Thimotheus, the crippled godforsaken shame of the mage institution, stood atop the deck of the Albatross, letting the wind tousle his hair, while the swift ship danced across the waves with force and grace, not anything like the namesake bird.

He was a mage, wielding the primordial fire, a little bit of arcane, and a dash of air, and he was at the end of his wit. Has it always been that hard? Writing words and drawing spells to change reality into my own desires? He snorted. Of course, it had been. You are just a sorry excuse for a mage of the White Tower.

To be fair, it was nigh impossible to remember spells and craft them anew, without a library and any books. There was a reason that mages tended to be of a scholarly sort.

I just had thought to be...I don‘t know...better than that.

There was one spell in the giant scrapbook Thimotheus carried under his arm. The one spell he could cast. It was as simple as effective. Fire, a sphere packed with as much heat as he could manage, contained by a field, courtesy of the school of arcane. Thrown and guided by a gust of wind. But he lacked the complex incantations to really designate a target or any other manipulation of the higher kind. He was a catapult. Not more, not less. And that was a shame.

Give me my spellbook you damn carrion eaters, and I swallow you whole in a sea of burning air. He swore.

As it stood, he threw larger and larger exploding fireballs behind the racing Albatross. What else to do with his power? He was as good a mage as they came with fire, at least below the level of master and archmage, as he had earned the five mysteries of elemental fire, only 2 arcane and 1 wind, but that was all a war mage needed to be a devastating force on the battlefield.

Until your Mana ran dry and you were swarmed by Wyldlings that took your leg, your freedom, and the future of your Empire.

Should have invested more in wind, then, and I could have flown away.

One more sphere of fire grew between his fingers, as he read the spell from the one page of his spellbook, he counted slowly, then timed his throw with the predetermined explosion of wind, that shot the ball across the waves.

It exploded on the hull of the sleek ships on the tail of the Albatross without much impact, and yet the crew around him cheered in wild excitement. If the goddamned ship would stop moving for just a damned second. He swore grinning. What he was doing was hard, impossible really, but the men and women around him did not know that. If they knew what orbs of instability he created, packed with a force to tear human flesh and wood apart with ease, not to speak of the fire, they would have dragged him off the aftcastle and chained him to the mast.

That was why it was so much fun, wasn‘t it? The constant dance on the edge of disaster? Wielding destruction, pure and catastrophic destruction, like a sword. Thimotheus knew that it was wrong, somehow, but fire was just so...fascinating.

Finally, their pursuers hauled off. He had not expected them to last that long, to be fair. It took kind of a lot of mental fortitude to follow something that threw fire at you - when all that was between you and the endless depths of the ocean was something built out of wood.

“Excellent work, warmage.“ Captain Locksely nodded to him, his arms behind his back, studying the sails that quickly shrank in the distance. There was a look. Had the captain worked with mages before? Did he know that he should have destroyed that ship and more?

Thimotheus massaged his hand, where the scarred stumps of his missing fingers pulsated in pain under the stress and the heat of his work. He held it up and tried an apologetic look. “Fewer fingers mean that the others have to pick up the slack.“ He smiled. “I am still getting used to it.“

Locksley raised his brows. “I was not criticizing you and would never impart in your field of expertise. You said you could handle them and you did. Commendably, I might add. I would never have guessed the Tartosians to be this brazen, so close to the Swan Bay.“

Thimotheus shrugged. “The White Tower never had much of a force at sea, beyond their reputation. I guess non-aggression pacts do not count much since the empire has fallen.“

Locksely shook his head. “Apparently not. This does not look like they are out in full force yet. But it is just a matter of time until the sea swims with their barges. Where is the navy? I cannot believe they would have fallen that easily. To what force?“

Thimotheus shrugged. “You would know better than me. But there was a fleet in the Swan Bay, specifically to deter the Tartosians from entering the sea of the empire.“

Lockley nodded. “I know. That is why I bring it up. Where are they?“

“When do you think we will reach the bay and the White Tower? I have to prepare for the moment.“

“Come sunrise tomorrow we will round the Watchers Nook and see the tower.“

Thimotheus nodded and excused himself, going back down to his cabin, throwing the heavy book on the swaying table and himself on the hammock, no less wildly swaying with the waves. He took off his damned peg-leg, gingerly massaging the hurting flesh and scar beneath. He took out a small jar of salve the healers of Ravenport had given him and smeared a generous amount on the hurting tissue. He had been on his legs a lot today and it showed.

That was not what he thought about though. He thought about how to get into a tower he had been expelled from, and rightfully so.

The tower was under siege. Majestically, it arced upwards in his ivory glow, not a single tower, but many many smaller ones, like a tree growing towers out of itself, spanning the sky. It was eternal, made out of a material no mortal ever had understood, which had not stopped them from building more and more around and on top of the original structure. It was a mess- but a glorious one. The epitome of human hubris and grandeur, and the center of magic and magical learning in the Fallen Empire.

The tower... had not fallen. A dome of shimmering force surrounded the tower and the city underneath, and the fires of the people sieging it were endless. What a bleak sight to see the armies of the Wyldlings were, who had obviously conquered the rest of the land and had amassed to take the final northernmost stronghold. What a glorious sight to see the tower standing tall, untouched, impeccably clean, in front of the enemy.

We flew the flag of the empire, and the newest code we could find in the little book the Albatross carried, the key for the code a well-kept secret of the captains of the imperial navy, and we just sailed straight to the port.

It was a gamble. No one knew if they would accept the code, which surely had to be old by now or just would blast them off the waters. They let us through, and, as I was living proof of it, without even a shadow of hesitation in the knowledge that it took just one of their mages but a thought to turn us into shark food.

They would let us enter the port, where no warships could be seen, so the fleet really was missing, but it was beyond full with merchants and fisher boats trying to weather out the figurative storm on the sea. We found a place and the captain went looking for city officials to speak to, while he let me handle my business with the tower.

Because, as everyone knew, no one could enter the tower, but a mage of the tower. Thimotheus was one of those, but he had been expelled, so...he did not quite know where he stood, now. Surely the war superseded the little...widespread destruction he had caused?

he tried the official way and announced his presence in the entry hall, as full with supplicants and people seeking shelter as the harbor had been, and no one reacted to his proclamation. There was magic at work here, of course. Any full mage would just have to speak the words and the door would have opened. Which it had not. Which was a shame. He sighed, putting his hand on the ivory material the door was cut out of.

Coming home hurt. Being rejected once more hurt more. Even in dire times like these, the Caretakers of the tower showed no mercy for the expelled.

Thimotheus shrugged. Keep your secrets and your safety, lazy worms, and watch the world burn around you. I am not without allies in the White Tower. I just needed to contact them, somehow.

“What are you doing here?“ A sneering voice cut through the noise of the ground floor. Thimotheus turned and saw a man clad in the blue robes of the school of water mages, a stark contrast to his own, formerly bright red robes...long faded and torn. “I remember clearly the day you have been expelled and with no uncertainties been told to never set foot into the tower again.“

Anders, his rival through all of childhood and magic college, stood there, hatred in his eyes and... a triumph. He wore the stola of the full mage, something Thimotheus never had the chance to achieve. Good to know that his archenemy was well.

“I so do not have time for this.“ Thimotheus said smiling, turned, and left, never hearing what the other had to say.

He had rivals and even enemies at the White Tower, true, but he had friends as well. Better friends than he had any right to have. Friends he snuck out into the seedy bars and brothels of the port with more than once. Friends he would die for. Friends who would do anything for him.

Time to go to the seedy bars once again. Time to see if they remembered their old signals.

They sat in the corner of the Drunken Mermaid, their nicknames carved into the table, from whence they were nothing but young apprentices escaping their masters for a beer and a glowstick...and the cheap and sea salt tasting embrace of a woman. Students they had been, young, naive, and eager to take on the world.

Around the table, oh so out of place in this dump of a tavern, sat men, decorated and mighty. He was the least of them, the failure, the expelled. But there was also the teacher, the researcher, the officer, and the entrepreneur.

“I am glad, that you are alive.“ Skadi said, good old Skadi, now Professor Skadellorn. He looked around with a good amount of discomfort. He had not been here in years. “And I know that there is not much out there, at the moment, but to come here must be a mistake, surely.“

“Do you know what is out there?“ Thimotheus asked him looking for the man's eyes. Had there been those lines around them all along? Were they new? “Do you know how the world burns while you hide yourselves in the literal ivory tower?“

They fell silent, evading eye contact and shuffling on their seats. They literally sighed in relief when the beers came to give them a reprieve from Thimotheus' accusing stare.

“Save it.“ Turtle said growling. That was leading researcher in magical plantation, Magister Tortan Torvan, for you, thank you very much. He was a burly man, fat really, and had a temper like a cornered boar, if you did not know how to read him, really. He was a menace to his pupils and mages that worked for him, but the best of friends in times of need. “Should I have ridden my flowers into war? No? So shut your mouth, this situation is no fault of ours. Save your accusations for those that deserve it. Tell us why you came and what you want.“

“I came to recruit you and everyone you can bring and to steal everything we can from the library. And I need a Spellbook. Another round, dear friends?“