After recuperating for several hours - and warily watching the cavern exits for any intruders, as there was no way that anything within several kilometers hadn’t heard the echoing boom that rolled through the tunnels from his spell - Paul got back to work, albeit at a safer distance from his spells.

The problem, Paul decided, was a matter of timing. After a succession of experiments - conducted at the very limits of what his light summoning allowed - he found that he could replicate both the [Concussive Orb of Light] and the [Weak Spiraling Missile of Concussion]* on a regular basis, but their activations were unpredictable. Both spells worked by causing his weave of intent to fail - either in a single spot in his weave in the case of the missile, or disintegration of the entire weave at once in the case of the concussive orb.

Moreover, the spells were incredibly costly in terms of intent. In order to break through Paul’s encapsulating spell weave that kept the light from dissipating into the air, he had to invest more of his intent than he was comfortable with. In the case of his concussive orb, it sometimes took nearly all he had to bring it to the bursting point, bringing mental exhaustion and intense, piercing headaches. He had to recuperate for hours between these efforts, working on his tailoring, leatherworking, pottery, or sometimes just curling up on his shelf fungus and sleeping.

Paul was recovering from his last attempt, absently weaving Musk-Ox wool on his primitive loom, hoping the motions would help him find the solution to his problem. He almost gave up several times, knowing that every hour that he spent working on the spells was another trap left unbuilt and that his time was in all likelihood running out.

It’s not enough to create a flawed spell weave, I have to be in control of when that weave fails.

Paul’s fingers moved deftly through the threads on his crude loom, trying variations of patterns. Over and under, under and over, again and again.

It needs to be strong enough to withstand the pressure of intent but has to fail in a predictable manner.

Paul frowned, cutting a loose length of thread from a spindle, and began incorporating it into the pattern.

Then, if I then pull it like so…

Paul grinned as the string came loose, unraveling the pattern, pulling the other threads from the weave.

Now comes the hard part.

Paul stood up and slowly walked back to the stalagmite that he had designated as his spell practice target, taking slow, even breaths. His head still hurt from his last expenditure of intent, which had bled his reserves down to dregs, his ears still rung, and he was pretty sure that despite his body’s unnervingly quick ability to repair itself that he was still nursing a broken rib. But these were distractions, and after months of living in the unforgiving caves, Paul had learned how to ignore them.

Closing his eyes, Paul began weaving his intent. This was orders of magnitude more complex than his other “persistent” patterns, which for the most part were simple repeating patterns of intent. And, while the basic structure of the weave was the same, Paul had simultaneously thread a new, distinct thread of intent into the pattern as he created it, passing it in and out of the pattern in complex whorls and loops.

After several minutes of effort, Paul was ready to complete the weave, tying off the last thread of intent. He held his breath as he released the spell pattern… only to let out an exasperated “Fuck!” as the entire pattern unraveled into the ether.

“Why can’t anything be easy?”

This is a waste of time. The Trolls could be here at any moment, and here I am standing here with my eyes closed. I should just…

“No.” Paul grit his teeth. I will do this.

When I first came here, I was helpless. Pathetic even. Scared of my own shadow. I didn’t think that surviving here was possible. But I did. There was fear, but I fought through it. There was pain, but I persisted in spite of it. There was hardship, but I endured it.

Me. Not anyone else. I did it because I had no choice, but in the end, I’ve accomplished things I never thought myself capable of. Are you really going to stop now on your first try? C’mon Paul, buckle down and try again.

He didn’t succeed on his next try. Or his next ten tries, but eventually he finished his weave of intent, and it felt right. Paul held his breath as he tied the last thread of intent off, completing the pattern. It held.

Paul wanted to pump his fist in the air but restrained himself. There was one more thing to test.

He opened his eyes and mentally moved the construct of light thirty paces away, near the edge of his range. Pushing intent into the orb at this distance was more difficult than when it was close, but he managed to pack it with enough so that he could feel the pressure inside.

Gingerly, he mentally found the loose string he had built into the weave and pulled on one end. As intended, the string pulled loose his intent to form a tiny hole in the light orb. Paul grinned stupidly as the light immediately whirled away like an out-of-control balloon, gyrating wildly as it carved its way through the air.

His grin faded as the missile curved back toward him in its spiraling path.

Oh shit.

Paul threw himself to the floor not a moment too soon and heard a brittle slap as the tiny orb impacted with the cave floor.

Ok, it’s not perfect, but I can work with this.

Several attempts later, Paul was ready to make his modifications to the spells permanent, gaining a third rank in [Spellweaving] and a second in [Intent Focusing] for his troubles. He had forgotten how difficult it was to change an established spell pattern, the weave of intent clinging stubbornly to its old form, but eventually, Paul felt the resistance give way and the weave snapped into its modified form.

*Spell Altered: [Concussive Orb of Light] is now [Triggered Variable Concussive Orb of Light].

*Spell Altered: [Triggered Variable Spiraling Missile of Concussion]

Paul laughed out loud with relief. He had expected the change in power to something similar to “variable” on the spells, as now he was in control of when they activated, he could choose how much intent to pour into each one.

The missile was still inaccurate and sometimes took unpredictable flight paths, but with concentration, Paul could guide it in the right general direction within his control range and hit the target stalagmite more often than not. He hoped that his range and control would continue to increase with his [Channeling] skill.

He was happy with his progress, but he could feel the mental strain that the past few hours had taken on his mind, so he headed back to the shelf fungus where he made his bed, calling for Seymore as he drew the furs over his body.

Seymore scampered up the shelf fungus to lay by Paul’s head.

Paul looked into the lizard’s eyes, feeling once again the strange bond that existed between them, knowing that even when he closed his eyes, he would still know where Seymore was.

“Ok Seymore, just like we practiced. If I don’t wake up when the alarm sounds, you’re going to have to wake me.”

Before Paul drifted to sleep, he wondered why he was so sure Seymore had understood him.

Hopefully not wishful thinking.

Paul dreamt of children running through a field of tall grass. He wasn’t sure what they were running from until a small boy - no, Devin - Paul realized he knew the boy’s name - turned back to look at him, terror in his eyes and wet streaks carving lines down his cheeks.

They were running from him.

Paul was faster. He lifted his hand and uttered a single word.

“Burn.”

A stream of black fire exploded from his palm, consuming the children, their skin sizzling and cracking as the fire consumed them.

Paul woke hyperventilating and covered in clammy sweat.

What was that? Did I know that boy?

Paul shuddered involuntarily. He had never had a nightmare where he hurt others and the thought of him killing those children revolted him in an immediate, visceral way.

Eventually, he slowed his breathing and closed his eyes again, exhaustion winning out over his disturbing dream.

The next time Paul woke it was to a sharp pain on his earlobe jolting him to consciousness.

His eyes flew open to see Seymore inches from his face and Paul realized that it had been Seymore’s teeth digging into his earlobe. He was annoyed for a split second before remembering what Seymore waking him meant.

“Good job buddy.”

Paul leveraged himself from his bed and leaped off the shelf fungus to the cavern floor below. He could faintly hear the echoes of the alarm that Seymore must have heard. It was faint, barely perceptible above the persistent ringing in Paul’s ears that, while better, had not faded completely.

The “alarm” itself was a simple trap, one of the first that he had created. A tripwire of sinew connected to a stack of his failed pottery experiments that would crash to the ground when the tripwire was disturbed. It was utterly harmless. It was also very loud.

From the direction that the Trolls had been searching from, there were only two tunnels that led to Paul’s home cavern. One was narrow and twisting, with convoluted turns and sudden elevation changes, making for scrambling climbs and ankle-twisting descents. Paul had bet that the trolls would not use this approach, setting the tunnel with only a few traps. The other was a taller, broader series of tunnels that, while studded with deep crevasses was easily navigable. It was in the second tunnel where Paul had placed the majority of the traps.

The sound had definitely come from the second set of tunnels. While Paul felt a hint of satisfaction for being right, the outcome wasn’t ideal - he felt that fighting the trolls in the tight confines of the first set of tunnels would be easier than in the broad tunnels where the trolls could use their numbers to their advantage.

Paul quickly pulled on his combat leathers, a version of his buckskins that he created after his first encounter with the trolls. This set was bulkier and less flexible but tougher, and Paul hoped that it would offer the extra protection he needed.

Paul then knelt near a small pot of black ash he had collected and ground into a fine powder, smearing it under and around his eyes like eye-black. Seymore chirped curiously at him.

“Just putting my war-face on Seymore,” Paul explained. “Let’s get you a war-face too.” Paul dabbed a bit of soot on the lizard’s forehead. “Perfect.”

He smoothly donned the rest of his gear and weapons, placed Seymore in his pack, and took off running toward the tunnel entrance, eating up this distance with [Long Distance Running].

His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel fear, but also a sense of anticipation as well. Ever since he had barely escaped from the cave trolls the first time, he knew this day was coming, hanging like an executioner’s blade over everything he did, a constant, growing dread.

Now that the confrontation was actually here, the dread and uncertainty had been washed away.

One of the first things Paul had learned in the labyrinth was when to run away and when to turn and fight.

Spear in hand, he sprinted into the darkness. It was time to fight.