“Run, mankai!” Captain Is’shil had screamed before being swarmed by that black cloud, tears streaming down his face. The Vysian’s legs had fallen out from under him, his fingers clawing desperately at the sand and stone as black shadows ate away at his skin. The last thing that Willem could see were his eyes, before that cloud covered him completely. The boy turned at ran, not waiting to see what would be left of the captain—he knew it in any case. There would only be more bones.

He stumbled up the steps, his false leg catching on the stones and proving more useless now than ever. His chest heaving hard, he ran through the dead village without any goal in mind. He knew not where he was, nor where he intended to go. He only knew that he had to run away from that cloud, before it turn him into bones as well.

The village sat on the cliff overlooking that harbor. It was the only hint of civilization that could be seen in the region, the rest all grasslands that grew near the sea. Knee-high grass stretched for as far as the eye could see, and he ran towards it helplessly. Run, mankai. Ran away. Tears dripped from his chin as he followed those orders, hands going up to wipe his cheeks.

These hands—they were a cripple’s hands. A vais’throk’s hands, broken and useless. Those few days on the ship had almost made him forget what he was—a useless cripple, fit for nothing more than to beg. Tears streamed helplessly at the thought, but he knew it to be true. With this broken leg and these broken fingers, how could he ever hope to be of use? Why was he the one to live when all the other Vysians had died? Why him?

His vision blurred as he remembered that night on the ship deck when he had conjured the flames, when stars had floated in the air around him. There had been a joy in him that night, a sensation of accomplishment and hope. His magic had given him a sensation of strength, of ability. It had been a fleeting feeling, foreign and fragile, but it had been there. He had been a fool to believe it.

Where was your magic now? Where is your crow-cursed strength? The thought stabbed through him like a blade, gouging into him as he ran, and he began to wail. You watched them die, and you could not do anything—because you are worthless. The reminder hit him like a punch to the stomach, and he stumbled with a cry. His knee struck the ground as he fell, his body rolling through the grass over and over before stopping. When he finally came to a rest, his chest was wracked with heaving sobs.

So utterly useless, he thought as he clawed at his face, clawed at the Maes that covered him. “Why me?” he gasped out, staring at the empty, uncaring sky. “What have I done?” he asked, although whether it was to deserve this misery or to deserve living, he was not certain. Blood and torn skin sat underneath his grimy fingernails, the pain managing to wash away some of his madness. Heaving in a deep breath, he sat up tiredly, his shoulders trembling. His tears stung ruined skin, the wind whipping him with a cold caress. He stood on shaking legs, his thoughts desperate and tired.

There was buzzing behind him, and a newfound panic spread through his limbs. Sudden motivation made him run once more—realization that he was not yet ready to die. Even if he was useless, even if he was a cripple, he was not yet ready to become a pile of bones and broken dreams. I want to live, came the wailing thought that made his tired legs pump and his weary arms swing. His lungs dragged in fire, his vision growing black at the edges, but still he ran through these endless grasslands. I want to live.

But that buzzing grew louder as he ran, grew closer as he stumbled. It became keening, sharp against his ears until he thought they very well might bleed. Then, horrifyingly, he realized that they were shaping words, voices that were disturbingly human. “Help...me…” they whispered. “Mama…” they cried like a child, and Willem realized that they were the voices of the village, of the Malifori that had been butchered.

Yet his heart only clenched more as he heard another voice. “Run...mankai…” the shadows gasped desperately, in the voice of Captain Is’shil, and he had to fight the urge to let out a scream. His feet caught on something, the shock throwing him off, and he tumbled to the ground. His arms went out to catch him and he turned, rolling to face the cloud bearing down on him.

No, please—I, I don’t want to die. Raw desperation surged through him, his mind flashing back to the night when he had conjured the stars. What had it felt like then, when he had done magic the first time? It had been like a trance, almost like sleeping. How could he possibly do that now, with the cloud of shadows flying towards him?

His pulse skyrocketed, his breathing growing ragged. Help me, anyone—anything. I want to live, please. His hands were trembling, his vision growing fuzzy as his death seemed certain. Anything, please. A way out—get me out of here! Yet there was no aid, no magic that flew out of his fingers. There was nothing except his trembling figure, facing that insidious black cloud.

And then it struck him, the bits of black attacking his flesh with insatiable hunger. He could have screamed. He could have ran and tossed and struggled and fought. He could have resisted, but he was so tired. His eyes gazed emptily at nothing, staggering to his feet as the black tore into his skin. His pulse began to slow as he died, his eyes closing. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. His heartbeat grew even slower, stretching out until it became a familiar sensation—one that he had experienced before.

He felt a stirring in his stomach, drawing up through his chest, out his limbs and towards the fingers. Purple magic crawled out of his fingertips, coiling through the air. The cloud around him drew back with a buzzing hiss, as if assaulted and affronted. They danced carefully around the magic, unsure what to make of it. A quiet urgency seized the boy—if he was to make a move, now was the time. What was it that he had wanted?

A way out—get me out of here. Were those not the last words he had thought?

The magic surged and crackled, following his will as it tunneled into air and broke open the space. A great heat surged out from inside him, building until he had no choice but to scream. Yet when he finally did so, there was no sound—instead there was only surging steam and smoke that poured out of his mouth. It burned his throat and scalded his skin, forcing the shadows to draw back away from him. The smoke billowed up towards the massive rift that the magic had rent, a hole torn in the air that was bordered by crackling purple.

An opening, he realized dully, fatigue settling in now that the spell had seemingly finished. He felt drained, as if having run without pause for an entire day. Every part of him was aflame, his mind burdened by chains of lead, but even still he could see this. A way out, he decided, stumbling towards it with the desperation of a dead man.

Yet the shadows seemed to sense his intent and they threw themselves forward onto him with a primal viciousness. He could feel them burrowing into his flesh and leg as he fell through the rift, feel them tearing at his skin. Then there was a sensation of being pulled him, the smoke surrounding him, and he was dragged into the opening without a further thought. Behind him, the purple magic crackled and hissed before closing up like a lips of a wound being stitched together, leaving behind not even a scar as the rift winked out of existence.That purple crackling snapped shut, biting clean through a part of him too slow to enter—his leg. A piece of wood clattered onto the ground where the rift once was, smoking from touching the edge of the gate.

Surrounded by apparent smoke and magic, Willem could neither see nor feel anything. Even the pain of the shadows had left him, everything disappearing from him until he was utterly alone. Then he felt a sharp pain in his toes, like they were being torn away from him, and he let out a wrenching scream. The noise fell on unhearing ears as his fingers were taken away next.

He lost bits and pieces of himself, more and more being stripped away from his legs up to his stomach. He lost his arms, his lungs, and his heart. Then it was his jaw, although he could not speak. Next was his nose, although he could not smell. After were his ears, although he could not hear. Finally were his eyes, although he could not see. And then it was just his mind, cut off and surrounded by utter nothing. And then that too was taken from him.

And then what was left?

The thought was sudden, but before he could think any further, there was a sharp pain down his back. He had been taken apart, and now came the sensation of being put back together. His face, his neck, his spine, his chest, his limbs, they all snapped into place with abhorrent force, shooting pains running throughout his body as he screamed. And he could hear himself screaming as his body returned to him. Something shoved him from behind, as if he was being rejected, and he stumbled forward out of an unseen opening.

He fell onto stone, his shoulder striking the ground with a crack. Blood oozed from too many wounds to count, his skin torn with chunks ripped out. His false leg, too long abused, finally snapped as he fell, shards splintering off and skittered away on the ground. Willem merely lay there gasping, his chest heaving with desperation, his gaze running over his battered body. There was no sign of the black shadows on him; he must have lost them in the magic. In his ignorance, he had no idea of the risk he had just taken. In his ignorance, he had no understanding of the power he had just wielded.

He had opened a waygate, his mahji responding to his desperate intent of an exit. Yet without the runes surrounding the archway, it was unstable. The very construct was prone to collapse; had he been unlucky, it could have snapped through half of him as he entered. Without runes, it had no destination in mind either. Instead, it merely spat him out at the nearest gate. If there was none, then he would have been trapped—stripped of body and mind until he withered away and died in that limbo.

Should he have known the dangers, perhaps he would have more respect for the life he still had. But he had no way of knowing, and his ignorance truly was a bliss. He merely lay there gasping, taking in his surroundings slowly. He sat on some cobbles, almost wide enough to be a street, although instead of buildings there was nothing but empty air and a long fall on either side. The wind shrieked in his ear and he slowly stood, only to stumble on his ruined leg and fall onto a pile of smoking stones.

They scorched his skin and he pulled away with a gasp of pain, trying to push them off him but instead pushing himself. There were as immovable as a mountain, despite seeming an innocuous pile of rocks, and they were covered with strange symbols that seemed to shift as he stared.

What is this place? He wondered as he looked around, seeing no people nearby. Was he alone? Was he to be stuck here, unable to get down? The thought made him weary, and for a brief moment he contemplated the fall. Surely, a swift death is better than bleeding out on these stones.

Yet noises from below startled him away from suicide. He staggered up, one arm clutching the cobbles for support as he rose. The action was just in time to see a wooden door on the ground swing open with a clack and a metal helmet rise up from below.

Soldiers?