Hovering by the door, Timothy fidgeted at unease.

In the gloom of the room in front of him, the dark figure of the man that more than anyone else he could call a father rustled amidst crates and barrels, muttering and cursing under his breath.

Watching him, the young man felt conflicting emotions stirring inside. It had always been like that with the Master, since the moment, a half-starved and confused child, he had come knocking at his door. Eighteen years had passed from then and he still wasn’t sure what he felt toward his wizened mentor.

Sometimes, he thought of him as his savior, and that gratitude would put a skip in his step and a smile on his face, making him accept his ever bad temper with patience; other times the old man was a screaming fury, sending him to bed without dinner or giving him mad punishments like cleaning all the corridors of the tower with a brush or dust the impossible chaos of the main library. In those moments, crying tears of frustration and with a grumbling stomach, the certainty that his Master was nothing but a tyrant and a slaver would reach him, as well as dreams of escape and freedom. But then, he would find a loaf of bread at his door, a shadowy figure disappearing at the end of the corridor, or a door would narrowly open, and a grumbling voice would tell him that he needed the main library for some research and he could go dust one of the smaller ones.

Some times, the old man kept him entranced with his words, opening to him vistas of magic and splendor that he couldn’t have dreamed in his wildest fantasies, leading him to uncover the secrets inside of himself and of the world around; then he was the harsh taskmaster, shackling him to mind-numbing work that seemed endless, never brooking an argument, never allowing for protest or pause. Some times, he would return at his room, with his heart beating in his ears and the walls closing down on him, his senses still filled with the perception of the terrible powers his Master toyed with; and, in terror, he would frantically think of the need to stop him, the images of a Master enraged for his betrayal filling him with dread. Then, the following day, he would find everything in order, all the powers that seemed about to erupt held tightly under control. His Master would put his hand over his shoulder and the conviction in his eyes, in his voice, would leave him no room but believe, to think that any doubt was nothing but shadows brought by the night.

He remembered a wizened old man struggling ceaselessly for his objective, with the zeal of a fanatic and with torment burning inside. He never understood why he did what he did, what sparked in him such an all-encompassing desire. When his Master was taken by it, his eyes burning with frenzy, he would draw back from him, fascinated and terrified in equal measure.

But he never dared to ask why.

He remembered a patient man, teaching him to live and think, always ready to listen and caring in his gruff way.

And then, he remembered being a child, weak and sick. The bed under him was hard and uncomfortable, the sheets soaked and heavy. His vision was a blur of tears. The room was stifling and every breath was pain. But a tall, dark figure was by him, holding his hand and saying with a grumbling voice that everything would have been alright.

The Archmage, the Zealot, the Madman, the Master, the Teacher, the Mysterious Man, the Father. How many things his Master was, and he simply couldn’t pinpoint him to a single one. He was such a complex individual, such a tormented man; a superior spirit and at the same time a beast in the guise of humanity.

In the end, he was truly sure of only one thing: in his heart of hearts, Gorren An-Tudok wasn’t a bad man. It could waver and wobble, but Timothy had faith in him.

Watching him rustle about, Timothy felt the words struggle to escape. But he was scared to tell them, nor he felt adequate to convey them. So he held them back.

“And that’s all.”

Timothy tried to smile as his Master emerged from the room, dragging a half-filled sack behind him.

Gorren needed only a quick glance from his piercing eyes to understand that there was turmoil brewing in his apprentice.

“What’s got in your head now?” He asked with a scowl.

Timothy strained his smile. “Nothing, Master!” He replied, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Gorren watched him for a long moment, forehead deeply creased. “Whatever,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

Timothy quickly jumped out of the way to avoid being shouldered past. Mentally sighing in relief, he hurried to follow.

“So, to recap,” the Master graveled without looking back, his staff thumping on the floor alongside his stomping steps. “I’ll be back in exactly a year and while i am absent the Tower will be in your care. I’ll require absolute isolation so don’t bother to knock unless the Tower is on fire, understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Timothy didn’t bother to ask why the Master needed to sequester himself in the Sanctum of the Tower for an entire year. The level of his experiments was so far out of his reach that he doubted he would be able to understand anyway. And, well, it wasn’t like Master would tell him.

“Good!” Gorren said, sounding fiercely annoyed. “I’ve sealed all the laboratories and the inner rooms. Don’t open them. The golems are already set to do all the maintenance. Keep an eye on them and make sure they never run out of energy. The batteries are all at full capacity, so it shouldn’t be much of a problem. And if there are problems, see to it. The second eastern laboratory is open and already fully stocked. Use it if you get the urge to do something useful for a change. Also, care for the cultures. Not the ones in the lower levels. I have golems working on that. You keep an eye on the other ones. And don‘t you dare step one foot in the dungeon!”

Timothy struggled to memorize everything, his chest pounding with a mix of anxiety and pride. To think that Master trusted him enough to leave him the reins of the Tower!

“Keep at the schedule i wrote for you!” Gorren barked. “Gods know if you need it! See if you can keep up with the higher series of exercises. But avoid overextending yourself! You can’t guard my Tower if you’re a bed-ridden, out of mana wreck!”

Timothy nodded quickly, promising to himself that he would be careful.

“Yes, Master.”

“I can’t hear you, apprentice.”

“Yes, Master!”

Talking like that, they reached the point where they would have to say goodbye. A somber gate engraved with a symbol which meaning Timothy didn’t know stood sentinel over the inner Sanctum of the Tower. His curiosity about what laid in the private laboratories of the Master had followed him only for a brief period. Now, he wondered from time to time only about the meaning of that symbol: a circle broken in half by a jagged line.

Like many things, he had never managed the courage to ask.

Gorren stopped in front of it, turning to pierce him with a glare.

“All in all, keep at your studies, concern yourself with what you have business with and don’t mess with which you have not, you hear?”

Timothy nodded quickly, trying his best to look like the image of certainty.

As Gorren’s glare continued, he felt the need to wipe his hands over his robe. It didn’t help that the apprentice robe he wore felt way too big for his frame.

“You look like you swallowed a broom. Give yourself some composure, you slouch,” Gorren scolded him, whacking him on the leg with his staff.

Timothy flinched, realized that Master was right and tried to look more relaxed.

Gorren just rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he grumbled. “The last recommendation: keep your friends out of here.” Gorren glared at him to make sure he understood and Timothy had to repress the need to flinch. “None of those mages down in town has to put one foot inside my Tower, understand?”

Timothy swallowed and nodded. They had had their fights about that topic, and right now he really didn’t want to recall it.

“And if Laszlo shows up, tell him that my answer is and remains: no! Syke a golem on him if he doesn‘t get it!”

Timothy managed to put out a strained smile. He surely wasn’t going to syke anything on Lord Laszlo.

Thankfully, Master didn’t press the issue. The old man stroked at his beard for a moment, looking thoughtful.

“That is all,” he bit out. “Keep my Tower in order. I’ll see you in a year.”

The old man gestured and the gate behind him started to grind open.

Timothy hesitated, a sudden agitation raising up. Master had left him alone in the Tower many times already, but never for so long, and never in charge. Only now the fact truly sank in.

A thousand words crowded on his tongue, just as many as the feelings filling his chest.

Thank you for being the Master that taught me everything. What the hell are you doing in there? You’re like a father to me. I know that you’re a bear but could you, now of all time, be cordial? Thank you for everything. You’re an asshole.

All those thoughts and more crowded confusedly his head, clamoring for being said. Overwhelmed, all that Timothy managed to do was to clamp his mouth shut and nod quickly.

“Good.” Gorren nodded and turned from him, walking inside. “Farewell then.”

The door slammed shut with enough force that the entire room trembled.

All that remained was the cold visage of the closed gate.

Timothy’s shoulders slumped. Why had he to be such a klutz idiot? And Master as well. It was just like him to leave like that, with barely a word, but, at least for once…

“Hey, you’re still there?”

Timothy flinched and widened his eyes. Master’s voice came from beyond the gate, muffled but very audible.

“Be safe while i am not here, alright? You’ve grown into a fine mage and, well, i am proud of you. Keep that up. And stop always doubting yourself. You… you’re a good apprentice and a good mage and, well, that’s all i wanted to say. Stay safe. Farewell.”

And after that, only quick stomping steps disappearing in the distance, as if the old mage was running away from what he had just said.

For a long moment, eyes widened all the way, Timothy remained there, watching at the cold stone of the gate.

He sighed, and a helpless smile made his way on his face.

He put a hand against the gate, bowing his head. “Thank you, Master. You too stay safe.”

He knew the Master couldn’t hear him but it didn’t matter.

“Thank you.”

Timothy’s room was close to the Tower’s entrance, tucked in a side corridor. The apprentice had always wondered why Master made him live there, instead of a room nestled in the Tower‘s interiors. Maybe Gorren An-Tudok thought that stray ended at his door would have been just a temporary addiction at his abode, or maybe some part of him felt that keeping him there would help keep his apprentice’s mind connected to the outside and more distant from the darkness infesting that Tower, or maybe he just thought that climbing a bunch of stairs every day was good for young men. Timothy never managed to decide which was the truth and probably it didn’t matter.

Timothy loved that room; it had been too many times his refuge from enraged Masters and boring studies not to. It was a guilty pleasure, - the frugal mentality that Gorren had implanted into him was too strong to be any different-, but one he didn’t mind too much to have. Even the lack of a window didn’t bother him: that room was more of a nest than a look-out post and then, when he wanted to look at the sky above and the town below, and feel the breeze on his skin, the upper windows were just there waiting.

Only someone grown at Gorren An-Tudok’s school of life could have truly loved that room. It was small, made cramped by the piles of books crowding the stone floor and the space under the spartan bed. A threadbare rug was the only offering to ornamentation. The rest - a portable basin, some linens, a brush and a broom - were all utility tools. Timothy entertained himself with personal projects, something his Master approved, but right now they were limited at the books under his bed.

Timothy sat on the bed, reviewing with attention the parchment upon which his Master had written the schedule of his training and studies. There were two piles of similar sheets on the floor, each reaching up to his knee. His Master hadn’t shirked the efforts, something that made him feel embarrassed and happy at the same time.

Timothy squinted at the minute scripture, struggling to catch everything. There was a ton of stuff to do but he was optimistic. Step by step, he would clear all the items in the lists. When Master came out, he would have been impressed by how much his apprentice had done.

The thought filled him with fervor. He laughed under his breath, rustling his hair with a bit of self-mocking. Or maybe he would manage to break his neck, who knew?

He smiled, eyeing the first tasks of the list. Well, dreams of grandeur aside, he better start somewhere. But first, an all-over inspection of the Tower. Master’s preparations couldn’t be anything but perfect, but he wanted to know what…

BAM BAM BAM

Timothy startled, almost losing grasp of the parchment. He looked up, frowning. Was that…?

BAM BAM BAM

“Timothy! Open up!”

Timothy jumped at his feet. He knew that voice!

He ran at the banging door and, without even bothering to check through the slot, he opened it.

“Alphonse!” He exclaimed, finding the owner of the voice.

The man was tall and thin, ragged clothes dangling loosely around his weather-beaten frame. Timothy had known him from the time he was an orphan scraping for food. Despite having to provide for a numerous family, Alphonse had shared some of his food with him when he could. They had become fast friends and he had been the first person Timothy had gone the first time he had been given leave to exit the Tower.

Now, the scared expression on his friend’s face and the little girl slumped in his arms filled him with alarm.

“Lare!” He called out, full of dismay. The little girl was covered in sweat, her little chest rising and falling quickly. “What happened?”

“The medicine!” The father ranted. “The priests have come!” He was agitated at the point of incoherency and Timothy struggled to make him calm enough to become comprehensible.

The tale the man told him was dismaying. His little girl suffered from the Black Worms, but thankfully the Master had provided him with a cure for it, something that Timothy already knew since he was the one bringing the healing ingredient to him. That day, when he was about to administer the daily dose at his child, some acolytes of the temples had come to stir trouble. He didn’t know how it happened, but they had caught wind of that cure and started to tell that they wanted to search the houses for “black magic implements.” The mages couldn’t stop them: they had a legal mandate from the civil authority. Timothy had told him to keep the cure out of their eyes so he had hidden it just a moment before the clerics ushered them all out of their houses. He hoped to give it to his little girl when the search was over. Unfortunately, the clerics had taken their sweet time and, as time passed, Lare had looked paler and paler. Eventually, he had been unable to hold himself. He had sprinted to his house to grab the cure. He had barely come out with it that one of the acolytes had grabbed it from his hands screaming “Necromancy!” Before realizing what was happening, Alphonse had already swung with his fist, and the acolyte was down. His friends had understood what was happening, they were already nervous and angry for being held out of their houses. Like that, it was complete chaos in the blink of an eye. Alphonse had had the quickness to snatch the cure and his child, then somebody had told him to run and he had done so. Without nowhere else to go, he had run to the Tower.

“I should have been quicker!” He lamented. “I should have given it to her when i had the time!”

Mind running, Timothy glanced at the small pouch the man still stubbornly held. He knew that it was made of ground bones and other ingredients; to someone without the necessary experience, or willing to see it, it could have easily be exchanged for an ingredient of necromancy.

“This is bad!” The apprentice thought, feeling sweat cover his forehead. The crisis he and Master feared was happening. Now of all time!

Watching the pleading man and the little girl, the thought of his Master’s prohibition barely brushed his mind.

“Come inside! Quick!”

Alphonse was only too eager to obey.

Timothy looked quickly outside, already fearing to see pursuers in the distance. Nobody, thankfully. He slammed the door, feeling none at all safer for it, and hurried to guide his friend inside.

They laid Lare on the bed of his room. Heart thumping in his chest, Timothy examined her. The little girl’s skin was covered by a sheen of sweat. Starting from her temples, a web of bulging black veins covered both her cheeks. The same veins covered her hands, just to disappear beneath her clothes and reappear on her neck.

“It has extended so much!” Timothy thought with dismay.

The medicine that Master had prepared for the sufferer was for all means a mild poison. It drained part of the Mana of the patient, lowering it at a level that the body could endure. It would weaken her, forcing her to bed, but in exchange keeping the energy inside from ravaging her frame. It was the only way: Mana Sickness had no known cure; they could only treat the symptoms until the patient’s body became accustomed to her energy. Usually, growing was enough: the body’s higher vigor, coupled with a natural process of adaptation, would outpace the developing of the Mana.

It was immediately clear to Timothy that it wasn’t the case for Lare. The girl’s Mana had been growing faster than her body and her ability to adapt to it. The dosage of the medicine should have been increased, as well as being coupled with a better diet and a more sophisticated treatment therapy.

As the one overseeing her progress, he should have been the one to notice it. It was his fault she was like this now.

Timothy felt his stomach form into knots.

“How is she?” Alphonse’s concerned tone felt like a dagger in his gut.

“I-it’s okay,” he stammered, avoiding to meet his eyes. “She only needs her medicine.”

“Oh, thank the Gods!” The absolute relief he heard in Alphonse’s voice made him feel only worse. Trying not to think about it, he went to work.

The little girl was so limp that it was easy enough to make her ingest the medicine. By the time everything was done, she laid on the bed, breathing marginally better.

“Is she going to be okay?” Alphonse asked, nervously wringing his calloused hands. The poor man couldn’t stop looking at her little girl.

Timothy nodded with a tired sigh. Alphonse didn’t look at all convinced but he had no words of comfort to give him. What terrible mistake he had…

A tumult resounded from outside.

Timothy stared at Alphonse, seeing his same, dawning realization in the man’s eyes. He swallowed, then nodded.

Opening the door of the Tower, Timothy found a crowd amassed in front of the gate. Many were priests and acolytes, recognizable by the robes embroidered with the emblems of the various Temple, but many more were normal citizens and peasants. They all shouted and clamored.

“Bring out the necromancer!”

“No black magic in Truvia!”

“We’re gonna burn you at the stake for this!”

Timothy swallowed, feeling his knees go weak. He exchanged a look with Alphonse, almost hoping in some kind of help, but the man was just as dismayed as he was.

“C-can’t we call the Archmage?” he asked.

Timothy felt a surge of fear at the proposal. Master wasn’t benevolent with those that intruded on his property. He wouldn’t hesitate on unleashing the golems on the crowd and if that happened… he didn’t even want to think about it.

A small voice in the back of his head mocked him for that thought. What, little apprentice, you think yourself wiser than your Master? But maybe it’s just your pride talking. What kind of failure would be calling the Master for help five minutes after being entrusted with the Tower’s safety?

Timothy wavered under those accusations, not knowing what to think.

He lacked the time to center himself.

A man, tall and haughty, detached himself from the crowd and walked the path leading from the gate to the Tower. His flashy, golden-colored robe identified him as a high-ranking priest of the Sun Temple. Timothy winced in recognizing him; that was At-Helios, the high priest of the Sun Lord. In that clergy, there was none higher in station than him in the town.

Timothy immediately started to panic. What the hell was he supposed to do? That was a high priest!

He started as he felt a hand clutch his shoulder. Turning, he found Alphonse staring at him. The man was pale, a question in his eyes.

Timothy heard himself talking like he was someone else.

“N-no, we can’t. T-the Master is absent from the Tower. I… i don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Alphonse just stared, growing pale as a sheet. Then, the man seemed to reach a decision. He still looked scared, but something tough and resigned appeared in his eyes.

“They want me,” he said.

Timothy blinked, then realized what he meant.

“No!” He exclaimed. “No no no, don’t even think about it! We don’t know what they could do! I can… we can…!” The words tumbled uselessly, and he couldn’t put them in order.

“Mage!” The voice of the high priest, amplified by his magic, hammered into them like the clarion of the Sun God himself. “We know you have the fugitives! Hand them over! They won’t escape judgment!” The crowd picked up the cry, cheering loudly.

Timothy stared at Alphonse. The man was trembling, he noticed vaguely, but that resigned conviction in his eyes remained unbidden.

The apprentice realized he was truly going on with it; he was going to surrender himself for the sake of his daughter.

“Wait…”

Alphonse gently but firmly pushed back his weakly groping hand.

“I know that you’re trying to be brave, but without the archmage… i thought he was here…” The man didn’t look him in the eyes. “This is beyond what you can do, friend. I…i shouldn’t have come here. I am sorry.”

His words hit Timothy like a punch in the gut.

He let go of Alphonse, stumbling back.

Alphonse gave him a sorrowful look. “Just, please, look after my little girl.”

And with that he left him, walking out of the door and slamming it behind himself.

Timothy remained there, incapable of moving, incapable of doing anything. Horror and powerlessness gripped him like a vice, holding his throat shut.

From outside, he heard the voices.

“I am here! I surrender!”

“Here’s the necromancer! Get him!”

The sound of a scuffle. A body falling into the dirt.

Without thinking, Timothy was at the door. His hand clutched the handle but he lacked the strength to open it.

“Where is the other one?!”

“I was alone!”

“He lies! He had a girl with him!”

“No! I was alone!”

“Liar!”

“A little girl, you say? And he was feeding her that vileness? She must be an undead!”

“No!”

“Silence! Take him away! He can spit his lies in front of the Golden Eye!”

More sounds of a scuffle. The angry voice of Alphonse, getting weaker as he was dragged away.

“Mage!”

Timothy flinched.

“We know you’re harboring dark magic! We’ll give you a day for giving it up! If you don’t, we’ll take it by force! You have a day, mage! One day! Think well about what you’re going to do!”

And after that, the stomping of many feet and many angry voices, going away.

Timothy slumped against the door, panting. His hand tightened around the handle until the knuckles turned white.

Whatever relief he could have felt was chased away from the gravity of the situation.

What do i do?

If he called Master, there was no way to know what bloodshed could happen. The priest had threatened to invade the Tower, for goodness’ sake!

But those people weren’t thugs or thieves. They thought they were defending their homes from dark magic. He couldn’t just… wound them! kill them!

That tiny voice in his mind taunted him: “you’re just scared of falling short of your Master’s trust, don’t you?”

Timothy didn’t know how to answer. His head pounded. He couldn’t think.

What do i do?

The words of Alphonse rebounded inside his mind, taunting him. “I know that you’re trying to be brave, but this is beyond what you can do. I shouldn’t have come. I am sorry.”

Timothy slammed his eyes shut, powerlessness choking him.

What do i do? What the hell do i do?