I sat on the floor of the library with my back to a shelf of wordless books and my legs crossed beneath me. The primer of translated text that had been given to me by Cage was propped open on my knee, the ink of the printed letters shining in the light of the gas lamps as I flipped through the pages. The quiet shush of papers coming together was soothing. Nothing written caught my interest. 

Sighing, I popped another spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth and continued reading. I'd stolen the jar from Mattie's kitchen in the early hours of the morning. It kept trying to escape, so I had strapped it to the floor with half a roll of tape. The jar wiggled in earnest and I jabbed the spoon back into its innards to quiet it. 

Another week had passed since Darius's departure. Peroth hadn't heard from him and nor had I. Sloth assured me Darius was fine, as he was certain Balthier would have sent some sort of gloating message if he'd finally managed to eradicate the Sin of Pride. I hated to admit it, but Peroth was right. For now, the cliché adage of no news being good news was true.

I rapped my fingers along the book's spine, trying to pull my thoughts back to its pages. Though I was exhausted and would have loved to barricade myself in the Sin's room, I knew I needed to study and to practice. I needed to move forward in order to advance in my quest.

On the floor before me was a basic construct, made with a protractor and compass. Cage would tell me I was cheating, which was the main reason behind my decision to do my studies in the library's seclusion instead of in the dungeons. I was also inclined to believe using outside tools to forge my constructs was cheating and lacked substance, but I was also determined to have one of my spells work—even if I had to fudge my ability with a mockup.

I was familiar with most of the spells in the primer, having flipped through it often enough over the last month or so. Many of the constructs and procedures translated within were well beyond the scope of my ability, even if I'd had years to study them. They needed a veritable power house to fuel their machiavellian design and my mana—or ether—simply didn't have the strength.

The constructs within my range was mostly useless. There was one I'd hoped had potential, though further study into its creation proved to be too difficult for a novice. The construct was supposed to be applied to the palm of the user's hand. The spell caused micro-explosions and was useful for manual labor such as digging small holes, breaking through stubborn tree roots, or loosening boards in carpentry. It could also be used for nefarious means, like picking a lock or causing some serious bruises. 

I'd tried replicating the construct, but—needless to say—the nuances of the design were beyond my limited prowess. It was comprised of two overlaying rings with a system of inner whorls I found utterly impossible to recreate on the inside of my hand. I kept smudging them. 

I set the book aside and looked at the construct on the floor. It was just a beginner's model, made of the three circles nesting within one another, and it held no purpose outside of holding a smidgen of energy inside its bonds. I'd kept it small, so even if it malfunctioned like the one in the dungeons had, I wouldn't be thrown back and nearly kill myself with my own stupidity.

Rolling my stiff shoulders, I muttered, "Here goes nothing."

I laid my hands on opposing sides of the construct with my fingers aligned to its edges. I shut my eyes so I could concentrate on the meager swell of my own power, but I also forced myself to relax and to be patient. I waited and counted my breaths as I did so. I waited until my arms felt dead from holding up my own weight.

Like the first strand of thread unwinding from its spool, my magic began to find its way into my hands. Exhaling, I gave it a nudge in an attempt to coax it into my construct. Nothing happened. I tried again with more insistence, but it only bent away from my presence, like sand molding around my fingers.

The shade was perched at the edge of my awareness. It was a veritable panther in the canopy of my mind, peering between the leaves of my thoughts as if waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I would have shot the shade a reprimanding glare if it'd been possible.

I continued even as my arms began to shake. I prodded and poked and pulled at my amounting magic, trying to convince it to join with the construct, but it only became more reticent and unruly. I finally gave it what amounted to an angry shove—and my tenuous hold on the magic was shattered. It flooded my synapses and bounced off the construct with a tangible crackle of static.

"Ouch!" I snapped as I yanked my smoking hands off the floor. The blackened lines of my construct were ruined, rendered inert. I stuck my singed fingertips into my mouth and growled. "Dammit."

The shade remained where it was, an asmatous darkness lacking shape and form, but it many ways it seemed...sharper. A shadow casted with clearer relief. It held a fraction of Darius's presence, as if the Sin were somehow nearby, lurking. It made sense, considering it was a part of the Sin's soul, but I rarely had the opportunity to study it at such close proximity to my awareness.

It was stronger than I remembered. More aware. It wasn't intrusive, but it did hold more substance than it had before. I closed my eyes as I tied to visualize it. Strange.

The shade sunk once more into abstraction and left no trace of itself behind.

"You're doing it wrong."

Startled, I opened my eyes to see Anzel at the end of the row, standing with his back to the empty aisle. I didn't know how long he'd been standing there.

"Did you need something?" I asked him as I stowed my injured hand under my leg, hiding the black singe marks on the fingertips. The peanut butter jar began to rattle again as if sensing freedom.

Anzel simpered as he silently neared, pacing with one foot before the other. "You're still cross with me, I see." 

"I'm not cross." I fidgeted with Cage's primer before hiding that beneath my leg too. "I told you I wasn't." 

The Vytian lowered himself into a crouch on the other side of the ruined construct. He contemplated my mess, then used one hand to sweep it away.

"Hey!" I argued as he scattered the chalk and salt. I'd been hoping to reuse my perfect lines to recreate the construct and try again.

"Salt." He held up a hand with his palm flat. He nodded to the deflated pouch waiting by the peanut butter.

"I didn't ask for help," I stated as I crossed my arms and looked at the miserable scorch marks I'd left in the floorboards. I would need to find a rug to hide those from Peroth, lest him come looking for whoever had been practicing malformed magic in his library.

"No, but you just said you're not angry with me, and isn't it the privilege of a friend to help another friend when he so chooses?" Anzel's brow rose is in question, though his voice remained flat. His gaze was friendly but cold, rift with hurt. I was surprised. I hadn't realized my aloofness had affected him so much.

"I guess." I shifted to grab the salt pouch and plop it in Anzel's hand. The Vytian moved to open the bag and began to expertly recreate the construct without my forged outline for guidance. He didn't so much as sprinkle the salt as sling it, allowing it to form perfect coils.

"Hands." He tossed the bag aside, using the motion to shrug his hair behind his shoulder.

Grimacing, I presented my hands and Anzel took hold of my wrists, tugging me forward until he could place my hands where he wanted them. My fingers were pushed together and my thumbs splayed until it looked as though I was framing the construct between my two hands.

"Imagine it as a target," the Vytian said as he released me and eased back. The smell of broken leaves and wet earth tickled my nose. "Before summoning your magic, look at the construct and hold it within your mind. Your ability is a hound, the construct its target. You are the hound master. You cannot run alongside your dog, pushing it along. You must tell it its goal, then let it go."

"That doesn't make sense." 

"It will if you try."

I wished magic wasn't so metaphorical. Perhaps it wasn't if you were born into a society where it was taught and used from birth. Perhaps all the metaphors used by Cage and Anzel were only for my benefit—but, either way, they were tiresome. There were only so many metaphors I could stomach before my patience broke. 

I glowered at the construct as I leaned upon my palms. Go to the stupid thing. Do it.

I felt Anzel's gaze on me as we waited for my magic to build again. He shifted as if uncomfortable, lowering one knee from his crouch so he was kneeling. 

When he spoke again, his voice was less authoritative and more introspective. "I...I've been meaning to apologize again for what happened at the ward. If you were angry about what happened, I wouldn't blame you. I am angry with myself." 

I listened to Anzel, but I was unable to respond. He knew that. 

"I wanted to intervene. I wanted to be brave and foolish for you, but the simple truth is that I couldn't." The Vytian's voice was quiet as he trailed his long, fair fingers through the salt ruined by my previous construct. "One day, I will return to Vyus. I have been preparing for that return my entire life. I will unseat the Republic that has laid claim to my realm and will become the Vytian King. That is the fate I have been given and have nurtured. Hundreds of thousands of people are awaiting the return of the Kingdom. They are counting on it." 

Concentrating on Anzel's voice, I was able to relinquish part of my strangling grip upon my own magic. It pooled, and I allowed it to flow where it may, though I willed it to follow my chosen destination.

"That is why Elias and I stayed hidden. In essence, my life is not my own. It belongs to my people. Though I may have wanted to run to the aid of a beautiful woman, I couldn't. I couldn't risk my life because it would risk the fate of my entire race."

"I didn't need aid," I muttered indignantly, but I didn't think Anzel heard me. I breathed out and my magic followed the motion, surging with the exhalation in a sudden drop that set my teeth on edge.

The loosed energy merged with the construct and began its slow, plodding revolutions. Speechless, I watched as the construct activated and thin streamers of silver light spilled from its lines. I was so startled I lost concentration, causing the energy being fed to the construct to be cut short, breaking the magic—but I couldn't stop my smile.

The smell of warm, sun-kissed wheat rose dissipated with the ghostly light.

For the longest time, I was simply too stunned to speak. I had done it. I had completed and had activated a construct. This particular construct hadn't been designed to do anything—but if it had, I would have cast a spell. My very first spell.

Exhilarated, I straightened and beamed at the Vytian. He grinned in return, though the action was marginally reticent, almost sad. I didn't understand why.

"Thank you, Anzel," I told him. I entertained the idea of telling him why I'd been so unfriendly of late—but, in the end, I decided not to. I didn't want to trouble the man when he'd gone out of his way to help me with something I had struggled with for so long. I just smiled.

"You're welcome." He pursed his lips as he looked at the construct and what grains of salt still remained. "You've good form. Your instructor has been doing an adequate job, though they're obviously not Vytian. You're technically proficient and will be able to use a fairly standard set of constructs—with practice. In the future, you should consider more alchemical bases and creations. They're more, ah, forgiving on those who lack great magical reserves but can manage longer, more drawn-out and less demanding spells."

I nodded, declining to tell him I didn't have a future. "Thank you for the advice."

"Of course." Anzel stood and patted stray dirt from his pant legs. I could tell by the grass stains and smudges of mud that he'd been out in the gardens again. "In Vyus, we have instructors for Vytians who are...beginners. They're quite helpful—and the realm's more beautiful than any other place I've ever seen." He teetered on his heels, leveling the gray windows high above a disparaging glance. "Our world is filled with sunlight and magic."

Quizzical, I stopped marveling over my construct and followed Anzel's gaze. Depressing fog waited beyond the glass panes, just as it always did. I had yet to see a single stray beam of sunlight for the duration of my stay at Crow's End.

Is it just me or is he...inviting me? Inviting me to Vyus?

"Oh!"

Anzel's abrupt exclamation alarmed me. He clapped his hands together as a tricky look replaced the sincere glint in his eyes. "I forgot why I came up here, but I've just remembered. The Aos Sí are having another bonfire. I know you enjoyed yourself at the last one, so I wanted to invite you to another."

I scrunched my face as I sat back and yanked the peanut butter jar free of its taped prison. The damn thing smacked me in the nose and made its escape, bobbing through the air like a disoriented bird with the sticky spoon chasing after it. "I don't know...." 

He pouted as his hands came together once more, held in placation as though the Vytian prince was begging. I knew better. Anzel wouldn't beg for anything from anyone. "It would do you a world of wonder, you know. Magic isn't just an entity of the soul. It's a byproduct of the mind and body. Allow yourself some enjoyment, some modicum of comfort, and your magic will be all the better for it."

I rolled my eyes but didn't disregard what he had to say. As silly as it was, I had felt more centered after dancing with the fairies in the moors. That night remained blurred, nothing but smoke and fervent laughter and the memory of the fire's heat against my cheeks. I remembered the rush of power and the cleansing purity of the Aos Sí's conjoined magic meeting my own.

My mind warred with my guilt and my sadness. I traced a finger along a split in the primer's binding as I thought. The whisper of unseen things roving the library's forgotten stores of blank books was evident in the silence maintained between the Vytian and myself.

The spent construct remained on the floor, a reminder of the first spell I had succeeded in the building, a leap forward in my abbreviated magical studies. Anzel had helped me cast it.

Sighing, I nodded my head in acquiescence. Against my better judgement, I would go. I would go because Anzel had been kind to me when he didn't need to be.

The Vytian extended a hand in solicitation. "Excellent. Then, let's get going."

* * *

The wood cart carrying a few bundles of kindling was the only vehicle to be seen in the barren northern fjord of Hflajern.

The aged woodsman manning the cart nickered at his snow-dusted horse as they trundled over the ruts and dips of the road. The mare swatted him with its frazzled tail in response and continued onward from the village. The mountain rose around them like ice giants with palatial white shoulders and glacial helms. The nameless village at the foot of the giants was little more than a spit of brown, pointed rooflines in a sheet of crystallized tundra.

The mare and her cart rounded a bend in the rolling snowbank. The old man blinked and began to rub his eyes as a man dressed in nothing but denim jeans and a leather jacket came into view. The sunlight upon the drifts could be blinding, but the old man wasn't seeing mirages. The stranger with a head full of dark carmine hair and eyes like raw obsidian was truly there.

As they drew level with one another, the foreigner reached out and snatched the reigns from the woodsman's hands. He jerked the mare to a halt, then threw the reigns to the floor at the old man's booted feet.

"I'll give you two hundred American dollars for the scarf," the stranger said with a jerk of his chin. The request was given without explanation or an exchange of pleasantries. It was spoken in a voice as cold as the wintry land surrounding them.

The old woodsman complied with the man's request, though not for the money. He knew the foreigner had to be freezing in these climes. What was he thinking, wandering in this weather without a coat or boots?

The stranger wrapped the black scarf about his neck and the lower portion of his face. The wind caught the ends tossed over his shoulders and splayed them like rippling pinions. A handful of crumpled green bills landed in the cart alongside the discarded reigns. The stranger set off toward the village again, his stride strong despite the unremittent wind.

The woodsman gathered the reigns, then inspected the foreign currency. He turned in his seat to call the man back, to tell him he would gladly take him to the village if needed. His conscience wouldn't let him leave the poor soul out here to freeze to death.

But even as he went to speak, the stranger disappeared into a flurry of blackened flames. The air smelt of smoke and ash.

* * *