Stewart’s muscles began to twitch as the spell he was under began to wear off. The leech was still attached and draining his soul, or so he thought. He fervently wished, prayed, that he was somewhere else, anywhere else. Preferably in his little one room home in a chair lined with furs and the preserved heads of his best hunts on the walls. He could picture the fireplace. His bed. The small table with the half full tankard he had left on the table this morning. Light pulsed through the leech on his chest, and he somehow wished so hard to be home that he connected the wish to whatever it was the leech was draining from him. The hunter, though he was blissfully unaware, had a sizeable mana pool that he had never consciously connected to. It meant he could have been a mage, had he found out in a less dire situation.

As the man’s muscles slowly came back into his own power, he continued to lay still and wish himself away. He felt a connection bridge between his wishful prayer and the well of energy he still thought was his soul. There was discrepancy between the size and strength of the wish and the amount of energy left in the well. The last bits of his soul that the leech hadn’t taken drained away and he could feel power building up around him. The leech, he noticed, fell off, shriveled up and disappeared. Unfortunately, with the immensity of his desire to be home, it wasn’t enough to fuel his wish. A third connection formed. The second had formed between his prayer, a spell, and the well of his soul. The third connected the well back into his physical life force and it was quickly using it to feed the magic.

Stewart suddenly remembered mages he had overheard joking on the front when he’d been serving in the army. One had said to the other, “The First Law of Magic: Anything is possible.”

The second had responded, “The Second Law of Magic: One of those possibilities will probably kill you.”

A third had finished with, “The Third Law of Magic: Once a spell has been cast, it must resolve. Your death counts as a resolution.”

They had all laughed. Stewart had written it off as dark, battlefield humor and he had thought nothing more about it. In this moment, in his predicament, he finally understood that they had been laughing at their condition, and the words had been deadly serious. As the drain on his life force grew stronger he started to pray as intensely as he had prayed to be free that what he had started would stop. The gods did not answer.

Power built up around and underneath the hunter’s skin. He could feel the energy both spilling out and seeping into him. Pressure built in his veins and muscles. Nothing prevented him from moving anymore but sheer terror as the growing weakness of his body turned to arcane energy that filled him to bursting. He could feel blood began to run from his nose as his condition worsened. Something wet ran down his cheek from his ears as his head began to feel like it was going to explode.

In his last moment of awareness, Stewart experienced both death and final second of consciousness afterward. He distinctly felt the last of his life drain and convert into the magical force that pressed against every nerve and saturated every square inch of his body. Then, nothing.

The paralyzed hunter suddenly began to phase in and out of existence, then exploded into a red mist of pure mana. Puck stared in shock, but didn’t hesitate to absorb the loose mana. Far more mana than he expected poured into his metawell. The human had somehow turned himself into exponentially more power than the dungeon figured he was worth. The man’s gear had somehow dematerialized with his body in the explosion, but Puck wasn’t complaining as his stomach finally passed the feeling of half full. He was uncertain what had happened.

“Mab, did you do that?” he asked the wisp hopefully. It would be a useful ability.

-I did not, Milord. According to the universal dungeon catalog, it’s not uncommon for human mages to cast spells beyond their ability and kill themselves, however. I suspect that’s what happened.-

“Is that what mages look like?” Puck’s brow furrowed.

-That seems atypical. More likely he didn’t know he was a mage until just now. According to the catalog only 40% of mages survive to graduate their Academy.-

“You seem to know an awful lot for having been created less than a day ago.”

-I did some research. I thought it best to familiarize myself with likely enemies and possible summons, Milord.-

“Oh,” the sprite responded lamely. He hadn’t considered researching the catalog, nor been aware it was an option. He let the conversation drop. There were still two humans to deal with. One lay on the floor in his room, the other. . . well, Puck really needed to start paying better attention. The boy had woken up and limped on a perfectly uninjured leg to the softly lit door to the dwarven tomb.

In the cold, dark tomb a fearsome beast,

Awaits the youth, prepared to feast.

Puck’s diminutive form expanded into the shape of some nameless creature that was part yeti, part werewolf. He planted himself against the shadows along the wall, hoping to surprise the guardsman-to-be once he was far enough into the room that he was affected by the illusion of the closed door. Mab hung like a tiny blue sun near the ceiling.

The younger Duncan stepped cautiously into the quiet room. He had heard a strange voice, but nothing from his father or Stewart. His father was lying on the floor, but there was no sign of the hunter. The young man moved step by limping step toward the older man.

A beast came roaring out of the shadows. Drool and white foam spilled from its jaws. Its tongue lolled out over three inch long fangs. Thick, gorilla-like muscles covered in fur ended in clawed hands. The boy scrambled back from it in fear as it swiped its claws at him, not noticing he did so without sign of his leg injury.

The mischievous sprite was having the time of his life. He stalked forward slowly, playing with the teenager like a cat with a mouse. It was even better that the mouse had no idea that this particular cat was declawed and had false teeth. Puck grinned at the thought that his bark was literally worse than than his bite. The illusion’s face twisted into a hideous smirk that matched its wearer as the boy backed into a wall.

Puck pressed close enough that the boy could feel the heat of the beast’s body, feel its hot breath on his face. The embodied dungeon was about to cast another sleep spell, when a sword broke through the illusion. The guardsman had apparently awakened while Puck was busy and charged the monster threatening his son. The man’s momentum drove him through the illusion, through the ghostly sprite at its center, and into his son. The sword lead him. Its point sunk into the boy’s torso just below the sternum, scraping his spine and driving through with so much force Puck heard it clang against the stone of the wall behind the teen. All three wore equal expressions of surprise.

The younger man’s eyebrows rose, and his eyes glazed with shock. “Da?” was all he said before slumping into the older man’s arms.

Puck stepped out and away from the men. He cancelled the now useless illusion and teleported to his usual seat on the altar. While generally cruel and merciless, especially when playing pranks on lesser creatures, he appreciated and respected the solemn tragedy playing out before him.

“Duncan?” the father asked his son. “Duncan? Stay with me, boy.” He lowered the boy to the floor as gently as possible, the sword still rising from his wound.

The son stared up at his father with glassy eyes. “Da? Did you kill it? Is the beast gone?” He was so lost in shock that he couldn’t understand that it was his father’s sword that impaled him.

Tears ran into the older Duncan’s beard. He looked around and saw no hint of the illusory monster.

“Aye, lad. It’s gone. We’re safe now,” he said reassuringly, though his eyes poured his broken heart out.

“I can’t feel my legs, Da.”

“It’s ok, my boy. Close your eyes. Rest.”

“Alright, Da. We’ll get the goblins after.”

“That we will boy, that we will.”

The boy’s eyes closed and his body shuddered once and lay still. The room was still and quiet, the silence broken only by an old man’s sobs beneath a gentle blue light.