balius cry harder. He hadn't been trying to put the burden of his emotions onto his father--the burden of him onto his father. Of course, everyone who had a child was signing up for a responsibility, but Balius wasn't just a responsibility. It was clear enough to both of them--the way he rarely left the farm on his own, and the way he couldn't trust his own thoughts. The way he was still living with his father, at twenty-four, and wasn't sure when he'd ever be stable enough to leave. It was exhausting.

Slowly, Balius pulled his fingers away from the pearl around his neck. Even if these people thought it worthless, he didn't view it that way, which was why he couldn't bear to part with it. It was real. It was a real pearl from a real oyster, not some fake one that a mage had created in a home laboratory somewhere. It felt like that had to signify something--not just where he came from, but that he had something that was real, when most of his life had been plagued by visions of what might be real. The pearl was something solid he could hold and feel. He'd told his father, jokingly, that if someone handed him a necklace with all magically-made pearls and one real one, he'd be able to figure out which was the real one blindfolded. It had been a joke at the time, but now, he did actually feel like he could do it. Magic left this weariness around the edges, like curling paper, or a broken sand dollar. A real pearl was significant. It was an anchor.

"Balius!"

He scooted forward on his knees, moving to the next weed and beginning to dig it out of the ground. "I'm over here," he called out, but kept his focus on the plant. The weeds were a sickness, even though they were living-- even though they were real. He wondered, sometimes, if this was what he did to his father. Wore him down, like magic at the edges. Far more than just the edges, he thought grimly. I've reached the center of the page.

He could hear his father growing closer, boots squelching in the damp earth. He, like Velmoria, was beautiful, with dark, rich skin scattered in beauty marks and freckles from his work in the sun, much like Balius--though Balius couldn't help but feel he'd become worse with age, not because of age itself, but because of the care and attention Balius had needed. He knew the magical visions weren't his fault, and it also wasn't his fault that they had yet to find a single mage who could help him learn to harness and control the visions so they weren't so terrifying, but he felt guilty all the same. His father's hair was curlier than his--tighter, which is father said was because Balius' mother had silky, straight hair. Balius' lighter skin could also be attributed to the anonymous woman, who had wanted nothing to do with him. She'd been lucky in that regard, Balius guessed. A woman who already didn't want a child wouldn't have fared well with one like him.

"You doing alright?" His father smiled, but he was clearly tired. Sweat dripped down his nose, and he wiped it onto his shirt as he stood still for what was likely the first time since beginning this morning. Balius felt a sliver of anxiety crawl through him. He'd been spending so much time thinking--he always did--and he wasn't getting nearly as much work done as his father was. He wasn't being as helpful as he could be, or likely needed to be.

"I'm doing fine." He nodded and looked down, wiping the sweat off his own nose and blinking it away from his stinging eyes. "Are you alright?"

He glanced up again at him, and his father gave him another soft smile in return. "Yes, I'm doing alright. The mail carrier just arrived. There's something for you."

Balius stood, wincing as he dusted off the dirt from his knees. He sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "For me?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. "I never get anything."

"I'm well aware," his father said, watching him tenderly, lips still curled-- like paper, Balius thought. Like paper I've worn down.

"Do you know what it is?" Balius asked, glancing at the farmhouse, which was at least a few minutes' walk away.

"I'm not sure," his father replied. "Regardless, I think it would be good for both of us to get some lunch and water. Sit in the shade for a while. People die in this kind of heat, you know."

Balius nodded silently, eyes glancing over the sky, with its speckled clouds and not a hint of rain. "It's always hot," he said simply, eyes still trained upwards, as if he could absorb all the blue.

His father sighed. "I know." They stood in silence for a moment, before he clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Come on. I know someone who makes killer sandwiches."

Balius finally returned his smile, glancing away and shaking his head. He made mediocre food at best, but it was sweet of him to try to comfort him. His father put a hand on Balius' head and playfully pushed him around as they started walking, until Balius was laughing and ducking to try to get away from him. "Stop it!" He said, pulling his hat off to smooth his hair out. "My hair's bad enough as it is!"

"Nonsense," his father said dismissively. "I think it looks handsome."

"What it looks," Balius said, "Is frizzy. As hell."

"Didn't know hell was frizzy," his father said playfully.

Balius laughed and shoved him. "You're ridiculous," he murmured, but he felt a little better. The morning had already been exhausting for them, with Balius having a vision of himself stabbing his father. It had taken an hour for his father to talk him into trusting that it wasn't going to come true, like all the other visions that hadn't come true. It had paralyzed Balius completely, kept his heart racing and his lungs gasping for air, like drowning in the ocean.

He'd known several kids who had died that way.

When they reached the farmhouse, the shade was an instant relief from the sun, and the two removed their sweaty hats and collapsed into chairs. Balius grabbed a handfan from the sidetable and used it to cool off his face, before he forced himself to stand again and fetch cups of water for him and his father. He also grabbed the letter, which he flipped over to open. "You don't know what it is?" he asked again.

His father took the glass of water and shook his head silently, taking a long sip before he set it down and rested his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes. Balius stared at the letter, feeling a momentary dread build in his stomach. It's probably nothing, he assured himself. It was best to get it over with.

In one motion, he tore it open and began to read:

To Balius Isidors,

You see fate in fractured pieces, each one a curse you can't fathom. But tell me-- are you bound by these visions, or will you claim dominion over them?

The Game of Souls awaits you. Face what haunts you, or be consumed by it. Sable Crystallus will guide you, do not be late. Meet me at the Coven's Keep as soon as you get this letter.

Yours,
The High Mantra

Balius felt his throat close up. He didn't even realize he'd dropped his glass until it shattered against the ground, and his father leapt to his feet. Belatedly, Balius tried to move away from the glass, but his father said, "No, no! Stay right there, alright? Stay there so you don't cut yourself, here. Just a moment."

He went to fetch a broom, then swept everything up until Balius could step over the remaining shards and clean the rest himself. "I'm sorry," he said, still feeling woozy. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

His father took the letter gently from his hands, then read it silently. He placed a hand on the nearby table to steady himself. "She should know better..." he murmured, before his voice rose angrily. "She knows about your visions! Why would she summon you?"

"I don't know," Balius whispered. The world around him spun. Nearby, his father had dropped the letter to the floor and was now cradling his head in his hands. The two of them stayed like that, dazed, for a long moment before his father's face slowly rose. His eyes looked puffy and red, and Balius knew he was holding back tears for his sake.

"It's alright," he said. "Maybe there's some way to disqualify you. We'll have to set off immediately if we hope to reach an inn by nightfall."

Balius watched as his father went into working mode, walking around and filling two bags with the clothes and things they might need. "Do you think I really have to go?" He asked, feeling his panic rising.

"Yes," his father said. He didn't say anything more, just gathered the rest of their things, set them down by the door, and then went to work preparing two sandwiches. Balius stood to help, but his father said, "No, it's alright. I'll do them."

Balius sat back down warily, though he didn't really want to. He didn't want to be useless; he already feared that he was being a burden. Now, his father was making him a sandwich at the age of twenty-four. It felt demeaning, though he knew it wasn't meant that way.

"We'll take the wagon," his father said wearily.

"But Hilla--" Balius began.

"Hilla will push through," his father said firmly. "She's had a few days' rest since plowing, she should be fine."

Hilla was their donkey--who they'd bought when she was already old, and that had been several years ago. She was sturdy, but she was also reaching the age where it was becoming more and more risky to push her too hard. Expecting her to pull them all the way to the nearest town sounded unlikely at best... Still, it wasn't like they had much of a choice. "Alright," Balius said quietly.

"Go hook her up to the wagon please, while I load everything up."

Balius nodded and left the safety of the shade for the imbearable sun. He hated it. He disliked squinting all the time just to see where he was going. The sun had been an elusive improbability back home, covered by thick, rain-heavy clouds most days. He missed when the sun used to hide. As he made his way around the house and towards the barn, he kicked his feet absent-mindedly through the dirt, watching the dust explode in little puffs with every step he took. A summons like this was supposed to be a great honor. There were so few chosen every fifty years, and twenty-four was the last year people were even considered to make it fair for the younger contestants. He'd nearly made it all the way, nearly escaped the possibility altogether. People talked about winning untold riches, power, and fame. Life as an Arbiter was supposed to be glorious.

Balius didn't want it, though-- or rather, it wasn't that he didn't want that. It was that he knew he couldn't achieve it. There was no way he could best the other people in there. Some of them would have been training their magic their whole life, while the most Balius could safely control was seeing the lifesource of a plant and gently nudging it along. He could sometimes make water cleaner, or make a carrot a little more fat and nutricious, but he couldn't fight other people with that, and he definitely couldn't defend himself with that. That was the least he needed to be able to do in order to survive this. Nobody was going to just put down their sword and say, "Sure, we can be friends!" if he told them he didn't care about winning though. They were going to care about winning, and that was going to be all it took for him to be dead.

What was he supposed to do when he had a vision, one so crippling and violent that it left him nearly incapacitated for an hour, with a nearly uncontrollable panic attack, too afraid to go near anyone he cared about out of fear that he might hurt them somehow? That part should be easy enough, he thought, with a sick feeling sinking in his stomach. I probably won't care about anyone in there when I'm trying not to be killed by them.

As he thought, he fitted the bit into Hilla's mouth and guided the lead and reins over her worn ears. Her fur was patchy, falling off in some places. They thought she must have an allergy to something, but they hadn't been able to figure out what. Maybe it was just a part of being old-- falling apart. What if she dies while I'm away, and I don't get to say goodbye? He thought. A new wave of sickness washed over him, and his breath shuddered a little, rattling in his ribcage. He thought of the little kids back home, ribs showing through their stretched skin. That was one of the few things he didn't miss. He liked having enough food to run his hands over his smooth sides, to not be able to count his bones.

"Everything ready?" His father asked, loading the bags into the wagon and climbing into the driver's bench.

"Yes," Balius said, climbing to sit beside him. His father handed him a wrapped sandwich and placed his hat back on his head.

"Protect your face from the sun," he said softly, and Balius turned away, looking down in silence as he unwrapped his sandwich. The two ate in the quiet, Balius hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his father sat up straight as he walked their fields, and eventually, the forest around them. They didn't reach the nearest village until nightfall, and it took another hour to get Hilla put away in a stable and to get to their beds.

"We'll need to be up at sunrise," his father said, pulling his pajama shirt on and buttoning it. "To reach the Coven's Keep, we'll need to cross a small landbridge over the sea, then travel for several more hours. We likely won't reach the castle until nightfall."

Balius slipped under the covers of his straw-stuffed bed, but didn't feel remotely tired. In the other bed, his father blew out the single lit candle, extinguishing the only light in the room.

"Do I have to do this?" Balius whispered into the dark.

"The High Mantra is never turned down," his father murmured back. Despite the long day they'd both had, Balius knew his father was likely also going to be up with his thoughts. Balius rolled over to face him, backlit by the moon shining through the small window on the opposite wall.

"But if I explained, then maybe--"

His father sighed. "She already knows. She said so in the letter. I'm sorry, Balius." Balius rolled back over.

The moment stretched out, so thin and frail that Balius was afraid to shatter it. Finally, when he wasn't even sure if his father was still awake, he breathed, "I don't want to do this." Despite his best attempts, tears pushed against his eyelids as he stared up at the ceiling.

"I'm so sorry," his father whispered. Balius could hear his breath catch in his throat. "If I could take your place--"

"I wouldn't want you to." Balius could feel his voice trembling, and several tears slipped out. "I wouldn't want you to have to do that for me."

"It doesn't matter," his father said. "I would. I--" He heard his breath catch again. "I don't know what to say," he said, voice so small Balius could barely hear it. "But I know I'd take your place in a heartbeat if I could."

Balius shuddered, and bit his lip to stop a sob from rising. This is an honor, he reminded himself. This is something people dream of. But he wasn't those people. He'd never dreamed of that. He wanted to go back to the water-beaten rocks, the hours spent searching for fish and avoiding shell fragments. He dreamed of rainstorms, cooped up in the baker's house, huddling other children for warmth, and the mist-soaked air. That was what he dreamed of. He dreamed of home.

He and his father fell silent, after that. He drifted in and out of sleep fitfully that night, waking more tired than when he'd gone to sleep. For the first time in his life, he hadn't dreamt about the Wartorn Isles, or a missing mother, or unlikely visions of blood and gore, drowning in the sea. Instead, his dreams were full of weapons, of sharp smiles, of people screaming and people crying--a tall, black horse, drinking from a fountain of blood, fur stained. Blood, but not from his visions--blood that was likely to happen, blood that would happen--and in a twisted fate of irony, he dreamed about the Games.

The ride to the Coven's Keep was long and hot. Despite their hats, Balius and his father sweated fiercely under the relentless sun. The wooden bench beneath them sweltered with the heat too, cracked and weathered. The path, even though it wound through forests, had no protection from the shade. Balius could feel that even the trees felt thirsty and dried out. The atmosphere didn't help to lessen the mood of doom hanging over the both of them. Balius' father had tried his best to stay optimistic all morning, talking about how it was a wonderful opportunity, and it would open so many doors for Balius, but both of them knew he wasn't fooling anyone. They were miserable.

As they drew closer to the next town, where the castle supposedly was, they began to gradually pass more people on the road--most just with walking sticks, but a few riding horses, or on bicycles. Balius noticed that as they traveled, his father also seemed to get more and more agitated. He'd heard stories of his father's time in Coven's Keep, the capital city, though they were few and far between. He didn't like talking about it much. When he did bring it up, he'd mention how he'd always felt different from everyone there. He said people in Coven's Keep thought he didn't know what he was doing most of the time because of his accent, or because of the way he was used to doing things.

"They think we're simple," he'd told Balius once, before they'd left the Wartorn Isles. "They're happy eating the food we make, happy taking the fish we catch, but they think they're too good to actually be near types like us."

Balius had trusted him then, but he hadn't fully understood him. Now though, which the looks they were drawing, he felt self-consciousness creeping up around him, and slouched a little further down on the wagon bench. "Da," Balius said finally, though he wasn't sure what prompted it. "How does the High Mantra know everybody?" His father glanced at him. "I mean, I know she has magic, and I know she gives it to everyone, but if people are chosen randomly, how do they make sure they don't leave someone's name off the list when they're choosing?" He elaborated.

His father watched the road quietly for a while, before he sighed. "Honestly, Balius? I have no idea. I don't really understand the magic that much anyhow."

His father had been born in the Wartorn Isles, and had left in his youth to seek better opportunities in Velmoria, so he hadn't been gifted magic as a baby, like all the Velmorian citizens. He hadn't bargained for any either. He'd told Balius once that he didn't see the use of it, and Balius had been inclined to agree. All it had done was brought more hardship to his life thus far, and he didn't foresee that changing anytime soon--which felt depressingly ironic.

The two of them didn't speak again until they had rolled into town. Balius was thankful that here, at least, they weren't drawing the attention of the crowd. There were much odder people that caught people's eyes. Storefronts, the likes of which Balius had never seen before, lined the streets, with every minute ware for sale imaginable. The buildings were tall and pristine here, as if they'd never weathered a storm. The people were dressed like that too--as if they'd never gotten caught in the rain before. He'd never felt the need to buy or make clothes for any reason other than comfortability, but now he found himself feeling awkward about the plain clothes he wore, as he saw people his age and younger walking by in full, sheek silk garments. His shirt, in contrast, had so much dust and dirt packed into it from years of use that it would never be white again, no matter how often he washed it.

As they rolled in front of the tall gates to what Balius had to assume was the Coven's Keep, he turned to his father. "Was the building named after the city, or was the city named after the building?"

His father shook his head. "I'm sure somebody here knows, but it's not me."

That was fair enough. Balius turned back to the gates again, watching the guards posted outside hesitantly--a rich red color to their robes, and masks of silver adorning their faces. He didn't even realize he was holding the pearl looped around his neck until his father pulled his hand gently away.

Balius feared he already knew the answer, but he said, "Are you able to come in with me?"

His father hesitated, looking at the dark building with an unsettled distaste. "I think it's wisest if I don't."

Balius nodded, though a lump rose in his throat all the same. He'd already known that was the answer, but he'd been hoping it would magically change. His father rarely spoke of his short time in his youth living in the city, but any time he'd mentioned it, it had never been good. As much as Balius was scared, he knew his father must also be feeling restless, being back in the place where everyone had undermined and underestimated him.

Balius turned back to his father one last time. "I really don't want to. You don't think I can just--stay on the farm? We can pretend like the letter never even arrived, if they come searching for me. They probably won't."

His father watched him sadly. "I'm sorry."

Balius grimaced, clutching his hands into fists and then uncurling them, as if that could help the situation. "Alright," he said sullenly, scooting to the edge of the bench. "You'll wait out here?"

His father nodded, looking suddenly emotional. He took a deep, shaky breath in, and said, "Yes. I'll wait right here." He wiped his eyes on the collar of his shirt, and Balius couldn't tell if sweat was just stinging his eyes, or if he was trying not to cry. Finally, his father took in one last deep breath, and gave a small, sad smile to Balius. "I love you," he said.

Balius bit his bottom lip, feeling his heart skip momentarily, and blinked back tears of his own. "I love you," he said. "You'll wait right here?" he asked again, feeling like if he didn't ask it, the answer might change.

"I'll wait right here."

Balius leaned in and gave his father a hug, burying his face in his chest for a moment as he tried to regain control of his breathing. An image, sharp and clear, flashed across his mind of the wagon turned over, splintered and wrecked. Hilla, laying on her side with an arrow out of her chest, heaving. His father's body, crushed and mangled, blood splattered everywhere, an arrow sticking out of his head. A bow in Balius' hand--

He hugged his father tighter, and he felt a hand press gently against the back of his head, before a kiss was laid on his forehead. "You'll be alright," his father said. "You're strong."

Balius laughed loudly, wiping away the tears. "I don't feel like it."

"Eh, you don't need to. I see it."

Balius turned and stepped off the wagon. If he didn't get off now, he might not ever leave. "I love you," he said again.

"I love you too," his father repeated softly.

I can do this, he thought, staring up at the dark, towering building. I can do this. He did not feel like he could do this-- but he turned and entered the castle anyway.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

When he pushed open the doors and entered the shade of the indoors, the first thing Balius noticed was that it wasn't scorching hot like it was outside. It felt so cool inside, in comparison, that he glanced around for a moment, confused. He realized it must be some sort of magic, though he'd never heard of such a thing. It was unnerving enough to set everything in his body on edge. In here, no sounds of the city outside could be heard. They weren't just muffled by th stone--they were nonexistent. This felt like the type of place you could enter and be stifled forever.

A vision flashed in front of him-- one of a body on the ground, unnaturally pale, breaths ragged, as a figure crouched over her, pulling strands of blood out of the body like they were string. The person on the ground groaned in pain, and the sound echoed off the walls, but the person bent over her just laughed. Small strands of the blood clung to the figure's black hair like straw braided through it, and all around the body were little puddles of stringed blood. Balius inhaled sharply, taking several steps back, and it took several seconds before he could blink away the vision. The figures flashed away again, revealing clean tiled floor, no drops--or strings--of blood in sight. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. It's not real, he reminded himself, placing a hand on his chest. It's not real.

"What's with the hat?" an agitated female voice asked, echoing throughout the foyer, "There are no hats allowed in the Mantra's domain. Especially not... that one."

Balius spun around quickly, and swallowed. It was the woman from the vision, who had pulled the blood from the other woman's body. He removed the hat quickly, feeling embarrassment blossom from his chest like-- well, like blood. He grimaced at the internal comparison as his brain presented another, closer angle of the vision he'd had, though he knew this one wasn't any sort of magical vision--his just brain reworking the images. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't know."

"How would you?" The woman sighed, gesturing for him to follow her with a mere flick of her wrist. She turned to him and started walking down the eastern most hallway, "Nobody knows anything, really. Especially not commoners who make bargains. Which I expect... is what you're here to do, correct? Or have you gotten lost?"

Balius fidgeted nervously with his hat as he sped to follow her down the hallway. "No, I-- well, I guess I am," he said uncomfortably. "I... I got--"

"Balius Isidors. You got a letter. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard it twice today already," she waved her hand dismissively as they reached a large, ivory colored door.

"Why did you ask me if I was lost if you already knew who I was?" Balius asked confusedly.

"I like seeing people fidget. Especially right before seeing her. It's quite entertaining," Scarlet smirked. Balius nodded uncomfortably. His anxiety was entertaining. Nice. The door they approached, after a closer look, was made of something hard, not quite white but pure. Balius swallowed. Bone. He'd seen it enough times from animals, though he had the unsettling feeling that these bones weren't just from a cow or a chicken.

Scarlet placed her pale hand on the door and it opened as if it only answered to her. Inside, the room was dark, and scarcely decorated. There was nothing, despite the wide, empty space, except one large seat that must be the throne in the middle of the room, with a slender, pale woman sitting on it, watching him through narrowed eyes. Despite how much energy he could feel practically radiating off her, she looked sick. There was something behind her eyes that made him feel like she hadn't slept well in a very long time.

Her boney fingers gripped the throne when she laid her eyes on Balius. Her full, red stained lips twitched slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, almost amusingly. She didn't speak for a long few seconds. She just watched him, staring at him like he was some type of pawn.

Finally, after a deep breath, she spoke. "Hello."

Balius watched her apprehensively for a moment, before he realized that he was supposed to respond. "High Mantra," he said quietly.

She studied him again, smiling wider when he spoke, "I take it the travel was okay? Are you ready to join my games?"

"I'm-- not sure if I actually meet the standards you're looking for," he murmured, hands fiddling with the brim of his hat. He kept his eyes cast downward, feeling the overwhelming gaze of the two powerful figures. He glanced up again after a long pause of silence, resisting the urge to fidget in his anxiety.

The Mantra's smile deepened. "Oh, but that's the charm of the untested, isn't it? The candle does not know how brightly it will burn until the flame kisses the wick. The stone does not know its worth until the chisel carves it to form. I do not only gather the strongest. That would be terribly dull of me, wouldn't you say, Scarlet?"

Scarlet nodded her head almost immediately.

"I have seen warriors crumble and weaklings rise. My games are not played with muscle alone. Is that understood, vision-caller?" The Mantra's eyes flickered with what looked to be a challenge.

Balius flinched. Oh Gods, I don't want to be here, he thought desperately. He didn't know what she was wanting from him. All he knew was that he wasn't going to be able to do it. He'd never been able to do it, not since the moment he was born-- whether the 'it' was controlling his magic or controlling his emotions or controlling himself. His father never would've said it, and maybe his father didn't even realize it fully, but his mother had known. As soon as he'd been born, she'd known she wanted nothing to do with him. All the people he'd tried to make friends with--he'd had family back in the Wartorn Isles, people he'd known his whole life, who he played and laughed and cried with, but he hadn't had friends. That hadn't been the dynamic. And now he was standing before the most powerful magic-user in the world, and she was looking him dead in the eyes and calling him a weakling-- a candle that hadn't been lit.

Ouch. And yet the only way he could even think of it being wrong was that he had already been lit. This was as good as it got--he didn't understand why she would expect more from him than this. He was already giving life his all and repeatedly being trampled by it.

"I don't think I know enough to say I understand anything." His voice was soft.

"You do. You know more than most, given your... rare gift," The Mantra nodded slowly, "Why did you accept my invitation if you thought you weren't worthy?"

"Things don't exactly go well for those who tell the High Mantra no," Balius said. It was blunt, but it was true. His father had told him horror stories, rumors he'd heard while living in the Coven's Keep.

"And where'd you hear that nonsense?" The Mantra seemed physically offended, placing a hand on her chest, "I would never force anyone to do anything they don't want to do. Right, Scarlet?"

Scarlet once again nodded her head quickly.

Balius watched her, his entire body on edge. He'd clearly crossed some kind of line without intending to.

The Mantra waved her hand in the hair, "Anyways. False rumors aside, what would you like in return for winning my games, say you make it through my phases?"

"I just want good luck," Balius said finally. "And favor."

She tilted her head, pausing for a moment before speaking, "You bargain for luck as if it is something you can hold, something that can be gifted, a charm to be pressed into your palm. But luck is a fickle thing, isn't it? And favor..." she pointed to her heart, "Favor is given.... until it is taken. Luck is not what you really want, it's merely the only thing you think you're allowed to ask for. But... I'll tell you what. I'll give you favor. In return... I want what you care about most."

Balius immediately thought of his father.

"Ah, there it is," The Mantra smiled and stood from her throne, moving towards Balius with practiced ease, "There's what I've been looking for in you. Something you'd die for. You would die for your father, hm? A mere commoner? Once you win... you will have power. And you would die for someone who won't even live to see the end of your reign? How mortal of you. Tisk, tisk..."

Balius' entire body went cold. Despite his anxiety, he said flatly, without wavering, "I'd rather die than make that bargain."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic now, Balius," The Mantra scoffed, moving behind him, "What's the second option here? You leave, return to your father who-- by the way, did not wait for you-- and then, what?"

"I don't believe you," he said, though his voice got smaller. "My father is a man of his word."

"What? Now you're calling me a liar?" The Mantra's voice seemed to change slightly into something deeper, more aggressive, definitely not feminine. Something caught in her throat and she returned to Balius' front, turning her back on him, "I don't like people that waste my time. Are we making this deal, or not?"

Balius' heart spiked. This is what his father had meant when he said you couldn't say no to her. She wanted something that wasn't even Balius' to trade away, and when he'd told her that, she looked like she might kill him. He bit his bottom lip and tried to keep his panic under control. Maybe there was a way to turn this in his favor though... he didn't want to be here, but he had to--so how could he make sure he got the most out of this either way?

"Take my magic instead," he said suddenly. "That's all you care about, isn't it? If I lose, you can take it. I'm not making a deal about my father."

"You would lose your Velmoria citizenship forever," The Mantra studied him. "If you lose your magic, you will go to the Wartorn Isles. I will make that deal. Scarlet?"

Scarlet pulled a weathered parchment script from her bag, holding it out to Balius. "It seals with blood."

Balius thought of his vision of her, pulling the blood like string out of the limp body on the floor. He tensed, but said, "How do I do it?"

"Easy..." Scarlet whipped a dagger out from a hidden sheathe on her thigh. "Cut your palm or fingertip, and let the blood fall onto the page. Nothing more, nothing less..." She snickered, "I would be glad to do it for you, if you can't."

Scarlet extended the dagger to him. Balius' heart was racing, but he took it from her slowly. Carefully, he pricked the end of his finger, and watched his blood drip down onto the page. The page immediately absorbed the blood, feeding its eerie crimson veins as Scarlet rolled the page back up.

The Mantra sneered, "Well enough. Scarlet, lead him to the Game Chambers. He can join our other little friends while we handle the rest of the contracts."

Scarlet nodded. "Very well..." She stepped to the side, gesturing toward the door. "This way. You'll wait with the other participants, before meeting the Guardian that chose you..." She mumbled under her breath, "For some reason."

Balius turned hesitantly, hands still moving his hat back and forth nervously. Even still, he felt a small seed of victory sprouting to life inside of him. If he won, he'd be able to help his father in every way he could ever dream--and if he lost, he could go home, free of visions. Free. He'd need to stay alive. That would be the hardest part-- but no matter what would happen, he knew he had nothing to lose. He knew he'd managed to get a deal that he was happy with either way, which was unheard of. He had, even on the smallest level, taken control in a situation where he had none. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he'd bested the High Mantra, but he'd walked away the same person he'd gone in. That was good enough for him.