Unbound

Atar hunched forward, peering closely at the sigil he was inscribing on a length of stone. His hand ached, cramping up despite his Adept Tier Body—the amount of inscription he had done in the last week was enough to make a lesser mage’s hand fall off completely. It wasn’t enough though, not when Atar’s gaze flicked back toward the gleaming metallic tome that sat to his side. A ridiculously complicated spellform stared back at him, bolstered with power and illusion so that it rotated on the page. It was a Master Tier spellform, the building blocks of a Skill, and if Atar could master it he could add it to his own power.

His stylus snapped in the middle of the next sigil.

“Burning ash!” He slammed the broken stylus down and it was consumed in a burst of white flame. A content humming began in the back of his Mind, growing louder with every heartbeat.

yes. burn the offending object! sigaldry is for children and invalids. were you to embrace me, atar, i would propel us to heights never before dreamed—

A sharp slap hit the back of Atar’s neck, shocking both mage and the chatty Urge within.

“Quiet, Flame,” Alister said. He set down a tray of fine, cream colored porcelain and a steaming hot kettle on the workbench and fixed Atar with a sharp glare. “Or I’ll sic Felix on you.”

The cloying warmth in Atar’s head vanished so fast that Atar had to shove his hands down to keep from falling over. He groaned in relief as much as pain from the slap. “Did you have to put all your Strength into it?”

“Hardly. Your Endurance is just shoddy, Professor.”

Atar remained bent over his burnt work, staring now at the ruined expanse of sigaldry.

“Atar, you’re going to break your neck if you don’t fix your posture,” Alister chided him as he helped prop up the fire mage. “Are you transcribing the book again? And on Tier III stone this time? How long have you been at it?”

“Tier II kept catching on fire,” Atar muttered. His pure white hair fell over his eyes and he impatiently swiped it away. He needed a haircut, but hadn’t the time for…what day was it? “It’s taken a while. But it’s ruined now.” He growled the rest and shoved the fouled sigaldry into one of the material reclamation buckets. Luckily the stone hadn’t snapped, so his apprentices would shave the stone down before they could use it again. “I thought you were dealing with the nobles today?”

Alister pulled a face. “I was. The influx of Chanters was noticed, and a number of ‘concerned citizens’ demanded an explanation on why ‘dangerous elements’ were allowed into the Territory.” He snorted. “Or at least to know why the Sorcerers were allowed to live in the Foot, when their petitions were weeks old.”

“Petty fools.”

“Mhm.” Alister leaned over, peering at the Masterwork tome they had taken from the High Guard. “Have you made any progress at deciphering this?”

“Almost none. The spells all lean toward augmentation and life Mana more than other elements, and that proves to be a barrier almost as strong as their Master Tier construction. Felix insists that the vibrational patterns are mutable and, well…” Atar lifted his hand, and a small bird appeared, made entirely of white flame edged with crimson.

“That’s one of the spells!”

“No, just a shaping. This is effectively the same as my Sovereign Stars. The Flame within me has given me a great deal of control over my chosen element, but that hasn’t allowed me to replicate the effects of the tome’s spells.” Not to mention, his static bird lacked the strange awareness the spell specified. It was a puppet, nothing more.

but it is our puppet. with it we could do so much…

Alister handed him a cup of steaming tea. “I would call that progress, love. I certainly couldn’t shape my force Mana into a bird.”

“The flexibility is promising,” Atar agreed. “Flame has taken to the shape, in fact.”

Now the odd Urge inside him had taken to looking like a bird within his core, sitting atop a perch inside its black cage. It had fully replaced his old core, once bound entirely to another Urge…but Atar retained a great deal of control over the fiery occupant. It didn’t truly feel like an Urge, but something different. Something new.

Atar had come to terms with his new tenant. It was useful, at least.

“Has it tried to push you a lot recently?” Alister asked, brows down as he stared at Atar’s chest. As if he could see into the fire mage’s core.

“No. It has been riled by the tome’s magic, but otherwise it simply…seethes.”

“Less manipulative than the Highest Flame, at least?”

Atar laughed. “Yeah. Though it tries.”

“Mhm. It is quite chatty. I am curious how much of its claims are true, though. How exactly could it give you more power?”

by unleashing the bonds of flesh and ascending, foolish boy. urge or godling, we could be mighty beyond reckoning!

Atar rolled his eyes. “It prattles on about other Urges, but rarely gives specifics. I’ve given up attempting to tease sense from the thing. I’d rather talk about you. How’re the jealous nobles treating you?”

“Had a couple incidents, but nothing to be concerned about. Usually just flashing my Adept Tier Skills is enough to stifle the whining and grandstanding. Some are fine. There’s hard workers and talent even among the silver spoons…but it’s few and far between.” Those that were actually willing to contribute to Elderthrone were afforded greater benefits in the growing town. Apart from just handling the complaints of minor nobility, Alister had graduated into something of a community planner, dipping his hands into relations with the Henaari, the Nagafolk, even the giants.

“Most end up getting sent back down the Temple steps. I try to give them advice on how to establish themselves here, but many don’t listen. Still. They’ve housing in the residential districts. For free too, since Felix insists on not charging for housing.” Alister shook his head. “I don’t really understand that, but he’s the boss, and it mollifies a lot of the less well-off nobles. If that’s the only benefit, I’ll be grateful.”

“Could be worse, you could be handling the Alchemy Lab,” Atar said.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“Just a minor explosion. Acid and oil based, I’m told. Nearly burned down three of the apprentice stations.”

Alister grimaced. “How many did Aenea flay for that?”

“Seems like an honest mistake. Careless beginners, attempting things they shouldn’t. Not everyone can be as well trained as our Glyphworks apprentices.”

The Crafting Halls worked hand in hand on many projects, but Atar couldn’t deny there was some competition between them. Harn was constantly pushing to create arms and armor out of materials too strong for Atar to inscribe, and he was fiddling with arrays to enhance their offensive and defensive capabilities without needing the various salves and potions Aenea and Felix produced. The Quests available to him as Glyphmaster—and the other crafting leaders—allowed him to push the capabilities of his apprentices and the Hall itself to the limit; typically increasing production speed, reducing resource losses, and duplicating the effect of inscriptions. The list went on, and Atar had worked hard to unlock as much as he could…and still there was further to go.

Just as Atar was about to make another attempt at the Masterwork tome, Alister leaned in close. “You sure you don’t want to go with Felix?”

“To the bitter north? And then to the Dwaves? I’ll pass. If I want to freeze my ass off, I’ll just jump in the river here. Save some time.”

“But what of Flame?”

“What of it?”

“Challenge and pressure could press you to greater control. Perhaps its voice would not be so loud were you to strengthen your Will. Traveling with Felix is a sure way to gain levels, just look at all of us that went to Ahkestria.”

yes we could grow! dominate this wintry land!

Shut it. “Many that started that journey did not return, Alister. Too many of us.” Atar’s Mind conjured memories of his mages, barely known but under his command. Dead. Pierced by spider fangs or the horrid growth of vile spores. He repressed a shudder. “No. I’m quite fine with my experiments here, where I can be useful. The Flame is under control here. I can figure out my Path without putting myself into mortal danger every other day.”

“Hm.”

“If you value it so much, why don’t you go instead?” Atar regretted saying it the moment it left his lips.

“And leave you behind? Who would remind you to eat and sleep? Who would wrangle these damned apprentices? Face it, Professor, you would be lost without me.”

Atar huffed a laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

The others could have their glory and levels. Atar had what he wanted.

“You can’t be serious, Michael.”

Beef gritted his teeth at that name, but kept packing his large leather rucksack. It was basically a backpack, but he was in a fantasy world. He’d use the fantasy terms, thank-you-very-much. “Of course I am. Hallow is already out there, all three of her.”

“Recall her. You cannot go. I forbid it.”

Beef turned toward the Chanter for the first time since she had barged into his rooms. She was standing with her arms crossed, dressed to the nines and wearing that sparkly tiara. Barely as tall as his waist, she didn’t compare to his muscled bulk…yet a piece of him quailed at the thought of facing her down. “Isla. It’s another person from Earth. We gotta save them.”

He put his eyes down, grabbed his backpack, and made to leave. Golden-green vines grew across the doorframe an instant before he reached it, blocking his path. “Hey!”

“The rescue operation is work for the adults, Michael. It’s bad enough that Felix is putting himself into the enemy’s reach…You cannot risk yourself.”

“You mean you can’t risk it.” Beef knew she was claiming credit for his growth and progress, that it earned her some sort of notoriety among the Chanters. He saw her bragging about it. “I can help.”

“You cannot believe that. Your progress lags behind as you fiddle with your necromantic Skills or those ships, instead of honing your Body.”

“Those ships are important! You said so yourself!”

“They are, but that does not make what I said untrue. You need to be stronger. Here, with me and the Cantus Sodalus. We can push you to greater heights than some trek into the frozen tundra.”

“Hey, I did a lot for saving Ahkestria! And I fought those dumb High Guards too—”

“And almost died, child! Think! Do not let dreams of heroism cloud your rationality, Michael!”

Something inside of him boiled over—a piece of the rage he kept simmering at all times. It galvanized him, propelled his feet forward until he loomed over the diminutive Chanter, his bovine nose nearly touching her own. “My name. Is. Beefhammer.”

Isla opened her mouth, but Beef was done.

He charged at the net of vines, his horns shredding them as he blasted through. He was gone.

“C’mon, old man! We’re gonna be late,” Evie said from the porch. Behind her were several Frost Giants, all of them with large, reinforced crates on their backs.

Harn grunted. “I’m comin’, ya harpy.”

He was in the house he'd built—not in the Stronghold, or at the Foot with any pain in the ass nobles, but in the Scale where the merchants all lived and worked. Harn looked over his house one last time, from the comfortable chairs to the archway leading to his personal smithy. Knick-knacks and rugs covered the space, transforming his sparse decorations into something far softer. Homey.

Palin stood at the far end, framed by the sunlight drifting through glass-fitted windows, running her soft hands against one another. “Do you have to go?”

“I’ll be back soon as I’m able. Make sure the apprentices know to keep away from the Leviathan Bone. Except Rafny or Elle. They can make free use of it.”

“Harn—”

“Oh, tell Aenea that the latest alchemical bath was her best yet. It improved the helmets a great deal. All the details are in my notes, so you can rattle those off to her if she asks.”

“Harn, I don’t want you to go.”

Harn grunted and looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hands clutched at her elbows like the things were about to fly apart. Instead, the list of tasks in his head tumbled away, dissolved into smoke under that stare. “Kid needs me, Lin. They all do.”

“I need you.”

As an adventurer, Harn had gotten used to a great number of things. Stabbings. Burnings. Blunt force trauma. He wasn’t so used to this, though. “Lin.”

“Look, I know you need to go. I know that. I just—I only saw a piece of the danger you faced, heading into Ahkestria. I know you can handle yourself. I know how powerful the Autarch is—”

“Just call him Felix—”

“The Autarch, Harn. He’s stronger than a hundred people like me, more powerful than you, too. He is dangerous, and he draws danger to him like a lodestone.” She swallowed. “And because you’re a good man, you’ll get caught up in that too. You have a good job here. An important one, running the smithy. Stay and help that way.”

Harn sat with that a moment. She wasn’t wrong. The kid regularly brought a heaping mess on his own head just by existing. He walked up to her, took her in his hands. She gripped him tight. “My uncle always said I was born to the anvil…but there’s times when you gotta put away the hammer and take up the axe.”

“Sounds too smart for his own good,” Palin said with a sniffle. She let go of him, and Harn stepped back.

“Smart? Nah. Dumb as they come, my uncle, but he knew the world. I know it too.” He walked to the door, stepped out onto the porch. Evie was down a bit, standing with her giants and pointedly not looking at him. “I’ll be back, Lin. Count on it. Count on me.”

“I will,” she said. “I do.”

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