For Every Story, there is a Beginning
by Archmage
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Author's preface: 
This story is a fanfic of sorts, and it was written by Archmage. Archmage, otherwise known as Brian R. Ford, is the sole owner of this fic, and it is his intellectual property. Copying this "fanfiction," in whole or in part, is a violation of this. This is a work of fiction. All characters as written are original characters, created by the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 
If you found this fanfiction anywhere except RPG World World (http://greatdave.org/rpgww), chances are, it was used without my permission. This is bad, m'kay? If you really wish to use or link to this elsewhere, PLEASE ASK ME FIRST! My email address is arch_mage65@yahoo.com, and my AIM is Arch mage144. 
Anyway. This is the backstory of my main RP character and "avatar." 
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The light breaking through the curtains threw itself across the room, casting dancing shadows which scattered about, each with their own intentions. Some say the shadows live, living lives that make no sense to mortals. Certainly no one educated believed an ounce of such idle chatter-and thusly, the young William Ironclad refused to submit to such rubbish. 
He rolled over in bed, eyes bleary. Clanging metal echoed down the hallway. “Uhmm,” groaned the tired apprentice. Father’s going to have my head, he thought to himself. 
Forcing his body to stand, William studied himself in a full-length mirror. Long, brown hair. Wiry muscle from work in the metal shop. Well developed, smooth hands. Perfect for such work…or so he was told. With a sigh, he ran his fingers across his scalp. He hadn’t wanted this, and in fact, he loathed it. Try as he might, however, there was no way to deny his father. 
“William!” The familiar cry floated down the hallway. “Get out here for breakfast so we can start work early!” 
William sighed again, letting the moist air in his breath soothe his dry lips, cracked from the heat of the forge. He shook his hand, flipping it by the wrist. Still broken, he mused. I wonder if I should tell him about my finger… 
It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. William’s father was the sort who figured that no injury should slow a working man’s frantic pace. In fact, he’d probably disregard the idea and suggest that breaking a few bones built character. Typical brutish behavior, William thought. No one with any civility did such. 
“William!” 
With a rough shrug of his shoulders, the boy strode down the hall corridor and into the cramped kitchen space. His father had remodeled such that the shop counter absorbed most of the home. Out back, the smithing shop was larger than any of the living quarters. Obsession with one’s work rarely does a family any justice. 
“Father, I’m here,” William croaked, forcing a weak smile. “What’s for breakfast?” 
His father grunted. “Ah, grab an egg or something. I’m going out to finish up that blade I started working the other day…” 
It figured. “Sure, dad,” William replied. He poked around in the cabinets, mentally set on finding a skillet. With a little difficulty, he located one, sliding it out carefully and admiring the craftsmanship of the fine cookware. Well seasoned, if nothing else. 
Slamming the pan down on the griddle over the fire, he cracked a few eggs and whisked them about with a wooden spoon, adding a dash of pepper. “At least I can feed myself,” he muttered, voice laced with contempt. It seemed as soon as he was old enough to hold a hammer, his father cared for nothing but his son’s advancement in the smithing trade. Of course, not feeding the boy would lead to his starvation, and eventual death, but his work-obsessed patriarch apparently overlooked this minute detail. 
The growling of William’s stomach drowned out all other senses. He hadn’t realized exactly how hungry he was until he smelled breakfast. Time was merely an illusion as he stared into the cooking eggs, 
scrambling them. At last, the eggs cooked enough for his tastes, and he removed them from the burner and flipped them onto a plate, settling himself into a chair. 
The food-induced daze died in a flickering instant as a rapping at the front door shattered William’s dream like a crystal wine glass. “Who’s there?” he questioned, voice steadying. Probably a customer. He had to put on his best business voice…childish behavior was his adversary now. 
Discarding his fork, he worked his way to his feet and wandered out to the front desk. “Come in,” rang his voice, coming from the depths of himself…almost unreal, as though it was unnatural for him to 
say. Perhaps I’m not cut out for this, he sighed. It feels forced…and awkward…this alone might be the reason he’d never make it as a shopkeeper. 
The door creaked open, hinges moaning for oil. Had the scene been in the midst of a blizzard, or a dark and stormy night, perhaps it might have appeared more impressive. Nevertheless, William’s face demonstrated a kind of awe at the visitor… 
The man burst through the door, clothing fluttering in the mild breeze. A red cap, feather embedded in the back, adorned his head. Long, flowing white hair draped down over his shoulders, which were wrapped in a reddish silk cape. Knee high traveler’s boots and loose-fitting red robes topped off the ensemble. 
William’s mind focused entirely on the mysterious visitor, consumed by only one thought. 
Wow. 
-------
A brilliant, blindingly white smile punctuated the newcomer’s face. “I’m here,” he said, voice relaxed and confident, “to pick up an order.” 
“Yes sir,” replied William, still stunned by the man’s grandeur. “You are…” 
“A wanderer,” nodded the robed figure. “Your father should know what I’m here for.” 
William just stared for a moment. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned back and began the trek to the shop-a journey that felt infinitely far. Something radiated from that customer, and it was something fascinating. A strange power, one William was unfamiliar with. What was more interesting than even the energy itself was the fact that he had no words to explain it…what was he experiencing? At long last, he found himself staring at his father, bent over an anvil and sweating. 
“Hey, dad,” William announced. “You have a customer…he’s says you’ll know what he’s here for.” 
“Ach,” grunted his father. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a minute…” He reached for a pair of blacksmith’s tongs, lifted the sword he was forging, and slowly lowered it into a vat of cool water, causing steam 
to billow from the surface. The heat and humidity in the shop was almost choking as William’s father pounded away, taking one last look at his work. 
William sighed. This, he decided, is exactly why I refuse to work in this shop, or any other. The atmosphere in here is entirely too restricting…and terribly uncomfortable. Beads of sweat dripped down his brow. 
At last, his father acknowledged his existence and patted him on the shoulder roughly. “You should cut that hair, son, or I’ll have to take a blade to it myself.” 
“Yeah, sure,” William shrugged. His father fought with him over such simple things…admittedly, he favored control. It must have been related to his work, the way he preferred everything to turn out exactly as he commanded. There was no room for argument, and no place for flexibility. All of his creations had to reflect his original intent-and his son was no exception. 
The roaring fire in the forge still burned brightly, but the fire in William’s soul was redirected now. His new desire was to learn something totally foreign to him, and to understand that which he did not. Nothing would override that goal…nothing. 
When he glanced up, he noted that his father had left. Not surprising in the least. He’d most likely gone to enjoy doing a little business with that man. Taking a final look at the shop, he departed, heading back to the front of the house. 
Opening the side door and noting his, now cold, eggs sitting on the kitchen table, he realized his hunger was overridden by curiosity. Sliding his way around the room, he headed up to the front desk, where his father was busy negotiating with the stranger. 
“No, sir,” his father noted gruffly. “It’s not quite finished yet. It takes time to do something like that.” 
“Well,” the man replied, flashing his smile, “it’s quite a trip back to my home. I can’t afford an inn…I had figured you’d be finished by now.” 
“Look, I’m sorry,” countered William’s father. “What do you want me to do?” 
William broke his silence. “He could stay here until you finish,” he pointed out, voice slightly more timid than usual. 
The man continued smiling. “Your kid certainly knows a lot about hospitality. Perhaps you should consider the same?” 
The air was still for a few tense minutes while William’s father appeared to be considering the idea. At last, appearing tired and frustrated, he spoke. “Fine,” he grumbled. “The guest room is down the hall. Give us any trouble, and I’ll have the local authorities throw you away forever.” The visitor only laughed. 
William’s father stormed off, apparently rather irritated with the circumstances. “Who are you?” William queried, awe resounding in his tone. The visitor laughed again. 
“I,” he grinned proudly, “am a Red Wizard.” 
William’s eyes burst wide open, enlarging to the size of newly minted gold coins. “A wizard?” He ran his tongue across his teeth, deep in thought. I’ve never met a real wizard before, he thought. Never. And what’s more, I hadn’t even seen one before today…I knew there was something about him…something I couldn’t detect, exactly. “Where are you from?” 
The wizard shrugged. “I’m from the Gunnir Academy, in the mountains to the west. It’s a nice place…school of magic. My name’s Endel. I’ve been studying magic for 8 years or so, since I was probably about your age.” 
“You must be good, then?” William nodded. 
Endel laughed. “I’m talented, but it’s not all natural. I’ve worked hard, but I still fancy myself as somewhat skilled. Just wandering the country, now, trying to work on my skills, and enjoy my life to the fullest.” 
William’s heart skipped a beat. That, he thought, was the way to live! Answering to no one, traveling the plains, navigating the rivers, scaling the mountains, battling off vicious creatures…and it was probably all in a day’s work. What a great life to go forth and see the world… 
With yet another brilliant smile, Endel studied William. “Say,” he asked. “You don’t have any tea or anything, do you? I can tell you’re interested in what I do…and I can tell you all about it over a few mugs.” 
William nodded and slipped off into the kitchen. This, he mused happily, is going to be interesting. 
-------
Sitting at the kitchen table, Endel hardly reminded William of a great hero or adventurer. In fact, his impressive appearance was quite contrasted by the plain kitchen area. He gripped the screeching teapot by the handle and poured tea into colorful clay mugs, one for himself, and one for his guest. He had considered the kinds of things he might inquire of the visitor, all while busying his hands with the tasks of boiling water and locating suitable vessels for serving hot drinks. 
“Appreciated,” Endel said with a nod, taking a sip of the tea. “Where should I begin?” 
William’s chest surged as his heart lapsed a bit behind schedule. “Well,” he admitted, “I’ve seen adventurers around here before, of course. But none of them were, well, quite so interesting. I imagine they’d have similar stories to tell, but you know, something just invited me to ask you.” 
“Understood,” replied Endel. “It might be interesting to tell you a story, but how about I try something else, first.” 
Head cocked to one side, William shot him a puzzled look. Endel set down his mug and closed his eyes, which flickered lightly under the lids. A slow smile spread across his face, an expression somewhat like that of a child examining a firefly on a summer evening, after attempting to snatch them out of the air for an unknown amount of time. It was a smile of wonder and discovery. 
“What are you doing?” the puzzled William asked. 
Endel shook his head slowly. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, it isn’t important.” 
William just stared. After a short pause, Endel resumed his earlier speech. “But a story. Perhaps…” 
And he began to tell his tale. 
“Once,” he started, “I was out, adventuring with a group of friends. Just three of us. Myself, and my partner Ilion, and Fiona…another friend.” 
William nodded excitedly. “Continue!” 
Endel spoke again, resuming his tale. “We were in an area entirely unfamiliar to us. It’d been a few days since we’d rested in any town, and we hadn’t seen any signs of civilization. Imagine our surprise when we came across indications of a nearby city, out in the middle of nowhere!” 
He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea. “It was kind of an unusual happening, I’d have to say. Of course, our hunch was entirely correct. There was a reason no one had ventured out that way in a while.” 
William blinked. “Why?” 
“Because,” Endel continued with a smile, “the only city for miles had been sealed off-by a magical barrier.” 
A thoughtful look flashed across William’s face. “That doesn’t make sense. I’d have been a bit nervous.” 
Endel nodded. “Rightfully so. Perceptive. Unfortunately, our hunger and fatigue won out over judgment. And so, we approached the city. We were stopped outside by a border guard of sorts. The city had been sealed off to contain two things within. One was a deadly plague. The other was the monster that caused it.” 
William stared, lacking words. 
“Anyone with any sense would have given up at about this point,” Endel laughed. “Guess what we did?” 
“What?” William queried, eyes intense. 
“We asked the border guard if we could enter the city.” 
“Hey,” shrugged William. “It’d have been boring to back out then, right? You can’t just find something that fascinating and leave it alone!” 
Endel blinked, stunned. “You and I think alike, kid. That’s an interesting coincidence…” 
“Anyway,” he resumed. “The border guard looked at us like we were mad as hatters. He told us he didn’t think there was even anyone inside left alive, since they’d been sealed up for a couple of months. Chances were that the monster had gotten them, or else the deadly pestilence.” 
He shook his head sadly. “We wanted to make sure…and the guard opened the barrier, just for a moment, so we could enter. I’d venture to guess it was his opinion we were suicidal. The town seemed pretty desolate at first, I suppose. The streets were deserted, except for the bleached bones of some of the locals.” 
Endel winced, recalling the memories. “The air reeked of disease and decay. I swear everything in that city was tinged green from the toxins. But, reckless as we were, we pressed forward, deeper into the area. That,” he muttered grimly, “was when we saw it.” 
“Saw what?” William wondered aloud. It had to be something serious, he thought. Not many monsters can do that, to my knowledge. I’ve studied them a bit in my books, and it requires a large amount of power to even attempt something so vile… 
“The most disgusting, hideous, and revolting sight I think I’ve ever had the displeasure of pointing my eyes at,” he spat, clearly sickened. “It bore three heads, each a different animal. One, a dragon. The next, a goat. And the center head was a male lion, complete with ragged, disheveled mane.” 
William squeezed his eyes together, contemplating the description. “It sounds like a chimera,” he stated. “Those aren’t so bad, at least, not to look at.” 
“Perhaps,” Endel noted with a nod. “This, however, was obviously no ordinary chimera. What I saw was a sick and twisted perversion of the chimera as a species. The creature’s fur was in patches, and skin exposed with mange. The creature reeked of garbage as it wallowed in the city square, half submerged in a marble fountain. A fountain, now broken, carved to resemble a trumpeting angel.” 
Endel screwed up his face, trying to recall the day more exactly. “That creature could only have been the work of hideous and foul dark magic. I’d even bet it was undead, as the life aura it exuded was absolutely black, and felt completely artificial.” 
“We had no choice,” Endel muttered darkly, “but to slay it.” 
“I gave the word, and we took up combat positions. I readied a spell, and Ilion drew his lance. Fiona readied her bow, and we struck. Fireball after fireball, I pelted the abomination with a blazing hot rainstorm, and Fiona met the beast with a hail of arrows. Ilion fought to the bitter end, impaling the monster again and again, leaping through the air with trusty weapon at the ready.” 
“We didn’t come out without a scratch, though,” he sighed. “Ilion had thrust his lance, and the creature parried the blow with a mighty swipe of its claw. I cried out, and chanted a spell I hadn’t used in a while, skewering the chimera with spears of radiant light. But alas…” 
“What happened?” William chattered, leaning against the table and barely resting his rear end on his chair. 
“I struck true, but enraged the creature. I suppose it really didn’t like holy magic. It turned on me, and, furious, ground its nails into the dirt as it charged. The force of the blow threw me to the earth, helpless as it snarled in my face. I was lying down, the horrendous beast standing on my chest, digging long claws into my robes.” 
William’s eyes reflected his thoughts, perhaps better than he could have put them into words. His feelings were a clear mix of excitement and borrowed terror. 
“The beast reached up, as if to gouge out my eyes, paw racing towards my face, when I put up my arm to shield myself. I felt the burning sting of red-hot pain lance through my arm as the nails impaled themselves into my flesh, piercing deeply. And then, the most terrible thing of all happened.” 
William could barely bring himself to ask. “What?” 
Endel shuddered. “That evil being glared into my eyes. We met, and we connected. And I swear to this day that the monstrosity smiled.” 
“And this,” Endel said grimly, “is what I have to show for it.” He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a trail of pinprick impressions…and a lengthy, jagged scar. He traced his finger along the old wound. 
“H...h…how did you survive?” William stuttered. 
Endel raised his eyes skyward. “Fiona. As the beast glowered at me, enraptured by my pain, I heard an arrow singing through the air. I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was the shaft, buried deep into the chimera’s eye socket. The startled critter tore itself loose from my arm, leaving what you see of that scar. And at last, Ilion finished it off, jabbing his lance deep into the fiend’s body.” 
William’s body quivered with exhilaration. “Amazing!” he cried out. “I want to have an adventure, and one even better than that!” 
The only answer William received was Endel’s raucous laughter. “We will see, kid. We will see.” 
-------
It was early the next morning, as Endel was preparing his belongings to leave, that William made his decision. He had been pondering the matter all night, trying to decide what it was he really desired. Why, he thought to himself, does magic interest me so? 
He had lay awake for hours, eyes unable to hold themselves shut as he rested his rigid body. Perhaps he was in a comfortable position, physically, but his mind was far too active for him to rest. The slightest stimulant bothered him, disturbing his sensitive state. Put simply, he was on edge, thoughts swimming in his mind, visualized as a whirl of colors that refused to stop, going around, and around, and around… 
He considered his options there, lying in the moonlight streaming through the window. He could tell his father what he wanted, but knowing his father’s desires were for him to become a respected smith, he would certainly refuse. Perhaps he could simply leave home, on his own, leaving his father a note. Endel would find it, surely, and would know. 
His eyes squeezed themselves shut violently, barricading out the disturbances of light, leaving William alone in the dark. He was alone with his mind. Magic, he thought. There had to be a reason. He pondered the subject, eyelids forcefully closed, trying to come to a conclusion. 
And then it struck him. 
-------
It was early morning, the sun barely peeking its corona over the horizon when William awoke. It was important, he asserted, to rise so early. His muscles, more vital than they had been in months, perhaps years, seemed less tense, less…frustrated. Abruptly discarding the bedsheets, William flung himself out of bed, dressing with newfound haste. Time was of critical importance. 
He packed lightly, grabbing a small traveler’s satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. Within it, he carried his most useful and valuable possessions: a spare set of clothing, a hunting knife, dried fruits and a bit of salted beef, and a length of twine. 
He turned to the door, ready to exit the kitchen, when he stumbled across something he had forgotten. Glancing down the hallway, directly into the corner of his bedroom, he noticed something. Propped up in the corner of the room, as if an ornate decoration, was a sword. His sword. 
It brought back a few memories, pulling at him from deep within. Gazing at the blade, he stepped forward, slowly, entranced. He reached out, grabbing the narrow hilt. It was a tool with a history. 
“I made this for you, son,” his father had said, the voice echoing now inside his soul. “Go on, give it a try.” He vividly recalled that day, years ago, when he had tried to heft the weapon, stumbling awkwardly under its weight. His father laughing, wishing he could show his friends. ”The son of a blacksmith!” he cackled. “The son of a blacksmith, and he can’t even lift a sword!” William’s father’s uncontrollable laughter resonated in his ears as though the entire event had occurred only hours ago. 
He grasped the hilt, lifting it. Now it was easy, he mused. What was once impossible is now nothing. That must be the greatest feeling one can experience. Flipping the blade around in his hand, he 
glimpsed at it upright, pointing it upwards. 
A wicked blade, it was. The handle was elliptical at the base, a similar shape all the way up to the guard, and made of polished, black stone, carved by a master. Carved by the master, his father. Sweeping the eye along the hilt revealed it’s intriguing shape, a swirl of unique patterns and indentations. The guard took the resemblance of talons, spiked forms jutting out to either side of the handle. The blade itself was long and silvery, and not exceptionally wide. As the eye made the journey from bottom to top, it appeared perfectly normal-until the bearer reached the end. The blade cut back to reveal a dastardly serrated edge at the tip, just before an overextended point. His father had certainly taken pride in his work. 
William smiled, slightly. It was a private smile, one no one would ever know about but himself. That was just the way he preferred it. 
He slid the sword into a scabbard at his belt, hoping it would come in handy. At very least, it looked impressive, though he doubted he’d be able to scare anyone with it. Silently, he padded down the hallway to the room his father had donated Endel for the night, carefully prying open the door. This door, he knew, was one that was horribly parched, choking from lack of oil. Slowly, he opened it...and at last, he squeezed himself into the space between the door and the jamb, accidentally bumping his body against the outer edge of the wooden barricade. 
The resulting squeak was as loud to William as a chorus of one thousand screeching locusts. With a slight wince, he slid the rest of the way into Endel’s room, turning towards the bed, exerting every effort to avoid making noise. 
“Hello,” sounded a totally calm voice. William jumped, startled by the sudden, and stable, noise. He whirled to face Endel, who was apparently readying his belongings to leave. Fully dressed and in the process of making the bed, he greeted William with a knowing smile. 
“You want to come with me, don’t you...” It was not a question. Endel’s voice was firm, steady, and confident, as always. All knowing, perhaps. William gazed longingly at Endel. He was perfectly aware of William’s desires to travel. 
“Why do you want to come?” 
William raised his head, and with a hard, serious face, related to Endel his decision. “Every adventurer who came before you was the same. All of them warriors from afar, in search of powerful weapons 
for their travels. But none of them were very worldly, for accomplished adventurers. All of them brutish men…just like my father. They work their bodies until their physical form is exhausted, ignoring pain, pleasure, and emotion. They toil and sweat, living in shells of flesh, all just to survive, nothing more ever crossing their minds, existing as did primal man.” 
Endel nodded slowly. “Do you realize what it takes to become a mage? You have described the rigors of physical labor, and the pains of working one’s body. But the mind, too, tires, draining itself. You 
will have to work, and study, learning the arcane ways. It is not an easy task to become a great wizard. Why do you seem to think it is a preferable route?” 
Endel’s response evoked a deep sigh from William. “Because,” he asserted. “Because I don’t want to end up like my father, pouring out my sweat and blood to feed my family. I want to see the world, and learn things, not live in a shop. My mother…” 
William’s head hung. “Go on,” Endel reassured him. 
“She told me something once. She said that there was nothing more valuable than knowledge, because if you know enough, you truly have the power to make anything happen.” 
Rubbing his feet against the wooden floor planks, William stared at Endel, eyes demonstrating his sincerity. His decision had been made. Endel strode towards the door, silent, and with a slight smile. A smile much like the one William had made examining his sword, one of private desire and inner realization. 
Not a single board creaked for the next three hours. 
-------
Endel and William had been on the road for a few days, and William was already adjusting to the life of a traveler. Walking during the day was far from irritating or painful, and he hadn’t really experienced anything seriously uncomfortable, such as blisters or bad weather. It was easy to see why he might have become attached to the life, that is, before he fully understood any of the potential hardships of living on the trail. He and Endel had talked at great length about his possible future as they had traversed the well-worn path of those who had come before them. 
“So,” William had asked, “where exactly are we going?” A familiar sense of eagerness rang in his voice, like that of a child opening a birthday gift. It was the same tone of voice many new apprentices to the Academy used, often before they knew what they were getting themselves into. 
“The Gunnir Academy,” Endel replied with a slight smile. “Gunnir’s a school for mages, and it’s where I’m from. I’ve studied there since I was a bit younger than you are now, and I’m hoping to graduate within a year or two.” He strode ahead, his crimson cloak flapping in the breeze and the sunlight reflecting off the silvery sword he carried at his side. 
William nodded quietly, trying to contain his exuberance. Nothing could possibly be better than this, especially not for a boy who had spent his entire life cramped in a blacksmith’s shop. It was rather difficult and frustrating to be caged up in such a manner, and his father’s adamant stance on what young William was to become and mold himself into disgusted the youth. Nothing was worse than not being able to make your own choices, he had decided. Mom would have given me a choice, he thought. Mom would have understood. All of this, all of the way dad behaves, the way he absorbs himself into his work…it’s all because of what happened to her… 
The pair walked for a few more hours, enjoying the fresh air and chatting about all sorts of details regarding Gunnir. What was it like? How big was it? How many people were there? Just boys, or were there girls too? Was the food good? Finally, William asked the question Endel had been waiting for. 
“Is it hard?” he queried, a bit of fear mixed with his curiosity. 
Endel was silent for a moment, and his familiar smile slowly spread across his lips. “Yes, William, it’s not going to be easy at Gunnir. You’re going to have to work, and study, and put a lot of effort into 
everything you do if you want to succeed. But, some people,” he added with a smirk, “have a certain natural talent about them. Don’t worry too much about it. I have faith…you’ll achieve great things, if only you put in a little time and work.” 
William screwed up his face for a moment, as though he were slightly perturbed at the idea of having to work whatsoever, and then quickly assumed his prior grin. “It’ll be worth it,” he decided. He raised his gaze, grinning brightly into the setting sun. A wave of vibrant hues washed across the sky in the distance, crisp reds, oranges and yellows giving yield to purples and blues. Yet another one of the perks of being a wanderer, William decided. The average traveler gets more time to appreciate the radiance of the world than the average shopkeeper. Endel glanced over at William. “Sun’s going down. It’s not particularly safe to travel at night, you know. We ought to find a little shelter and call it a day.” 
"What’s so unsafe, anyway?” William asked interestedly. “It can’t be that dangerous. Besides, you’re a mage, right?” 
The red wizard shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just because I’m a mage doesn’t mean I’m invincible, William. And you won’t be either. Remember that, or it’ll be your downfall some day.” 
"Oh, whatever, but…” the young man found his words cut off by an earsplitting howl in the distance, one that seemed only to get louder, as well as closer, as time went on. At last, the unpleasant sound subsided, leaving William a moment to stick his finger in his ear and recover from his prior wincing. 
"We should have found cover earlier,” Endel muttered. “We’ve been spotted.” 
“By what?” William replied, bewildered and a little stunned. 
“Have you heard the stories most people dismiss as rumors, William? The tales of living shadows, which hunt and consume mortal flesh for their own benefit and gain? Alien creatures birthed from darkness, and lurking within it, biding their time?” 
“You’re telling me…” 
William was rather rudely interrupted by a beastly, violent growling noise from just off the road, a sound that chilled him to the core of his bones. He shuddered, whirling around to stare in the direction of the sound, and found himself staring down a creature unlike anything he had ever seen. 
A large, vaguely dog or wolf shaped shadow with blood red eyes glared at him malevolently, maw slightly open to bare silvery, glistening teeth, muzzle slightly stained with ichor from a previous kill. The creature’s low, irritated, hungry growling vaguely reminded William of the sound emitted by a motorized bellows of some sort a traveling merchant had attempted to sell his father. Slowly, so as not to startle the creature, William made a move towards the hilt of his blade. 
“Be careful, William,” Endel whispered nervously. “On my mark…draw your weapon. Alright?” 
William nodded, placing his hand lightly on the hilt of his weapon, feeling the cool stone against his fingertips as he gripped it. Endel smiled slightly, a gesture concealed by the night’s omnipresent shadow. 
“Now!” the red wizard called out as he raised his hands, palms outwards, towards the beast. A flash of light erupted from his body, and a massive burst of flame followed suit, leaping from his hands towards the monster. With supernatural reflexes, the shadowy form leapt over the attack, landing at Endel’s feet and quickly pouncing him, tackling him to the ground. Endel’s eyes widened tremendously, an expression of absolute terror highlighting his features. 
“Get away from him!” shouted William, whipping his blade from its scabbard and bringing it down, cleaving through the monster’s form and causing it to yelp, rolling off Endel’s body. The creature and William circled for a moment, each waiting for the other to make the next move. 
A ferocious glint flashed in the beast’s eye, and a feeling of absolute dread washed over William. Something was wrong, he realized. This creature was very intelligent…and very sadistic… 
The vague form darted forward, leaping onto Endel’s body again, just as he was attempting to sit up, and clawed in rage at the magician, tearing his robes and causing blood to issue forth from the scratches, eliciting screams of pain from Endel himself. 
“I told you to go away!” William screamed, slashing at the monster again, but this time, the weapon merely passed through the shape of the beast, which paused a moment, halting its vigorous clawing, and turned its head towards William. A pleased, satiated look illuminated the shadow’s eyes. William swore it was laughing at him, and a hollow, grim voice echoed in his head. 
I’ll get you next. 
Endel squirmed, somehow all of his strength becoming worthless under the grip of the creature. His face was pale in the moonlight, and made paler still by his terror as he attempted to wrestle free. 
“William, just get out of here, or it’ll get us both!” Endel cried out, obviously choking back tears. His eyes closed, slowly, acceptance that the end was imminent becoming a realization in his mind. “Tell someone you’re headed to Gunnir if you get lost, and I’m sure you’ll get able to get directions!” 
“But…” argued William meekly. 
“GO!” growled Endel, feebly trying to land a punch on the shadowy attacker pinning him down. 
Restraining tears of his own, William hesitated for only a moment longer before taking off in the direction the two had been walking earlier as rapidly as his legs could possibly carry him. 
Just as he thought he was safe, and far enough away from the creature that he would never have to deal with such again, the voice that had resonated within his mind sounded again. 
It doesn’t matter how far you run, or what anyone does to try to save you. It doesn’t even matter if it’s me. You can always be secure in only one fact… 
There will always be those who want only to see you suffer. 
-------
William had been walking for two days, sleeping when he could find adequate cover, and being generally careful-and fearful. He shivered compulsively at night, finding sleep much more difficult than it had been before, and travel no longer seemed quite so pleasant. It had rained, hard, the storm disrupting the environment around William as though he were a man living in a snow globe someone had shaken vigorously. As he walked, mud soaked into his boots, and water drained into them as well, wetting his socks. With every step, regardless of the moisture of the terrain, he felt the irritating squish of wet feet. 
He paused to remove his boot, peeling off his sopping wet soak to reveal wrinkled, pale white toes. Blisters had begun to form as a result of walking for so long in wet shoes and socks. The young man leaned over, prior suppressed tears of frustration seeping from his eyes at last as he rested his face in the palm of his hands. Whether he would have admitted it to anyone or not, he was alone…and afraid. 
Choking back more sobs, he raised his eyes heavenward, staring into the crescent moon, thankful for its blessed illumination. The moon and stars had been his only beacons, and worse, his only company. For the entire time he had journeyed on his own, he kept hoping, praying even, that Endel had somehow managed to escape. Wiping a tear from his eye, he imagined the red wizard putting an affirming, helpful hand on his shoulder, being there to guide him again the rest of the way. 
The words of the shadowy beast still rang clearly in his mind, over and over again, repeating themselves endlessly like a parrot that only knows one phrase. There will always be those who want to see you suffer. And there was something else he had heard, too, as he was fleeing. Words that still made him ill to consider, causing his very sense of being to doubt itself. This is your fault, boy. All yours. 
“How…how can it be my fault?” William wondered aloud. “How can that be?” He reached into his traveling pack, and, while searching for something to munch on, his hand brushed against something else. It was a fairly soft object, with a fuzzy, slightly rough texture to it, but it still had significant substance. He pulled it out of the bag and examined it for a moment, then realized both what it was, and why he had it. 
“It’s a red mage’s hat,” Endel had told him, giving him the piece of headgear their first day on the road. “Most of them wear them, from the day they first become mages up until the day they graduate as archmagi. If they do, of course.” It was a fairly plain hat, a shade of material comparable to that of an apple, with a feather sticking out of the back, a yellowish band around it, and a slightly wide brim. 
William stared at the hat for a few moments before setting it on a rock and resting his head upon it like a pillow. 
* * * * * *
“Hey! You! Wake up, man!” something was jabbing William in the side. Groggily, he rolled over, allowing his eyes to focus in the morning light, and found himself staring up at a young man in a bluish, body length coat. He extended a hand downwards towards William, beckoning for him to take it. William shook his head, grabbed the kind hand, and pulled himself to his feet, stooping to pick up the hat and plop it onto his head. 
“Are you a red mage or something? You don’t look like it…what’re you doing all the way out here?” asked the curious fellow who had awoken him. William blinked, glancing up into his eyes blearily for a moment, and then refocusing again. For some reason, his head hurt, and it probably had to do with his having slept on a rock. 
“No, I…yes, I was on my way here, and had a run-in with some monsters, and, well, here I am. Doesn’t look like I had a very pleasant night, well because I didn’t,” he muttered sheepishly in response. He scratched his neck, studying his newfound morning visitor. He was apparently a boy about his age, dark hair much like his own, blue eyes, and a somewhat pointed, floppy, mustard yellow hat on his head. A mischievous yet relaxed smile illuminated the stranger’s face. 
The young man extended his hand to William again, this time to shake it. “My name’s Zack. What’s yours?” 
William blinked. He was slightly unsure as to what to say at this point. For one, he had no idea whether or not the school would seek out his family or hometown for any reason, perhaps to ask their permission for his attendance, or worse, ask them to pay for it. Secondarily, he had little desire to remain connected to his overbearing father at this point as it was. The farther he got away from him, the better, for the most part… 
He stared at Zack, a piercing, powerful glare to convey the seriousness and deepness of the choice he was about the make, the full force of the path of destiny he was about to take the first steps on embodying itself within his gaze. 
“My name…is Hakaril. Hakaril James Silvar.” 
-------
After a few years, Hakaril had adjusted to Academy life. Rise in the morning, drag yourself out of bed, shower if you have time, yank your roommate out of bed if he’s still sleeping and has a class at the same time, give him a good kick if he refuses to cooperate, and hopefully get to class on time. The lucky students who rose early enough could grab a bite to eat on the way, if they so desired, though a good meal was hard to come by on such a campus. Most students took (at the recommendation of older, more experienced students) courses on basic magic for housekeeping and personal purposes, learning the fundamentals of survival upon will alone. The conjuring of simple loaves of brown bread kept quite a few students from starving, and Hakaril, like many of the others, had adopted the habit of carrying around a cup or mug in his clothing. At opportune moments, a student could pause and fill their cup with water, fluid they generated from their own hands and desires-a very self sufficient feeling, for most magi of such an age. 
This particular morning seemed no different from any other. The only difference was that Hakaril was the one receiving the kick. 
“Get up, Hak!” groaned Masahiro. “This is the wrong morning to sleep in, damnit! Get your ass out of bed, or Melchoir’ll have our heads!” 
Hakaril snored slightly, rolling out of his bunk and slamming against the floor with a resonating thud. He staggered slightly as he rose, clutching his head, and swiped his hat off the bedpost quickly. Slapping the haberdasher onto his head, he sprinted down the hall after Masahiro, still in his bedclothes-there wasn’t much difference between his robes and what he wore to bed anyway, and half the time, most students came to class half dressed anyway. There was a fad that spread across the entire boy’s dormitory wing, in fact, which involved coming to class only wearing one article of clothing, and it being a different one every day of the week. However, this fad quickly ended when, desperate not to repeat the same article of clothing, and having run out of options quite rapidly, a student showed up to Ritual Magic class in nothing more than a pair of white socks. Of course, it could have only been a rumor that this occurred at all, but regardless, this particular fad had flamed out like a waterproof match in a tempest. 
The door slammed behind Hakaril as he darted into class, noting that he was almost, but not quite, tardy. Shaking his head and sighing with relief, he found a seat near the back and prepared himself for the day’s lecture, hoping it might be a practical lesson. Monster Studies was usually an interesting class, regardless, but he felt slightly drained this particular day, and not in the mood to focus on facts and figures. 
In fact, Hakaril would have much preferred being drunk. His first experiences with alcohol at Gunnir had been fairly amusing, and subsequent experimentation rarely happened to be any less so. The interesting thing about drinking parties at Gunnir was that the student’s drinking served two purposes. One was the obvious-they all were totally plastered by the end of the night. However, with Gunnir being a magical academy, a few interesting side effects happened as a result of late night drinking sprees. Invariably, someone would attempt to cast spells while intoxicated, and, more often than not, something blew up. 
A few weeks back, as a result of such reckless spellcasting, Hakaril had managed to change the color of his hair to a bluish shade, a color his classmates seemed to appreciate, particularly some of the girls. However, Hakaril, who had some innate talents on the subject of magic and had quickly risen to one of the top positions of his class, tended to be somewhat uppity and a definite showoff, something he reminded his would-be friends and admirers of on an almost daily basis, and it was something he was about to do again. 
“Mr. Melchoir?” Hakaril inquired from the back of the class, interrupting the teacher’s lecturing. 
“Mr. Silvar?” the instructor replied, gazing at him in a manner that could have indicated either irritation or frustration-things that the young Hakaril Silvar was entirely numb to. No one could possibly be unimpressed with him, after all, and thusly, it was impossible for them to be angry as well! 
Hakaril stood up, giving his mentor a knowing smirk. “You do realize, Mr. Melchoir, that all this memorization isn’t really necessary. A skilled spellcaster can recognize a creature’s weaknesses and talents at a glance by studying their aura, something most people can do with their eyes open.” Satisfied with his current boast, he seated himself once more. His classmates reacted in their own fashion-some jealous, others in considerable awe, still more indifferent. 
Instructor Melchoir shrugged slightly. “You would be amazed, Mr. Silvar,” he mused, “what an aura reading can miss.” He winked at the young mage, picked up his chalk, and resumed his lecturing. 
By the end of class, Hakaril had become rather bored, and it took Masahiro’s coaxing and grumbling to even drag the young man out of his chair, as he appeared to have lost himself in the recesses of something beyond the physical realm. 
“Hakaril, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Masahiro smirked. “You look like somebody who’s had their essence transplanted with a Grenworth’s Soul Transfer spell.” 
Shaking his head, and causing his rather long, bluish hair to swish back and forth with his motions, he rose to his feet and gave Masahiro a playful grin. “Don’t waste your time worrying about me. If I were you, I’d be more worried about your grades than my attitude. After all, you told me your Advanced Elemental Evocation mark couldn’t get any farther from what you wanted if somebody pitched it into the Void.” 
“Gah, you’re the same as always,” replied Masahiro. “I’m starved already. What say we drag our asses down to the common room and grab something to munch on?” 
Hakaril nodded in response, striding down the hallways ahead of his shorter friend. Masahiro was a bit hardheaded at times, and could be aggravating at others, but nevertheless, he was probably Hakaril’s closest friend. The frustrations of keeping him around were overshadowed by the benefits, and besides, he was his roommate. It never paid to be enemies with your roommate. 
* * * * * *
After having a light meal, Hakaril and Masahiro returned to their class schedule, working their way through the rest of the day…until what was most likely Hakaril’s least favorite class, not because of what it was, but because of who taught it. 
Mental Magic was something he never found himself to be very good at. Somehow, when the most base of his classmates were able to achieve telepathic communications or jokingly toss quill pens at each other from across the room with psychokinetic efforts, he found it difficult to even realize the most elementary of such thought-based skills. However, his instructor made these lessons no easier-Instructor Dvinn was a rather prickly fellow, reminding most of his students of a razorbacked stalker. No matter how you tried to touch them, you always ended up bleeding. 
Class was, as usual, somewhat boring for Hakaril, and, unusually, equally boring for Masahiro. No one knew exactly why he bothered, and perhaps it made no difference. By the end of class, it would have happened. 
Dvinn droned on grouchily about the effects of psychic probing, glossing over the long-term damaging effects of being mentally penetrated by a mental magic master. Hakaril had been doing his reading, however, and was actually paying attention during this particular lesson, when he suddenly found the need to interrupt. 
“Instructor Dvinn,” Hakaril smirked, giving his teacher a self-important, haughty glare. “I think you missed something. The immediate severing of a telepsychic bond doesn’t cause either participant to lapse into any sort of coma unless one or both of the psionicists is exceptionally weak-willed. I think you’ve made a mistake.” Ordinarily, even Hakaril might have stopped there. Today, however, was different. In a single act of boredom, a very serious set of events was tipped off… 
Dvinn narrowed his blood red eyes, a trademark among drow with bad tempers. Rumor had it that there had never existed a drow with such eyes with a kind heart-not that many kind-hearted drow existed in Gaera regardless. However, those with crimson eyes were rumored to have even crueler tendencies than the rest of them. Dvinn was about to demonstrate such. 
“Mr. Silvar,” he growled in response. “I never make mistakes.” 
“I’m afraid you do, Dvinn,” Hakaril retorted sarcastically. “Because you just did. A pretty glaring error, I’d say.” 
The drow’s eyes flashed in rage, and one of the empty desks in the front of the class flipped over spontaneously, suddenly gaining lift and sailing across the room at Hakaril. Wide-eyed, he quickly ducked under the incoming object. Suddenly, Masahiro jumped to Hakaril’s defense. 
“Hak’s right on, Dvinn. Give the man a medal, because he just cleaned up your mess.” 
The veins in Dvinn’s forehead throbbed slightly, his rage visible to any onlookers until he composed himself, an act that required a full sixty seconds-quite long for most drow, who tend to have calmer dispositions. After seeming to have relaxed, reducing his anger to an internal smoldering, Dvinn bellowed at the top of his lungs. 
“I don’t have to take this from little boys! After classes, both of you will see me for punishment…and when I’m finished…you’ll think twice before showing your insolent attitudes to me, you worthless troublemakers.” 
-------
Two hours later, Hakaril and Masahiro were on their way back to Dvinn’s office to receive their punishment, serving out the sentence for their crime. 
“Damn that bastard Dvinn,” Masahiro spat. “He was wrong, man. He’s got no right to punish you for being right and making him look like the moron he is…and he’s got no right to punish me for sticking up for you!” 
Hakaril shrugged nonchalantly. “I made him mad. He doesn’t deserve my respect, apparently.” 
Masahiro continued to shake his head in disgust. “Ah, what the hell, it’s just a punishment. What can he possibly do to us, anyway? Give us detention?” Hakaril’s friend smirked slyly, his eyes flashing with a mischievous light-a rather familiar sight, actually. Hakaril grinned back, meeting Masahiro’s eyes with confidence and certainty. 
The two knocked on the ornate oaken door leading into Dvinn’s office, which cracked itself open to allow them entry. Dvinn, however, was standing directly on the opposite side of the portal, apparently awaiting their arrival with some anxiety. 
“Follow me,” he growled coldly. “We are going to the roof.” 
The friends shrugged again, as if it made no difference where they were. Whether it was the roof or a dusty, cobwebbed, dingy office, there was little to fear. Furthermore, while Dvinn was a bit cold, somewhat unfriendly, and an absolute jerk, his sanity was apparently intact. Hakaril had nothing against washing floors or cleaning desks for a few days-it would have been worth it, just to humiliate the haughty instructor in front of a large audience of classmates. 
After a few minutes of walking, three hallways, and six flights of stairs, all three of them arrived at the roof. The upper roof and battlements were rarely used for any purpose at all, and were more for décor than anything else. In fact, the last time Hakaril remembered any class having made a trip to this portion of the school was an advanced Air Magic course that had some good reason to be practicing flying. 
As it stood, the roof was a fairly foreboding place. Chilling winds whipped through Hakaril’s clothing, causing him to compulsively wrap his coat more tightly around his body in order to ward off a sudden gust of frigid air. His shoulder-length hair flowed gracefully in the breeze, yet still with a sense of disorder and chaos-in a sense, Hakaril’s haircut was as free spirited as the young mage himself. 
Dvinn stood calmly before both of them, giving the two boys a glare that could have penetrated the hide of the toughest dragons. Hakaril swore he felt the wind grow colder when the drow instructor trained his eyes on him. 
“I refuse to tolerate your disrespect, Silvar,” Dvinn snarled. “That goes for you as well, Katachi. I happen to harbor a certain…distaste…for students who disrupt my class.” 
“You made a mistake, Instructor, and I fixed it,” Hakaril shrugged. “If that scars you so deeply, why are you a teacher anyway? Everyone makes mistakes.” 
The drow narrowed his eyes at Hakaril. “Sit down, Hakaril. I made a mistake, then. I intend not to make another one.” 
Hakaril squatted down, sitting cross-legged on the roof of the school, and glanced over at Masahiro. 
“You’re both going to learn a lesson,” Dvinn said with a sneer. “And Hakaril’s is going to be infinitely harsher.” 
Dvinn closed his eyes, and after a moment of awkward silence, Masahiro doubled over, hacking and coughing, then dropping to his knees. Hakaril snapped his neck to face in the direction of his friend, his eyes wide as he gazed upon his ordinarily healthy roommate vomiting and convulsing. Masahiro glanced over towards Hakaril weakly, panic first flashing within his eyes, and soon following, a flicker of dread. Despair and weakness hung in the air like a morning fog. 
“Dvinn!” roared Hakaril, enraged. “What the hell are you doing? You’re going to kill him!” 
The instructor turned his gaze back to Hakaril and smiled thinly. 
“I know.” 
Hakaril watched in horror, fearing what Dvinn could do to him-and worse, what the school might do to him if he assaulted Dvinn. Who would they believe, if words came to words? Most likely, he realized, blood roaring in his ears, they would believe Dvinn… 
The young mage shook his head angrily as he watched Masahiro levitate, a gradual action at first, and then picking up altitude and a bit of speed as he moved towards the edge of the roof, struggling the entire time. Pleas and cries of desperation shot out in Masahiro’s muted voice until he clutched at his collar and neck, wide-eyed with the realization that he was choking. 
And with a simple thought, Masahiro stopped levitating, the mental forces keeping him suspended in thin air failing him all at once. Unable to even scream, the student plummeted from the roof of the castle, disappearing from Hakaril’s sight as he dipped beneath the horizon created by the Academy’s stone guard walls. 
“Now, Silvar,” rasped Dvinn as he curled his lips into a gesture of contempt, “you will learn your lesson.” 
-------
For the next several weeks, a myriad of hushed rumors flitted about through the hallways, occasionally surfacing at the dinner table or between classes. The story bubbled vigorously, to the point where it nearly boiled over to the point of disbelief. However, the evidence was still there, a shocking reminder that the rumors were, at the very least, half true. 
Some of them told of a student who simply was unable to weather the pressure of the Gunnir Academy, and in his last, desperate effort, he had flung himself from the roof to escape the embarrassment to himself and his family that would come from announcing his resignation. Quitting would have been a notable failure, a dark, hazy, grim cloud that would have hung with the student for years, perhaps haunting him to the grave itself. The grief and humiliation would have been overwhelming. 
The fact was, the rumors were only half true. There had been a death-there was evidence of such. The question, however, was of motive. The deceased’s fate came about by the hand of another, not a last ditch effort of desperation. Only two people in the entire school knew the truth, and one of them was lying. 
Immediately after the body of Masahiro was discovered, the entire student body was quite unnerved. How could he have done such a thing? Masahiro was many things…but suicidal? The thought had never crossed anyone’s mind. Shortly afterwards, Hakaril received a number of apologies and condolences from well-meaning classmates-classmates who had no concept of what had actually happened, and would probably never know. 
“Hakaril, I’m so sorry about Masahiro,” a gentle voice rang in his ears. Turning around, the mage spied Amber Woodrose, a fellow student. The female wood elf’s words were well intended, and laced with a syrupy sweet, apologetic intonation. 
Hakaril just shook his head. “I’m sorry too,” he growled coldly. 
Amber stared at him curiously, pain and a warped sense of understanding reflecting in her eyes, with a bit of sympathy blended into the mixture. “Hakaril, is something else wrong? I know Masahiro was your best friend but…why are you angry?” 
He stared at her, his reddish-brown eyes piercing her soft green ones. Something burned within those eyes, something she could detect easily-was it merely anger? Perhaps it was frustration? Regret? The wood elf covered her mouth slightly with a hand, shaking her head sadly. Whatever had struck Hakaril so was obviously deep penetrating and likely to affect him for some time. 
Amber gave him a sad last glance, meeting his eyes again. “We’re getting a group of new students coming in at the end of the week…one of them’s a guy about our age. Maybe you should try talking to him when he shows up.” She checked a piece of paper she had absentmindedly stuffed in the pockets of her robes. “His name’s…Darin.” 
Hakaril rubbed at temples as though trying to ward off a splitting headache. “I’ll do that, OK? But right now-well, if it weren’t painfully obvious-I just want to be left alone!” 
-------
Less than six years after he had joined the Gunnir Academy, Hakaril was graduating. His exceptionally high marks and devotion to the study of the applied magical sciences and arts were recognized by nearly every instructor he had, and finally, the day of release had come. As he had risen through the ranks in the order, he had chosen the rather difficult and arduous path of the Red Mage, learning the powers of both creation and destruction, but quickly fanning out to cover all of his bases. In time, he settled his path, leaning in the direction of overall improved versatility. Healing spells, he discovered, much like psionics, were not his field. And so, as Hakaril improved himself, he further expanded upon the bases of his education. Pouring dedication, time and resources into his work, concepts and talents came easily to Hakaril that other students struggled with for years. 
With his training, he had become an adept conjurer, and had studied more than enough self-defensive magic. At a gesture and a thought, Hakaril could impress or delight crowds and audiences with his skills, and in a pinch, he could create an entire basic meal out of literally nothing but the mana flow surrounding and enveloping him, his hands, and a little patience on the part of any observing. 
Finally, the day had come. Hakaril sat with the others in the graduation hall, preparing himself for the breathtaking moment when his name would be announced, and, with his traditional flair and swagger, he would proudly march to the front of the hall. Head held high, a sparkle in his eyes, and a glimmer of success illuminating his aura, he would receive the honor he had studied for years to receive, becoming the man he always wished he could have been, and realizing each and every one of his childhood dreams all within an instantaneous blaze of glory unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It would have been his finest hour. 
In that brilliant, shining moment, his name echoed through the hall. “Hakaril James Silvar, please come to the front stand to receive your certificate as proof of rank and membership within the order.” 
Hakaril nodded, swallowing. This was the most important day in his life! The culmination of everything thus far, and all of his efforts had prior been driven towards this moment! The fruits of his labor were ripe for the picking, ready to be pulled from the vine and devoured in a grassy meadow as he lay, relaxing forever…why was he feeling so unsettled? 
"Archmage Silvar,” Archmage Wray announced as he stood next to Hakaril at the front of the hallway. Archmage Wray was a rather tall man, with short, green hair and the traditionally pointed ears of the elven race. His face crinkled into a warm smile as he gazed outward towards the anxious student audience. The elf put his hand on Hakaril’s shoulder, glancing over at him. The younger man seemed so distraught. Whatever was the matter? 
"Archmage Silvar,” Wray repeated, regaining his composure. “Do you accept the privileges and responsibilities of becoming a contributing and registered member of our order, here, as a graduate of the Gunnir Academy for the Magical Arts and Applied Arcane Sciences?” 
"I do,” replied Hakaril. 
“Do you, Hakaril James Silvar, hereby swear that you will forever be loyal to the order of Archmagi, keeping what you have learned in your mind and ready at all times, always seeking out new knowledge, presenting yourself with a steadfast and sharp attitude, and using your talents for the benefit of yourself, your friends, and all that is positive and right in our world?” 
“Yes, Archmage Wray,” Hakaril nodded. 
“Then, if that is your desire, I hereby proclaim you…Hakaril James Silvar, Archmage of the Gunnir Order!” 
An uproarious tumult of applause rippled through the hallway, enthusiastic cheers and shouts echoing off the walls and causing quite an exuberant din. Through it all, Hakaril stood, steadfast, face illuminated yet deadpan. 
“You may remove the hat which signifies you as an in-training member of our order,” Wray whispered. 
Hakaril shook his head in response, his bluish locks whisking back and forth as he did so. “No, Archmage Wray. I intend to continue wearing it. It reminds me of…an old friend.” 
Wray nodded slowly at Hakaril. “I see,” he stated. 
“Excuse me now, Archmage Wray,” Hakaril murmured, eyes lowered. “I have some things to do.” 
* * * * * *
Within minutes, Hakaril was up on the roof of the Academy. Others were downstairs, celebrating his graduation, and also, the graduation of others. However, the newly graduated Archmage was interested in none of these things. The company of his classmates, the congratulations, cheers, and enthusiastic pats on the back were not currently to his tastes. Instead, he stood, quiet, solitary, and contemplative, peering over the ledge where, years ago, Masahiro had fallen to his death. It was the spot where his best friend had been murdered. 
He swallowed hard, choking back the inevitable tears. A sudden wetness shocked him as a salty drop dribbled down his cheek, splashing against the stone of the Academy ramparts and separating into a thousand smaller parts, each of which would evaporate in the blink of an eye, vanishing as though they had never existed. 
Hakaril leaned over the rampart, frustration and disgust with himself filling his heart. All that he had built his life for came to nothing. How could he have been so foolish, all those years ago? He would rather have been dead. 
And so, on the most powerful, important, and perhaps meaningful day of his life thus far, Hakaril stepped up onto the rampart of the Academy, balancing himself on the edge. 
Was this what it felt like, Masahiro? 
The newly ordained Archmage extended his hands, chanting softly to himself. Within moments, mana began to coalesce into a solid shape in his palms, giving form to a new creation from where once, in material space, nothing existed. 
Hakaril was holding a dagger. 
“It’s time to show the rest of the world my imperfections,” he spat, raising the dagger. The point of the blade shallowly pierced his cheek as he rested it just at the point where the tears would roll down his face, staining it with their salty residues. 
“A trail of tears caused by a trail of blood…and a trail of blood ceasing a trail of tears,” he recited, just before dragging the blade downwards. 
-------
“Where are you going?” 
“I don’t know.” 
“Then stay here.” 
“I can’t.” 
“Hakaril…I don’t understand you.” 
“Neither do I.” 
Hakaril smiled thinly at Amber. “Don’t worry,” he grinned. “I’ll come back. And maybe then I’ll have everything figured out.” The mage slung a backpack over his shoulders, shoving things idly into his pockets. In truth, he needed few possessions, and could probably survive endlessly in the woods or in a hostile environment, so long as predatory animals or the like did not threaten him. Most of his personal belongings were things he carried for comfort and convenience rather than necessity. 
The wood elven girl stared back at him, a forlorn flicker in her eyes, eyes which, to Hakaril, were comparable to flawless emeralds, perfect green orbs suspended in space and time. Her hair, the color of flames, flickered like a blaze itself in the wind the whipped across the landscape. The Academy courtyard was a memory, and so were the gates. The past several years of Hakaril’s life were only an ephemeral set of events-or so it seemed to the young man who had lived them out. 
He shook his head, and the girl broke her gaze, her eyes downcast instead. Apparently, the ground seemed preferable to stare at. “You…you don’t have any idea where you’re going?” she intoned meekly. 
Reaching into his coat, Hakaril withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it, he pressed it up against the side of the Academy’s stone wall, licking two fingers and running them across the page to smooth out the creases. 
Amber peered over his shoulders at the paper, which was apparently some sort of flyer. Green and red letters were emblazoned across the parchment, which read: 
“Nekonia Kitiwai Carnival.”