Timothy ran as fast as he could, fear clouding his mind. Behind him, he could hear the steps of his chasers hitting the cobblestones, could hear their shouts.

“Stop!”

“Get him!”

“Stop right there, necromancer!”

A part of Timothy wanted to stop and try to explain, another scream back that he wasn’t a necromancer. He just kept running.

He didn’t know for how long he ran, heedless of the direction. He was too scared to think straight. Images of failure and capture rebounded inside his skull, making him blind to anything but the tangle of alleys he kept escaping in.

In the end, he realized with a start that he was just running around like a headless chicken.

This is no good, he thought. I need to get my bearings.

With surprise, he noticed that he couldn’t hear any steps behind him. He stopped, panting, and looked for pursuers.

Nothing. He was alone.

Relief lasted only for a split second before the urgency of his situation reasserted itself.

Whirling around, he tried to get his bearings. The alley’s cobblestones were broken up by shrubs that had grown between the cracks. The walls were tall and foreboding, stained with humidity and mold.

Timothy cracked a strained smile. He recognized the surroundings of the House of Dust. Without realizing it, he had been running toward its objective. Thank goodness.

He barely had finished that thought that he heard shouts and steps in the distance. He jumped, panic surging right back. Frantically, he looked for the way to go.

The alley divided itself into three paths that formed a cross-section. Timothy quickly discarded the left one: it went beneath the wing of a building like a tunnel, disappearing in darkness after a few steps. Judging from the musty smell and the rubble littering it, it was a dead-end built by a cave-in.

He was left with the other two. Moving his gaze from one to the other, Timothy felt despair rise. He had no idea which to choose. The central one ended in a ragged flight of stairs that disappeared after a sharp curve; the other just sneaked its way between the buildings before doing the same.

Where do i go?

Back as an urchin, he knew all the side alleys of Truvia like the back of his hand, a knowledge that he had retained from his coming and goings to the town. But even he had never truly known the surroundings of the House of Dust. It was an unspoken rule: you didn’t go near the temple, not if you didn’t have business with the bone priests.

The surroundings of the House of Dust were a maze of abandoned buildings, half a neighborhood given to silence and cemeteries tended by the enigmatic priests. If they hadn‘t a business to do there, people usually avoided the place, especially because every year a vagrant or curious disappeared into it. Timothy had never been part of the curious kind and now he paid the price for it.

Where do i go?!?

There was no time. He could hear his pursuers get closer.

Timothy pulled at his hair, grimacing painfully. He could have been running for minutes in that maze before finding the right path. He doubted his pursuers knew the place much better, especially those side alleys, but they were many and he was only one: they could organize themselves to intercept him, surround him, cut him off from any escape…

In despair, he turned around the last time, searching for a glint of recognition, anything that could allow him to choose the right path.

He froze.

There was something in the darkened path.

Even as he watched it, Timothy wasn’t able to catch the fullness of its appearance. It was like his mind refused to or simply couldn’t catch the thing’s true aspect. He saw a shape, blurry and indistinct, rising from the shadows, while being at the same time part of them, apart from them, darker and deeper than them. He thought to recognize bone, bleached and withered by the centuries, a face that was a mask. A long finger pointed toward the rightmost path.

Then the vision was gone. Sounds returned to him all at once, as he had been caught underwater. He took a sharp intake of air, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath.

He blinked. He was alone in the alley.

Without thinking, he sprang for the rightmost path.

What was that? he thought as he ran, his steps pounding the cobblestones. His thoughts ran sluggish as he tried to remember the thing he had just seen, the little details he had managed to catch disappearing even as he tried to put them into focus.

Just like a dream.

The shadow of death?

He shivered.

Master would be much more comfortable than me close to that.

That thought came unbidden. He lacked even the time to marvel at its strangeness that it had already floated away. He didn’t look back to it.

A moment later he had forgotten that strange encounter, his mind turning almost of its own volition to his present task.

The walls of the alley suddenly gave way, the transition so quick that by the time he had happened, he was already somewhere else. He stopped, quickly looking around for clues as to where he was. The avenue was large and somber, but well-maintained. Melted candles lined the pathways on both sides, forming, alongside with carpets of trampled petals and swirling patterns on the cobblestones, a corridor that ran alongside the street. A wave of relief washed over him. He recognized the place. That was the main avenue of the Dust neighborhood, where the House of Dust was. He only had to follow it and he would reach…

“There he is!”

Timothy whirled around at that sudden shout.

Down the street, a group of priests and templars were pointing and hollering at him. Timothy recognized with a start the figure of Utar-Helios among them.

“Get him!” The woman ordered and templars and acolytes charged, bellowing and waving weapons.

Timothy stepped back, blanching at the sight of drawn weapons. They wouldn’t… He hadn’t hurt anybody. They couldn’t…

Part of him screamed that he needed to defend himself. Without thinking, he raised a hand, a golden glow haloing his fingers.

It was a bad move.

Utar-Helios hadn’t reached her exalted position out of favoritism. Like her superior, she had long served in the frontlines of her cult, fighting more than one battle in defense of the empire and of the Sun Gospel. Seeing Timothy’s gesture, she thought the necromancer was about to attack her soldiers with dark magic and reacted, faster than Timothy could see.

The apprentice was struck by a bolt of light and fell screaming. The impact with the ground tore all breath from his lungs, but that was nothing compared to the pain engulfing his hand. Eyes wide, clutching his wrist, he looked at it. The bolt had burned his fingers, turning them a charred black. The pain was atrocious, feeling like a thousand needles had been driven in his flesh.

In panicked agony, he tried to scream that he surrendered but all he managed to let out was a strangled croak. His throat felt like had been closed into a vice.

Alongside his hammering heart, he could hear the pounding of his assailants’ steps on the cobblestones.

They’re going to kill me!

He tried to move but the pain flared up and he fell back down with a scream.

Help! They’re going to kill me! Help!

And help arrived.

Just as the Templars were about to fall upon him, the wind suddenly picked up and the entire street turned dark.

Timothy heard the templars crying out in confusion, then sounds of clanking and smacking, as if naked flesh hitting metal.

A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and before he could realize it he was being dragged away, the agony of his hand keeping him from even trying to resist.

Something brushed his cheek and he heard a whisper wafting against his ear.

“It’s not your time yet, little one.”

He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, but he had the certainty that the darkness itself had been talking as if the night had turned its eyes on him and deigned to whisper.

Something cold brushed his fingers and the same cold remained over them like it was a drop of water. Timothy felt it expand, cover his fingers, his hand, reach his wrist. Amidst all the confusion and pain, he was sure it would cover him completely until only an ice statue of him remained. Instead, the cold disappeared, as if sinking in his flesh, and the pain stopped.

He found himself on his feet, the presence hanging over him having disappeared as quick as it had come.

Opening eyes that he hadn‘t realized to have squeezed shut, he found himself in another place.

He was in the center of a large square. Maybe, sometime in the past, it had been a place where people walked and talked and lived but now it was a rocky kingdom of silence and stillness.

In front of him, the House of Dust loomed, tall and dark and foreboding.

Timothy blinked away tears. His head felt like it had been filled with cotton. He lifted his hand and looked at it. The fingers and palm were covered with scars but otherwise untouched. Warily, he touched them. Discomfort, yes; they pulled and itched, but no pain.

Lightheaded, he looked around. Sad willows and somber cypresses lined some sections of the square, some leading away from it in silent corridors.

In the distance, he could still hear the shouts of the templars, alongside other sounds, sounds that, he realized with a shudder, didn’t belong to any living thing.

Are… are the powers of this place helping me?

Why? He lacked the time to find out.

He wiped at his eyes and cheeks, then sprinted toward the House. Questions were for later. Now he needed to find the priests.

The House of Dust had no door: it didn’t need one. Timothy barged through the empty entrance and into a somber stone antechamber.

Bone acolytes, their frames made misshapen by their heavy black robes, stood there, all wearing focused expressions and faraway stares as if they were listening to something. With eery unison, they all moved their eyes over him.

Timothy tried his best to ignore the shiver rising up his spine.

“The High Speaker!” He called, breathless. “I urgently… i need… where is he?”

The acolytes turned their impassive stares at each other.

Timothy nervously scratched at his hand. With unease, he noted the still forms of two Death Templars standing by the sides of the room. With their full plate armor, he had taken them for iron statues.

Some unspoken agreement seemed to pass between the acolytes. One of them, a thin, wispy girl, came forward, her robe making her look like she floated above the stones of the pavement.

“The Speaker is absent,” she informed him with a thin, hoarse voice. “He and the Ebonites have left the House just a while ago. The Second Eye of the Sun has called for a council.”

Timothy needed a moment to register the meaning of those words and when he did, he felt the need to slap at his forehead. So that’s what Utar-Helios had been doing! Calling the other temple’s representatives to a meeting!

The exact reason for such a move escaped him but he could guess some of the implications and the feelings he got out of it weren’t good, not at all.

“C-can you help me? Please, look at this!” He reached for his secret pocket but his hand didn’t find the familiar swell.

Alarmed, Timothy looked at his sleeve. It was badly burned, the attack from the priestess having sheared half of it away and leaving the rest a burned ruin. With dismay, he saw that the secret pouch inside had been ripped open, all its contents long gone.

His mind raced feverishly. When it had happened? When he had fallen? After that?

Timothy realized that it didn’t matter. Even knowing when the pouch had given out, he couldn’t gather back the dust. The medicine was gone and he was left with nothing to prove the innocence of the mages of the town.

Despair raged inside of him, frustration and, finally, dejection. There was nothing more to do.

He had failed.

“Just… nothing…” he mumbled at the acolytes watching him with curiosity, holding his head down.

Nobody stopped him as he dragged himself out: the acolytes just watched him go, their silent gazes following him at the unison as he went. Outside, another group of acolytes, probably attracted by the racket, congregated around a Bonepriest: even they silently watched him as he passed.

“They look like a flock of birds,” he thought distantly.

He had no idea how long he walked.

Initially, his only thought was to leave the gloom of the Dust. By that point, he didn’t even care about getting caught by Utar-Helios. But no murderous band of golden-colored priests came to arrest his path and he was soon back in more lively parts of the city.

There, he just wandered blindly, wallowing in his self-loathing and guilt. Returning to the Tower was out of the question. With what face could he present himself to Lare? To Lord Laszlo? To Master?

He had failed, completely. Even if he returned, he would have been just a burden. A thousand times better for everyone if he just hid into the city’s alleys and never returned.

He didn’t notice that, without thinking, he had directed his steps toward the mage district. He realized where he was only when the familiarity of the streets asserted itself.

“I have failed them as well,” he thought distantly, his heart giving a painful squeeze.

He hung his head low: he couldn’t bear even watching the place.

Walking like that, he didn’t notice where he was going. A chorus of shouts and cries startled him out of his depressing reverie.

Starting, he looked up, only to start again.

He had come out from an alley in front of a haphazard barricade. A couple of carts had been overturned to form it, with a jumble of everything one could take out of a house: chairs, tables, chests, baskets, even logs of wood for the fire. The barricade stretched across the entire street, effectively blocking it.

Timothy was still blinking owlishly at it, struggling to understand what he was seeing, that a voice came from behind it.

“Not another step, friend! We have you under aim!”

Timothy noticed the people: men and women in ragged clothes, many sporting burning and bruises and bandages. They manned the barricade, some with determined expressions, some looking barely above fear, all being tense and ready. Many wielded improvised weapons: cutting kitchen implements, long poles, chair legs used as clubs, planks of woods hammered together into little shields, hunting bows. A few, he noticed, wielded true weapons: spears and pieces of leather armors, swords and heavy wooden maces, large shields covered with wet rags. Some even wore magic implements to help casting, like staves and wands that his Master would call primitive, bracelets, focus stones, rings and more.

Timothy watched that hodgepodge brigade in astonishment, so much that he barely noticed the weapons aimed at him.

“It’s alone?”

“Seems like it…”

“Who the hell are you?”

Their voices, and even more that barked question, shook him out of his stupor.

“It’s… it’s me!” He shouted back.

“Me?” The same voice shouted. “Me who?”

Timothy was to reply, but then remembered that he still wore his cowl. Calling himself an idiot, he dropped it, revealing his face.

“It’s me! Timothy!”

He was famous among the mages. They all knew him, in some measure or another. They recognized him right away.

“It’s Timothy!”

“Holy shit!”

“Open the barricade!”

“Let him in!”

“It’s Timothy!”

In no time, a section of the barricade had been moved to let him in and Timothy was stepping inside amidst the cheers of the mages.

They called him by name, clapped him on the back, cheered his arrival, saying that their troubles would soon be over with the apprentice of the archmage with them.

Timothy was overwhelmed, so much that he didn’t manage to get a word in. He would have liked to tell them that they were wrong, that he was a good for nothing and a failure and couldn’t help them any more than he could help himself. But those smiles, that hope in the eyes and expressions of people that seemed to have suffered so much.

He couldn’t talk. He simply couldn’t.

He didn’t resist as they brought him to the person in charge. Behind him, the clanking shut of the barricade felt like a condemnation.

Barristan Stermberg was a stout man, short and thick of limbs. People said he had some dwarven blood in his veins, an assumption the man just snorted not-committally at. With a no-nonsense attitude and a knack for getting things done, he was the one the mages turned to, something that had quickly brought him to become the unofficial leader of the small community. It was only natural that during that moment of crisis he would be the one taking command.

When they had decided to start stockpiling weapons, as the tension with the Temples rose, he had been the one coming up with the idea of making large shields covered with wet rags and skins, so that the bolts of light thrown by the Sun Priests wouldn’t be able to burn the wood. When the need for organizing had stepped up, he had been the one to divide the mages into squads of fighters, fire-extinguishers, water carriers and more. He had also been the one to organize the defenders in teams of three, with a shieldbearer and a spearman for keeping opponents at bay and a mage standing behind for offensive or support casting. The mages were barely militiamen, after all. They would need to stick together closely if they wanted even a little fighting chance. He had also built a small hierarchy, appointing squad leaders and two lieutenants that would act as his seconds, putting up a semblance of discipline and raising efficiency.

Barristan Stermberg had done this and more, and all that he had done had cemented his position as the leader of the mage community. His neighbors respected him, heeded his advice, listened to his commands. He was the closest to a commander those improvised soldiers could have.

And he didn’t like Timothy very much.

It wasn’t that he disliked the young man on a personal level. It was just that he didn’t trust the Tower and all that came from it. In his mind, that big building was a place where strange things were done, things that maybe weren‘t always wholesome. He feared that by meddling with it, the men and women which responsibility fell upon his shoulders would end up corrupted in some way or the other.

As the young man was ushered in the house the mages had elected as their headquarters amidst the cheering of the people, Barristan was there, exchanging words with other squad leaders.

The look of relief on his broad face at seeing Timothy lasted a grand total of five seconds. Then it shifted into a displeased expression that said: “Took you long enough to get here, kid.” Despite the boy being from the Tower, the greater part of him still considered Timothy to be part of their community, with all the duties that came with it.

“Alright alright, enough with this,” the man cut the cheering short. “Everyone step out now. We have much to discuss.”

One after the other, the mages obeyed, giving Timothy a last cheer or wave as they went.

Then the door slammed shut and he was alone in front of that small council.

They all wore friendly expressions, their chief excluded, but that didn’t help him much. He put up a strained smile.

“It’s good you arrived,” Barristan began, cutting to the chase. He softened his tone. Always with an eye for politics, he had noticed the general approval toward the young man, even from the group he related the most, the ones distrusting the Tower. “We’ve been struggling and we’ll need all the help we can get.”

And without giving him a chance to put a word in, he started to speak, recounting what happened to their district after Alphonse’s flight.

Still overwhelmed, Timothy just listened numbly.

Soon, he found himself impressed. After the fighting started, it had quickly spread, engulfing the entire neighborhood. The priests hadn’t expected for the mages to be that prepared and had been quickly overwhelmed. Those that hadn’t managed to escape had been taken prisoners, bound and thrown inside an empty house, where they still languished.

But that had been only the beginning.

Expecting that a true attack would soon come, the mages had quickly organized the defense, barricading the streets, securing the children and all the not-combatants and taking up arms.

They hadn’t been one moment too early.

The Sun Priests had returned in force, acolytes and priests and templars, all geared up and ready for war. The fighting had been fierce, with many wounded, but the mages had held on, repelling any assault at their barricades.

The priests had attacked for a full hour before falling back, leaving a ragged band of mages squinting at their retreating backs.

The retreat had come as a surprise. They had been fighting fiercely, but the priests were stronger, better armed and better armored, even if not as numerous, and were pressing them hard. Why were they retreating?

After much discussion, scouts were sent out. But, rather than the accounts from those few, fearful explorations, that couldn’t go very far anyway since the priests had blocked the streets, it had been the noise to give the mages some clue.

It came from the Tower, and it had lasted for hours. Sounds of shouting and fighting and, were they imagining it? , laughing!

“Was it the archmage?” Barristan asked with a mix of wariness and awe. “Was he fighting against the Sunners?”

No, Timothy would have liked to say, it wasn’t Master, it was Lord Laszlo, bless his soul. It’s thanks to him me and all of you survived. He trusted me and i failed him.

It was only right. Lord Laszlo had put his life on the line. But he was overwhelmed and filled with dismay by Barristan’s story, by how quickly everything had turned to disaster. Self-loathing beat inside of him like a second heart for having failed those people that, in that moment of crisis, had been fighting with their all.

His tongue felt like it had turned to lead. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. So he just nodded dumbly.

Words of admiration and awe rose in the group.

“What a man! Holding back the Sunners by himself!”

“Such power!”

“That’s why we didn’t see An-Helios or his hound. They were kept busy by the Tower!”

“I knew he would help us! Yes!”

Timothy couldn’t bring himself to break their enthusiasm. They were poor people, fighting for their lives and freedom and loved ones. How could he take away hope from them? Better for them to think that the Master, with all the power of the Tower, was on their side, rather than just lord Laszlo…

Always the pragmatist, Barristan interrupted the cheering.

“And what of the Tower?” He asked, planting a serious gaze on Timothy. “What of your Master? Is he okay?”

The general attention moved over him. Now that they realized it, the sounds from the Tower had stopped long ago. It couldn’t mean…

“Oh no no!” Timothy hurried to say. “The Tower is… the Tower is inviolated.” He didn’t really know if that was the truth but he was the first that needed to believe it. Anything else would have been despair.

A collective sigh of relief passed through the room.

“Were you there as well?” Barristan pressed. “That’s why you came here only now?”

“Yes, i…” Timothy hated himself for saying that but he couldn’t think of anything else. “I snuck out… needed to know what was going on…”

He acted strangely, far too timid and morose, and they all noticed it, even if they mistook the cause of it.

“Pull yourself together, lad,” Barristan barked. “We need you right now!”

“Oh, shut up, Barristan.” Marisa, a large matron of a woman, hushed him. “Don’t you see that he’s still shocked? Who knows what has he passed through! He’s still a kid after all!”

Words of approval passed through the group and a chair and some bread and water were brought for the apprentice to regain his strength.

Timothy drank the water avidly but his stomach felt like a tight fist. He was sure he wouldn’t have been able to eat anything. Still, the first bite made him realize how hungry he actually was. Between the laughter of the mages, he ate everything with a vengeance.

As he refreshed himself, Barristan finished his story. There wasn’t much else to say: the mages had hunkered down, preparing for attacks that hadn’t come. They had tried sending out scouts but the Sunners had tightened their noose around the district, blocking all roads. After losing a couple of men to a too eager sortie, they had given up trying.

What they hadn’t stopped was discussing. What to do now? Stand and defend? Try to break out? Try to negotiate?

The debate was still ongoing, Barristan informed him. The general consensus was they were in a pretty commanding position right now. They couldn’t just defend themselves forever, they were conscious of that. The priests could call reinforcements from outside, starve them out and who knew what else. Still, there was no need to rush to negotiate, not after the priests had attacked them so treacherously. They couldn’t trust them, not so soon and not offering themselves to their goodwill.

No, it was better to wait for them to come again. They had pushed them back once already. They would do it again. Then, when it was clear to the Sunners that they weren’t dealing with sheep to the slaughter, they could try to negotiate, this time from a position of strength. Many in the mages felt that this could be a great moment, a chance they couldn‘t allow escaping: they could finally assert their position in the city, their autonomy as a community, their worth as mages. If they played this right, they could finally get out from under the thumb of the priests, become a true player in the city’s politics.

There was anxiety in there, tension, but also hope and a jittery enthusiasm. Everybody felt like they were at a crucial point in Truvia and in mages history.

Timothy wanted to scream.

No dead? An hour of assault and then nothing else? The priests hadn’t even been trying!

He knew the power An-Utar could call upon, the might of his Templars and Priests. They were soldiers all, having fought in the wars of expansion of the Empire and against the barbarians of the east. With all respect for the mages’ organization and determination, they didn’t have the shadow of a chance against them.

As all around him the mages spoke, raised their voice, clapped each other on the back with enthusiasm, Timothy realized the enormity of the mistake everybody was under.

They thought themselves strong.

The empire wasn’t good with mages. Priests reigned over it and the mages, that could possibly compete with them and lacked the strength and organization to make their voices heard, could do nothing but take it. As the priests berated the use of human magic as blasphemous, the mages had their own nature being accused of being tainted, that they were born wrong, a mistake on the face of humankind. And then being forced to live under the obedience of the same that berated them while at the same time unable to do anything but shut up and take it. You didn’t go against the priests: they were powerful, they were the mouthpieces of the Gods. And the mages were weak, few, their powers little but parlor tricks.

And so, pressure had been building, and building, and building and building. Even fear could hold it back for so long.

That incident had been the spark that ignited the fire. Every hesitation had burned away and a fight had broken out. And instead of crumbling as they thought, the mages had held out; more, they had won!

Now they thought themselves strong, able to speak as equals with the Sunners.

But that was a deadly mistake, Timothy knew. The priests had diverted the majority of their strength, the strongest of their divine channellers and templars, against the Tower; nor those that had attacked the mages had pressed on. If they had, there would have been dead, many.

Timothy felt his forehead cover with sweat. Utar-Helios had been calling the other temples to a council. Did the Sunners want their help to crush the mages? He could picture An-Helios in front of the other representatives, painting the mages as insurgents while at the same time using that medicine as definitive proof that man-made magic was intrinsically evil and needed to be eradicated.

If he could convince them…

Timothy started to hyperventilate. Forget mage resistance in that quarter. Against that kind of mass, the Tower itself would have been at risk. Images of Templars of all Temples beating down, maiming and killing chased each other inside his mind.

No mercy was offered to necromancers.

In a panic, he looked up sharply. Nobody had noticed his turmoil, thankfully or not.

He tried to speak but his voice was lost among the ruckus. He tried again, even getting up a bit from the chair. Someone turned a passing glance toward him, then, probably thinking he was just asking for some more water, turned back to their conversation.

“H-hey, listen to me!”

Finally, he managed to grab some attention. People turned to him, their gaze questioning.

“I… i have something to tell you all,” he began once he had some attention. “As i… as i came here, i met Utar-Helios.”

That really grabbed their attention. The mages turned to listen fully. Barristan leaned with his fists on the table.

Timothy felt a glimmer of hope. “She was talking with some other priests,” he said. “She… they, the Sunners, they meant to have a council with the other Temples.”

Worried murmurs passed between the listeners. A council?

“For what reason?” Barristan asked, eyes narrowed.

“I.. i am not sure, b-but…!” Timothy tried to prevent any objection. “I think that the Sun Priests hope to use us as a pretext to push for an alliance with the other Temples; to combine their forces against us!”

“Ah!” One of the mages interjected. “Like that could ever happen! Everybody hates the Sunners!”

Words of agreement passed across the present.

“E-even so!” Timothy continued. “We cannot underestimate the risk! The Sun Priest could use the medicine as proof that we’re necromancers! None of the Temple would abide for practitioners of black magic in the city!”

“Yesh, i remember that medicine. Something that you gave us,” Barristan pointed out, something he had no answer to. “Does that thing comes from necromancy?”

“No!” Timothy hurried to deny. “Absolutely not! An ignorant may mistake it for something of that nature, but…”

“Then there is no problem,” Barristan shrugged. “The Bonespeakers are the experts when it comes to this kind of thing. They will exam it and see that it’s nothing forbidden.”

“Still, the lad may have a point, Barristan,” another mage named Jan pointed out. “Who says that the Sunners aren’t going to pull out something dirty, maybe exchange the medicine with something foul?”

The mages grumbled their approval. Nobody trusted the Sunners.

“And what exactly do you propose of doing, Jan?” Barristan moved hostile eyes on the mage. “Go in there? Beg them to forgive us?”

Gazes hardened and backs straightened at the question. Nobody wanted to do that.

“N-no, but…” Timothy barely held himself from flinching when Barristan brought his gaze upon him. “We should be there, bring our voice, make sure that…”

A chorus of protests raised at that.

“Going out there? Now?”

“Are you crazy?”

“We can’t trust the Sunners! Who tells us they wouldn’t just kill us?”

“To hell with talking! They came at us first!”

“Yeah!”

Timothy shrank back as everybody shouted and screamed. He knew them to be angry, but this…

Barristan raised a hand, reestablishing order.

“Listen, lad,” the mage spoke firmly but gently. “I get that you want to do something to solve this mess, but now it’s not the time for romantics. We can’t barge out of the district, not with the Sunners holding out the streets, and surely we can’t trust them not to attack us. No, lad,” he shook his head as Timothy tried to protest. “Now it’s the time for being calm and rational, not for brash decisions. This is too important, understand?”

“You don’t understand!” Timothy insisted. “You have no chance against the priests. If they attack seriously…”

That was the wrong thing to say.

A chorus of angry protests rose from the assembled mages.

“That’s what you say!”

“You weren’t here when we fought! What do you know!”

“We fought them off!”

Timothy was taken aback by the sudden surge in hostility. Everywhere he turned, hostile, angry and disappointed gazes bore into him.

They want to believe it, he realized. The victory against the mages gave them the confidence they so desperately needed and now won’t believe otherwise. But it wasn’t only that: they lacked the context he had. From his education, he knew the might the priests could call. These people, with their self-taught disciplines, lacked that, thinking that they could take them.

He understood. He absolutely understood and that understanding made him despair. How the hell was he supposed to make them see?

Barristan raised his hand, once again calling for silence.

“I’ll be frank,” he said. “You are no warrior, lad. You weren’t here, you didn’t see what we have been able to do. We pushed them back!” The man clenched a fist in front of his chest. “We showed them that we’re strong enough that they will have to take us seriously. We won’t beg or grovel anymore!”

His words were welcomed by a wave of cheers.

“Yes!”

“It’s finally time for us to show those priests who they’ve been messing with!”

They won’t listen, Timothy thought with horror.

Barristan received pats on the back and smiled confidently at his men. When he turned back to him, his eyes were cold.

“Excuse my words, lad,” he said. “But you are no warrior. Leave that to we adults. I get that you’re trying to do what you think is best but this is not a thing you can manage on your own.”

Timothy felt like he had just been slapped.

I now that you’re trying your best but this is out of your league, i am sorry.

The words of Alphonse returned to him like an echo.

Disoriented, he looked around, searching for someone supporting his position. Nobody did. They all watched him resolutely, their determination written in their eyes.

His expression had to say it all because the mages softened their hostility. The lad was just a boy trying his best, even if he talked of things he didn‘t understand. There was no need to gang upon him. Barristan gave him a serious nod, as it to end the argument, then the discussion moved on to something else.

Timothy fell back in his chair, stomach sinking.

He had made a mistake.

By presenting himself as he had done, he had destroyed his credibility. Now for them, he was the errand boy, the line of communication between the community and the Archmage. They wouldn’t listen to him any more than they would listen to one of their children. Even now he heard them about coordinating with the Tower by sending him back, speaking like he wasn’t even there.

A wave of dejection washed over him, and he felt the need to just curl up on the chair.

He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t convince them, he couldn’t reach to the priests. He couldn’t do anything. He was trapped like a fly in a web, and now he would have been forced to see a disaster, unable to stop it even as he knew it was coming, all for his incompetency.

He prayed for a hole to open up under him and swallow him. It would have been much, much better, for him, for the mages, for everyone.

Lord, Laszlo, i… i am sorry…

He was less than an apprentice, less than a man, unworthy of even calling the great Gorren An-Tudok his…

I am proud of you.

Timothy’s breath hitched. He opened his eyes wide.

Be safe while i am not there, alright? You’ve grown in a fine mage and, well, i am proud of you.

Slowly, the apprentice splayed his hand open. If he focused, he could feel the cold stone of the portal under his fingers, the dry air on his skin.

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.

He wanted to cry. He was unworthy. He was so, so completely unworthy of that trust.

He took a deep, stuttering breath. It felt like coming up from a dark, freezing pool. It didn’t matter if he was inadequate, it didn’t matter if he was an idiot.

His master had faith in him. Even if it cost him his life, he had to try.

“I’ll go.”

He didn’t stutter as he got up, didn’t shrank back and didn’t murmur. He stood tall, his voice clear.

The mages stopped their discussion and turned to him.

Silence filled the room.

“What did you just say?” Barristan murmured.

Timothy stepped forward, reaching the table‘s rim. “I said that i’ll go”, he repeated. “This is not the time for waiting. We must act and it must be done now. If nobody else will, i’ll go.”

The mages exchanged glances; annoyed, dumbfounded, frowning. Nobody took him seriously. Timothy could almost hear their thoughts: this kid really doesn’t get it, does it?

They didn’t consider him a man, that was the problem. He hadn’t been with them, fighting on the barricade.

He raked his brain for a way to show his worth. The itch on his hand suggested him the solution.

“Listen now, lad…”

“Look!” Without letting Barristan speak, Timothy plunged his hand in the air above the table, so that everybody could see it.

Gasps filled the air, and Timothy had to restrain his own.

Under the light, his hand was a fine mess: scars of all kinds and sizes covered the skin between the fingers and the wrist. The hand looked like it had been engulfed in a storm of blades.

“Gods Above,” a mage breathed. “What happened to your hand, lad?”

Timothy wanted to look away, to stop talking. But his Master’s words echoed in his mind, giving him strength.

“Utar-Helios gave this to me, back when we met.” He put up a strained smile that was half a grimace. “I had to cauterize it. A shoddy work but at least i still have a hand.” He sent a mental excuse toward the Power of Death. It was a lie but it needed to be done. He would make a sacrifice every day for an entire month to make an amend, he promised.

The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to squirm, as if to show him that they were listening, and would remember.

He tore his gaze from them to look at his listeners. Their faces were pales, a few of the mages feeling their hands without thinking.

“I’ve had my taste of battle,” Timothy said. “And you can be sure that it wasn’t the master alone that fought at the Tower.”

Nobody replied. They just looked at him.

Timothy pushed the tremor he felt down his soul. “I know that you’re tired of being under the priests’ thumb,” he said. “I know that you’re sick and tired of people saying that your gifts are a curse, that a mage is less than a man because he dabbles in arts that only the Gods should bestow. And you’re right. It’s wrong, it’s an injustice and it’s not the truth. I know it because my Master told me so.”

Nobody raised his voice to interrupt.

Taking it as a good sign, he continued. “I know all of this because i am one of you. I took the insults of people, i listened to the priests’ sermons. All telling me that i should be ashamed for the way i was born as if i could decide about it, as if this was not a gift but a curse.”

He saw teeth being clenched, fist tightened, eyes harden. Everybody there had had their share of what he talked about. That was why they were there.

“And i know that each and every one of you is ready to give his life because our rights are finally recognized. Because we are people, despite whatever reason the priests can find. We are people and we’ll defend that truth if we must, with the arms if we must, to the end if we must.”

He looked at his listeners one by one.

“But we can’t fight against the whole world!” He exclaimed. “We can’t do that and hope to win! And, more importantly, it’s not what will bring us what we want! Only one method will carry us there: words. We must talk.”

Some of the mages made to protest. Timothy raised a hand and called a single word, a shattering sound that rippled through the air like a clarion call.

When its echoes disappeared, a crackling sphere of light and lightning roiled above his palm.

The mages squinted and blinked at it. Inside, Timothy thanked the Gods he had remembered his lessons.

“Words are magic,” he said with a little smile. “If we don’t use them, the Sunners will. Now, are we really going to let them use a weapon while we disdain to? Even if you all will, i will not.” He closed his fist, shattering the sphere in a cascade of sparks that fizzled and disappeared.

He brushed at his blouse with both hands, some last sparks fizzling away from his fingers.

“I am off to the council,” he said turning and walking toward the door. “As an apprentice of the archmage, i am the most powerful mage in here. As such, i am the one with the most chances to sneak out the encirclement.” He grinned at the flabbergasted mages. “And i still know my way around the back alleys.”

“Now wait a minute,” Barristan stomped around the table to come at him. “You can’t go out like that. They’ll get you!” He searched for some support.

After a moment of uncertainty, the mages supported their leader.

“You’ll only end captured or worse, lad.”

“We can’t let you go.”

Timothy turned to face the group. He could see from their expressions that they were serious. If they thought it was needed to keep him from going into unnecessary danger, they were ready to stop by force.

He felt a surge of irritation. These damn idiots. He was trying to help them and they just won’t listen!

Clenching his jaw, he bared his teeth, in a gesture that, without him realizing it, was reminiscent of his Master.

“I am not your lad,” he hissed. “And you couldn’t stop him even if you tried.”

Without giving them time to answer, he raised both his hands, shouting a word. A blinding light radiated from his body, filling the room with radiance and forcing the mages to step back and cover their eyes with cries of dismay and surprise.

Before they could recover their wits, he was already outside and running.

There was a small crowd of people outside, having eavesdropped since the beginning of the talks. A couple of young men tried to stop him but stopped as soon as he showed them his hands covered with light.

The others were too confused and uncertain to move and he soon made his way past them.

The people at the barricade had no idea what was happening. As he came running, they shouted questions.

“It’s all okay!” He shouted back. Charging his legs with Mana, he jumped on the jumble of things composing the barricade. Under the aghast gazes of the guards, he cleared the obstacle in four bounds.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he was off, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

So much for that barricade, he thought with bitter irony.

Behind him, he could hear shouts, many calling his name, but didn’t stop to listen.

As he ran, the realization of what he had done and what was about to do slowly sank in.

“They’re going to beat me to death when i return,” he complained. If! He added with dismay. If he returned! And that was a big if indeed!

The strength that had sustained him during his speech left him, almost sending him to slam against the corner of a street.

I am going to get myself killed!

But there was no other choice, nothing at all.

Crying out, he put his head down and ran faster.