"Master… is my life nothing more than a game for fate's amusement?" Volhcard asked, his gaze fixed on the sunset-painted sky.
Dareth raised an eyebrow, confused. Yet in the hollow where a stomach should have been, unease stirred. He swallowed and stepped closer to the dwarf.
"Master… I've realized something about myself," Volhcard continued. "Over the past few days, I've suffered relentless headaches—agonizing ones—paired with visions. Trails."
He took a seat on a nearby bench, and Dareth followed suit.
Meeting the empty sockets of his skeletal mentor, Volhcard let out a hollow, self-mocking laugh.
"These visions… they're of magic. I can see mana itself—its essence. You once told me that perceiving the core, the material structure of mana, was something only the current Archmage of Kroma could do."
His breath faltered.
Dareth understood immediately what had happened.
An awakening. One he had hoped would come years later.
Volhcard buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as tears streamed through his fingers, laughter breaking apart into sobs.
"These trails, these visions, the pain…" He looked up, panting, eyes red and desperate. "Am I the Vessel of Atlas?"
At that question, Dareth knew there was no escape from the truth.
He sighed deeply and rested a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Yes," he said softly. "You are. I had hoped you would discover this later—when you were stronger, when you could bear the weight of such a destiny."
He pulled Volhcard into an embrace, carefully running his fingers through the dwarf's hair.
Volhcard responded with a broken chuckle as tears continued to fall. Around them, animals stirred—dogs whimpered, birds cried, cats hissed and scattered. They sensed the turmoil radiating from him, thin threads of mana leaking outward and winding instinctively around living things.
Volhcard looked up again, forcing a fragile smile through the tears.
"Tell me, Master… will I become the scourge of our kingdom? Will I become that man's tool?"
Volhcard looked up again, forcing a fragile smile through the tears.
"Tell me, Master… will I become the scourge of our kingdom? Will I become that man's tool?"
Those eyes mirrored the memory of Volhcard as a child—once manipulated by Aldir's schemes.
Dareth wiped away the tears streaking his cheeks and attempted a reassuring smile, though it was a poor imitation on a skeletal face.
"We will prepare," he said calmly. "We will watch for signs of his return. And you—you must learn to control this awakening."
Volhcard nodded slowly.
"Then teach me. Teach me until I can wield what lies within. Let me pray until the Almighty Glorious Life hears us—until the day I must ascend."
Dareth inclined his head. Together, they sat in silence, murmuring prayers in Dwarvish.
Above and around the park, faint strands of mana threaded through the trees, coiling around branches and roots alike.
Those threads were felt elsewhere.
Far away, within a ruined castle near Cerrix, Aldir absorbed them.
He sat in his office, watching the scene unfold through unseen means, a relaxed smile playing across his lips as he turned a page in a red leather-bound journal and wrote.
Looks like matters are progressing faster than expected. Perhaps it will take only a week and a half for the true awakening. But that may be wishful thinking.
He tapped his left index finger against his cheek absentmindedly.
The door creaked open, pulling him from his thoughts.
A gremlin stood before him—gray-skinned, sturdier than most of its kind, cloaked and hooded. Bare feet planted firmly on the stone floor, barely reaching a height of two feet.
"My lord," it rasped. "Sly has located the Donumir Staff."
Aldir chuckled, rising to his feet as he adjusted his collar and straightened the black tie beneath his brown vest.
"I see. Maintain control of the castle while I'm away," he said, patting the gremlin's head.
The creature flinched but nodded.
Aldir raised his left hand, drawing his finger downward. A portal of mana opened, and he stepped through. It sealed instantly.
He emerged beneath the shadow of a tree near the Church of the Almighty Glorious Life.
Sly sat on the steps. Sensing his master's presence, he stood.
"The Donumir Staff lies in the basement," Sly reported. "It is sealed within a cogwork lock. I apologize that I could not retrieve it."
Aldir folded his arms, unbothered.
"No apology is necessary. Such a relic would be well protected."
The Donumir Staff was forged of bronze steel, but its true value lay in its core—a system of intricate cogs capable of manipulating time itself.
Aldir had witnessed its creation long ago.
If he wished to ensure success, he would need it.
Yet not the staff itself. Only its core.
"For now, it is too early," Aldir said, tilting his head as his gaze traced the church's architecture. "I merely wished to observe."
The church doors opened.
An apprentice of Dareth stepped outside.
In a blur, Sly lunged forward—grabbing the apprentice's face and tearing it free. Blood spilled as nearby witnesses gasped—
And vanished at the snap of Aldir's fingers.
Sly's features twisted, reshaping into the apprentice's likeness as his body shrank to match.
The corpse did not remain.
Sly's jaw split unnaturally as he consumed it whole.
Aldir clapped once and stepped back into the trees.
"Do not get caught," he said, his silhouette dissolving into shadow.
Sly entered the church, bowing to the symbol of the Almighty Glorious Life before descending the steps into the basement.
"Edolin?" a female apprentice called. "You know we're not allowed down there without Father Dareth's permission."
Sly turned, forcing a smile that came out slightly wrong.
"I've been granted permission," he replied. "I was also asked to retrieve something."
Unsettled, the girl nodded and quickly returned to her studies.
Sly descended further.
Three doors awaited him. His attention fixed on the one directly ahead.
The Ancient Relic Section.
Mana sigils glimmered across its surface, each containing spells designed to alert Dareth upon unauthorized entry.
Sly withdrew a scroll from his pocket—etched with identical symbols.
He pressed it against the door.
It opened.
Inside stretched rows of vaults, each inscribed with ancient Dwarvish script.
This was only the first barrier.
He walked around the room for several minutes, absorbing the atmosphere of old, potent residual magic that lingered in the air around the vaults. Like a parched man wandering a desert without water for days, he savored the taste and sensation of mana. It was truly divine.
To the far left, the fourth vault bore an ancient inscription in Dwarvish: In the Midnight of 478 BGC (Before the Great Conquest), Dornumir Fergesson's Masterpiece Was Born.
"A masterpiece indeed," he murmured.
Approaching the vault, he placed his hands upon the old, dust-laden metal, tracing its surface as ancient magic seeped through his skin, sending a sharp thrill across his body.
He retrieved another scroll from his coat and unfurled it. Clenching it tightly in his right hand, he crushed it before slamming his palm against the vault door.
Glyphs from the scroll—circular and square, etched with archaic script—imprinted themselves onto the metal. The symbols slithered across the surface, linking with the inscription. They spiraled downward and upward, intertwining, before bursting into a faint mist of mana.
Afterward, he grasped the handles and pulled the door open with ease. A surge of primordial magic washed over him—electrifying, frigid, and searing all at once.
Sly immediately dashed into the relic corridor. The passage leading to the Dornumir Staff was deceptively simple: a narrow hallway that distorted the mind. The walls shifted endlessly, stretching and folding upon themselves. Time itself felt unstable, almost meaningless within that space.
"I have no patience for games, unlike my master," he muttered, cursing the chamber as he discarded his clothing.
His body contorted—bones bending, flesh reshaping—until he transformed into a small green lizard. With a sharp hiss, he darted forward, slipping past the temporal distortions, the spell unable to register something so insignificant in magical presence.
At last, he reached the final chamber.
It was a vast circular room, empty save for a single pedestal at its center. Resting upon it was the staff. Looming behind the pedestal stood a thirteen-foot statue of a knight, both hands gripping a greatsword planted tip-first into the ground.
Hissing softly, Sly circled the chamber, scanning for additional traps beyond the statue.
Shifting back into his humanoid form, he cursed beneath his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.
With cautious resolve, he seized the staff.
Without warning, a gray flash flickered at the edge of his vision. He barely leapt aside, clutching the staff as the statue's blade cleaved through the space where he had stood.
The stone knight stirred to life, lifting its greatsword in a heavy arc. The wind-up was slow—just enough time for Sly to retaliate.
He slammed the staff against the ground.
A violent surge of mana erupted outward. Upon striking the statue's legs, the energy corroded the stone, breaking it into pebbles and fragments of dust.
Even as it crumbled, the construct lunged once more, the blade descending in a final attempt to crush him.
Sly thrust the staff forward.
Mana streamed from its core, forming a compact barrier. When the stone greatsword met the shield, it disintegrated gradually into gravel and ash.
The statue's massive frame strained forward, attempting to seize him with its remaining strength. Sly ignored it entirely, turning his back as it collapsed.
Raising the staff, he released another pulse of energy. The unstable corridor beyond steadied under its influence, allowing him to retrace his steps toward the vault. Along the way, he retrieved his discarded clothing.
The moment he exited the chamber, five of Dareth's apprentices confronted him, their staffs and wands raised defensively.
"Father Dareth is already on his way with Brother Volhcard. Stay where you are," one of them commanded, though his voice trembled.
Sly sighed in annoyance and brushed past them.
Before they could respond, he brought the staff down sharply.
In an instant, their bodies withered, aging rapidly until they collapsed into nothing but dust. He continued up the stairs as though nothing had occurred.
Upon reaching the main hall, more of Dareth's disciples stood waiting.
The sight of so many young faces drew an irritated groan from him. Without hesitation, he swung the staff again. Time devoured them just as swiftly, reducing them to scattered ash.
Before departing the church, he cast one final glance at the symbol of the Almighty Glorious Life.
He muttered a curse beneath his breath and slipped into the forest beyond, dissolving into the embrace of shadow.