Chapter Sixty Four-Point Seven: Three Faces, Two Hands, One Spell.

  The forest air was thick with the savoury aroma of roasting buck. Firelight flickered and danced, illuminating the faces of the gathered: a runaway youth, a budding seer, a dire wolf, and a black gulper steed. Wind rushed through the trees, the rustling of falling leaves whispering against the crackling flames, blending the scent of roasting meat with the earthy aroma of pine and damp soil.

  “Don’t worry, he doesn’t take our share.” Selriph waved reassuringly at the dire wolf that sat attentively next to the girl, its eyes fixed on its human ward.

  Leian smiled as she bit into the piece of meat, a small smile of satisfaction on her face, completely unperturbed by the dire wolf that was almost twice her size. They were positioned there much like an artist would position their subjects for paintings. The mage’s hand gestured as if drawing a portrait of a young girl eating meat next to a wolf—an uncanny masterpiece worthy of the halls of the Imperial Museum based on novelty alone.

  But Selriph was no artist. Or, at the very least, what he was attempting to paint, to sculpt, wasn’t a physical work of art.

  It was arcane.

  “This might tickle a little, but it won’t harm you.” Selriph’s voice carried an almost paternal or clerical calmness, and he stretched out his palm.

  Leian nodded, her eyes still focused on her supper.

  Selriph’s hand crackled with increased magical power, and the delicate blue light moved over her fingers like a dance of graceful worms. He pictured two images: an amber-eyed girl with short, red hair, along with the other familiar image — the golden fur of the domesticated Calcour Hound.

  Emmett, or rather Temtet’s alternative appearance.

  Energy of a mystical nature swirled from his fingertips, then spread out, dividing into two twisting currents that enveloped the girl and the wolf. Her black hair, once covering her young body, gradually transformed into a rich burgundy, a colour that wasn’t quite red. Her eyes morphed from the ocean blue that mirrored the caster who was placing this disguise on her, towards a greenish, muted teal, an unnatural shade for this part of the world.

  Then the second wisp traced along Emmett’s form, the grey fur colouring with vibrancy as the arcane energies touched throughout, slowly making way for a muted shade of blonde.

  Breathe… just allow the energies to take form…

  As Selriph breathed deeply, the campfire flames began to diminish, resembling his own breath as the hues of the disguise grew richer. The teal colour shifted to a murky brownish-yellow, with the soft blonde now subtly reflecting shades of gold. Meanwhile, Selriph’s mind seemed to be entangled in a mystical puzzle, as if he were trying to manage four—perhaps even five—separate streams of arcane energy at once, all with a single hand, pushing the boundaries of what a one-handed spell could achieve.

  As he opened his eyes, he saw the result, somewhere between satisfaction and suspicion. Her facial form had changed little from her natural look, but the difference in hair colour and the colours of her irises could plausibly cause doubt in the guard—a likeness that did not immediately resemble Leian Bal Eilsweth.

  As for Emmett? Well, the excuse of an ‘oversized’ canine had worked in all settlements he’d visited in his time in the eastern province thus far. There was no reason to think the guard post along the southern walls of Solvelis would be any different, assuming they saw fit to stop them.

  So long as Selriph could also disguise his own face with this single hand.

  Trying to push the current Arcane performance into the background, Selriph closed his eyes and attempted to make it an automatic function within his mind. His subconscious, his learnt movements, which contained the motions borne from the endless nights where he mentally played out his sword forms—despite playing the fool. The ingrained actions that had guided him through the myriad of close calls and acts of flight in his journey thus far.

  As he felt the mental load shift away, he added to it—the bloated image, the countenance of excess, came to his mind, one that would change his face from youth and leanness to decadence and age.

  With a deep breath, he focused, summoning another surge of arcane energy, which began to form within him, rising to his features. The sensation of nearly liquid, watery energy embraced his neck as the creeping itch of energies moved upwards, and he then felt the two other strands of arcane energy start to sputter, which made the ‘juggling’ act start to lose its rhythm and steadiness.

  Turning his attention back to the other two disguises as he attempted to stabilise the flow of arcane energy, Selriph noticed with his now open irises that the red and gold shades of the girl and wolf were faltering as they began to revert to their original colours. Emmett made a soft whimper, which was probably due to his disappointment, and the girl moved her hands up to her eyes and scratched them as if she had developed an itch.

  He felt it—knew that it was the prelude to something worse.

  With the chaotic spin of arcane energy welling up, the sting travelled up his core as he felt impending arcane backlash coming as the spell’s precarious equilibrium fell apart at the seams.

  Selriph raised his other hand in a protective flourish, and then another set of blue arcane energy washed over the wolf and the girl, appearing almost like a glittery, powerful substance.

  Upon contact, it dissipated the energies that wrapped around their figures, dispelling the spell and severing the link between his own energies and what maintained the arcade facades.

  Then he clenched his teeth as he felt the broken wisp of arcane energy lash back into him like the whips from his tormentors from the Templar Compound, the internal well of destabilised energy like thorns in his gut.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  With a grimace of pain, Selriph doubled over and reflexively clutched his chest. A wet warmth, as if a collection of superficial cuts washed across his arm and torso, could be felt on his right hand and forearm.

  He heard the rustle of grass and the soft thudding of footsteps as he heard the worried voice from Leian.

  “Are you alright...?” she asked as she felt the warmth of his hands on her shoulder, and a gasp escaped her lips.

  “You are bleeding!”

  Selriph waved her off. His tone, though strained, conveyed a semblance of calm. “It’s fine… this happened before… Apparently, I am not as good as I thought….” Selriph mumbled, his voice tight with pain as he stared at the grass; a fresh crimson stain trickled onto the blades from his left cheek.

  In that moment, he questioned whether his memories of the elf and the mentor’s evaluations in the tunnels were exaggerated.

  In this moment of failure, it became abundantly clear he could barely hold two barebones disguises in a single hand without resorting to dual casting. And yet somehow, Valdor the Great, a mortal like him, by means and methods unreachable to Selriph, was able to cast five spells at once that brought down an entire fleet of metal juggernauts in the skies above Kalgurak.

  Of course, Selriph knew the simple answer to that unsolvable conundrum: Valdor had 500 years to hone his prodigious skills. Selriph had only scarcely begun practical application of his magical talents the moment he burnt through the steel grate in the templar compound on the night of his escape.

  He chuckled, the immensity of it all sinking in—he didn’t have centuries to figure it out. Somehow, either the girl had to learn to disguise her form and aura, or Selriph had to find a way to emulate what Valdor did, ideally in a timeframe that was satisfactory to the runaway mage.

  Otherwise, the guards would surely notice them, and they would have had no prospect of entering Solvelis.

  I can’t believe I have to do this again...!

  Selriph’s grip tightened around the formerly bloody tunic, now damp with a crunchy texture, after having water-rinsed it following the herbal treatment he had just subjected it to. The crimson stains were no longer visible–the result of his failed experiment thirty minutes prior.

  As he returned to the relative sanctuary of the campfire, he placed the shirt over the makeshift roasting spit, now placed near the fire, allowing the clothes to dry.

  The youth then patted his hands dry on the tunic he currently wore over his person — one of the spares that he’d managed to salvage from the many unlawful he had slain in the past weeks.

  He sat down by the fire, letting out a sigh as his gaze fell upon the girl.

  With her head buried in the tome of arcane foundation, her eyes focused on levitating the pebble before her.

  Her face was taut with tension, though it wasn’t from struggle. Unlike just mere hours ago, the arcane energies around her pebble seemed to hold firmer, no longer faltering at the seams.

  “Leian, you don’t need to keep practising it; we are done for today.” Selriph’s low and neutral.

  “No…I want to help…” Her eyes met his—the pebble still floating within her control, despite her wandering attention.

  Selriph’s eyes widened, a reaction to the scene in front of him, as well as the subtle message within the girl’s statement. “You don’t have to—in the worst case, I can leave Emmett out here while I get you into the city.”

  The dire wolf’s ears twitched, its gaze fixed on the horse instead of Selriph, then it settled back down, eyes shut.

  A firmness washed over Leian’s face. “How can you say that? If anything, you should just let me enter by myself—don’t leave your friend alone on my account,” her voice said in a pleading protest.

  “Emmett can take care of himself—the forest and wilds are his home. I am sure he won’t miss me if I am gone for half a day, just enough to get you to the Eilsweth estate.” Selriph responded with a mix of explanation and disagreement.

  “No, Sel. Please. Let me learn to take care of myself. You just need me to learn how to suppress my aura, yes?” Her eyes glanced at the open tome.

  A crease appeared on Selriph’s forehead. “That, yes. Though I must admit that I possibly had a…mistaken notion about what constituted a normal pace,” as he ran his hands through his hair in embarrassment.

  “How long would it take?” Her words caused a faint tremor in the pebble she was levitating.

  “It would…” Selriph’s words caught in his mouth as a wave of uncertainty washed over him.

  How… how long is it supposed to take?

  His mind flashed to the many words exchanged with the old mage below the rat tunnels, and a single sentence became clear in the fog of recollection.

  “It takes months–nay– years for most apprentices to even attempt that.”

  Vick’s words—in reaction to Selriph’s “second-tier display, at the least”

  If it takes months or years for a second-tier display… then perhaps a first-tier spell would take…

  He felt a sinking sensation in his gut, brought on both by the disbelief of how long it would take and how much it contradicted his personal experience with learning magic.

  Selriph looked up, his eyes drifting to the corner of his eye as he gave his reply; an extrapolation based on Vick’s statement.

  “A month? Perhaps a few? At least, according to the person who gave me that,” as he gestured to the tome.

  The pebble landed softly on the grass as the girl’s eyes grew wide.

  “Don’t give me that face—as I said, I was mistaken, I should not have tried to teach you to suppress your aura from the outset; that was foolish of me.” Selriph stared off into the dark woods around him, as if looking for their reassurance.

  “No, no, it’s just. You made it seem so… easy. When you said it took you a minute to learn, were you just trying to encourage me…?

  “No, it genuinely took me minutes to learn. As I said already, I might have misunderstood the average pace of progress…” the youth said as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “But… there must be a way for me to learn as fast as you, Sel! Please, is there anything I can do? Perhaps it’s something special, a secret you did…?” her voice now pleading, almost desperate.

  “I don’t have a ready explanation … it just came naturally…?”

  “Tutor Gasnick said nothing is ever natural: only the right path and hours of hard work…” Her statement faltered, as if doubting its content.

  Selriph’s reply came unexpectedly in agreement. “No, my—Sir Harwyn once said something similar to me as well: there is no easy path to aptitude, just blood, toil, sweat, and tears, and hours dedicated to the blade,” as his hand landed on the estoc.

  Leian’s words began to firm, almost with an aristocratic concurrence. “Then… if those statements are true, how did you toil away at the divine arts…? Without the crest, no less.” Her voice, now expressing complete puzzlement, posed an inquisitive question that seemed to transcend her youthful years.

  Toil away? I would never describe it as that…magic has never felt like studying the blade.

  His eyes traced the merchant cart that stood next to Nightwind.

  A wave of realisation flashed over Selriph as he stared at the mix of items in the cart.

  He hadn’t just learned magic the moment he went into those tunnels.

  The loose crates in the Daryth estate storerooms? The casual levitation of gear and weapons away from prying eyes? Staring into the conjured dance of flames and sparks in the unseen corners of the Templar compound? Bathing in, feeling the comforting embrace of their glow?

  All of that was practice, immersion in the magical energies, the arcane arts.

  In that respect, what Vick said to him resonated true: he had spent months, years honing his arcane abilities before he even set foot in the ratways.

  It just wasn’t in the act of formal study—it was in comfort.