Somehow, the Cradle was even more quiet than usual, as if in mourning. The Moreno mages tried not to show it, but Rane could read the tension in the air. A pulsing red aura circled everyone who had learned of Atinas’ disappearance. Of course, that was all Veradin had allowed him to share about the situation. Everyone was worried for Atinas, and their emotions had started seeping into him as well. Caelus, even if wounded, was an archmage. A devious and resourceful one at that. Why had Atinas not returned yet? Could he have lost?

Mord returned to his room, opening the door just enough for his slender form to slip inside. Rane looked up at him expectantly.

“Master did not respond to any glyphs.” Mord pursed his lips. “We have no idea where he is, but at least the glyphs are full of his nora. He is alive. ”

“I see.” Rane sighed. He fought hard not to share what he knew. Mord’s emotions cut a bit deeper than the rest, had a pointy edge to them that often distracted Rane from his study.

“I’m not worried,” Mord lied. “Atinas is one of the strongest archmages. He will be fine, wherever he is.” He settled on his desk and went back to scribbling notes. It seemed to calm him.

Ever since Rane had won against Veradin’s apprentice, that’s all he’d ever seen Mord do. Eat, study, sleep and repeat for weeks on end. Rather than the quiet resignation and hostility Rane had expected, the apprentice had doubled down on his efforts to improve.

Rane smiled as he laid back on the bed and reached for the journal. He couldn’t afford to slack either. He wiggled a bit in place to get comfortable against the wall. The room was small –most space in the Cradle taken up by books– but Mord was kind enough to let Rane stay until they left for Danira. Should only be a few days, Ellin had said. Just long enough for Rane to begin studying the journal.

The book itself was tiny compared to some of the thicker tomes the Cradle housed, a mere fifty pages at most. Rane had been excited to uncover its contents regardless. He ran a finger down the smooth leather one more time before turning to the first page.

To the one who holds this journal, thank you.

To think that there is another Empath who shares my dream, it is a blessing. I wish I could meet you, but by the time you read these words I will be gone. Instead, I will selfishly extend my last ambition to you. Do what I couldn’t. Bring peace to the Kingdom. Knowing your desire, I can only hope that you will accept, but regardless of your choice, my journal is meant for you, and you alone. Keep what you learn to yourself, and if you do not wish to take up the mantle, please destroy it.

Inside, you will find all the knowledge and experience I’ve acquired throughout my life condensed into five powerful techniques. I hope that they will aid you, no matter what your future goals are. When you are ready, lie face down, turn the page and pour some Nora into the glyph.

See you soon,

Ravenlock

See you soon? What was that supposed to mean? Rane’s heart thumped faster in his chest. The findings of another Empath could prove invaluable. Whoever Ravenlock was, the fact that they shared a vision was just a boon. He followed the instructions and eagerly turned to the next page, only to double back. Concentric glyphs filled the journal from top to bottom, the tiny symbols on their edges dancing along the paper. They faded and were replaced at different intervals, revealing even more characters unknown to him.

“What in the blights?” Rane kept tracing the almost hypnotic pattern, trying to make sense of it. The only thing that earned him was a slight headache. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be understood in the first place. He would try pouring nora into it, like Ravenlock instructed. His finger lit up with gray and he pressed it against the center of the page. The symbols locked in place as the nora vanished.

There was a low pulse of magic, and Rane blinked to find himself running towards the edge of a cliff. He tried to stop, but his legs wouldn’t listen. He tried to scream, but his mouth felt locked in place. A force thrust him up into the air and the ground vanished beneath his feet. There was only a clear sky extending over his head and a bottomless fall to the raging ocean that ran below.

There was no surviving this. He was going to die –he knew it– yet his heartbeat was calm in his ears. His hands extended on their own, he caught a weight that dropped into them, and his body rolled to a stop on the opposite side of the cliff. All in one smooth motion.

Rane looked down at hands that weren’t his own. They wrapped wounds in healing light in a way he never could. He realised then. He was in a dream. Ravenlock’s dream.

“Your majesty!” A man in full plate landed on the ground beside him, rolling up a cloud of sand and dust.

Rane only realised who he was referring to when his mouth moved to respond. “I am alright.” The voice felt too low for him, tickled the back of his throat. “The aspect?”

“Retreated back to the depths,” the man responded with a dissatisfied grunt. “Sir Oliver tried to apprehend it, but his nora was not enough. I don’t know if he can recover it in time.”

“Take me to him,” Ravenlock spent another moment draping the unconscious body in front of him in light before standing. Rane felt the wind brush against his face as Ravenlock scaled the heights with enhanced strength, as if they were child’s play.

Magic that shared experiences in this way… Rane had never read about it before, yet he was, watching Ravenlock’s past through the man’s own eyes. Just who was he? Hunting aspects and being addressed with a monarch’s title were Rane’s only clues, and they hinted to a distant past.

Ravenlock jumped off an overhang of stone and landed on the rocky, magic-torn beachside. A body lay sprawled next to a smothering crater, clad in cracked lustrous armor.

“Oliver.” Ravelock mumbled the name so low only Rane could hear it. He slid down graciously and knelt over the man.

“Son?” The man looked up with clouded eyes, the nora within them nearly gone.

“You fool.” Ravelock sighed. “You overexerted again.” He placed his hand on the man’s chest and Rane felt a warmth swell inside him. The same kind he felt every time someone died and their Nora made its way into his soul.

“Watch,” Ravenlock whispered. “Grasp what I do.”

Did he know someone would be watching? Rane focused his attention inward, feeling Ravelock’s magic like he’d feel his own.

“Separate a strand.” Ravenlock pulled a line of colored light from his chest. “Always use your own magic. As an empath, your nora can seamlessly blend with any other. Then, you have to create an experience.” Ravelock pushed a piece of plate into Oliver’s stomach with force. The man squirmed amid disoriented grunts, but the strength to move had left him. “Pain works the best, short and intense. Now comes the hardest part.” Ravenlock pressed the strand of Nora against Oliver’s chest. Flesh sizzled and cracked wherever the misty energy touched. “You will have little time,” Ravelock said. “And you have to be precise.”

Rane could follow the strand digging deeper into Oliver’s body under Ravenlock’s extraordinary abilities. He twisted and thinned the strand as it moved closer to a tiny opening in the man’s soul. If Rane wasn’t sharing Ravenlock’s senses, he’d have long since lost control of the magic. Now, he could feel every twirl and turn of the nora as it filled the empty soul.

Ravenlock leaned back and Oliver gasped weakly, a new color returning to his eyes. “You–” he swallowed and coughed. “You said you wouldn’t save me again.” He paused briefly. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Ravenlock replied. “Rest until more of your nora returns.”

Ravenlock’s voice faded and the memory crumbled. Rane lifted his head from the page with a grunt. It was like waking from a deep sleep before he had enough time to rest. He spent a few moments trying to remember how his body moved.

“Are you okay?” Mord asked from behind him.

“Yeah…” Rane rubbed his forehead as he righted himself. The salty smell of the ocean and Ravenlock’s powers lingered in his memory. Ravenlock and those men were hunting aspect, like Leylin was. He couldn’t understand how or why, but he could tell they had lost it. The intended lesson was the technique. He tried to focus on that, repeating the steps in his mind. Separate a strand of foreign nora, create an experience, thin it and infuse it.

“You don’t seem okay,” Mord said, a bit snarky. “Try not to vomit on my bed.”

“Right,” Rane replied. “I won’t.” He looked down at the ever shifting pages of the journal. There was much he didn’t know, and it irked him. “Hey, Mord. Are you busy?”

Mord spared him a glance without raising his head. “I am always busy. What do you want?”

“Books on glyphs and magical symbolism,” Rane replied. “And monarchs. A list of names would be nice.”

“That’s a strangely specific selection.” Mord leaned back, holding Rane’s stare this time. “I am tempted to ask, but I won’t. When do you plan on leaving?”

Rane was glad he didn’t have to justify his interest. For all his flaws, Mord knew not to pry too much. He hadn’t asked about the nature of Rane’s origin magic either. “Soon. In less than two days, I’d guess.”

“You’ll want copies made then, to allow you to take the books out of the cradle.” Mord straightened his robes as he stood. “I’ll help you pick some books out.”

“Thank you.” Rane gave Mord a smile. He packed Ravenlock’s journal inside his bag carefully, running his hand over the smooth leather cover. It hid more than he’d ever expect, more than new magic and its uses. Inside were the experiences of someone who had dared to dream the way Rane did.

If anything, it gave him hope.