The bright summer had passed to the shaded autumn, where the leaves were yellow, the weather mild with rains, the days a bit shorter, and houses warm and cozy. A small island on the Gulf Tanlen had also made preparations, not just for the weather but a grand scheme. The three adventurers had planned the next destination for some time, but a particular problem halted their plans. Orel had chopped firewood as part of their exercise, and Norman had gotten access to the family's artifacts and took time to listen to Ymir telling everything she knew about them. Challenged by his wits was only his interest in the origins of magic. Deras was banned from practicing magic for the time being after the fire department had accumulated too many reports of wildfires on the islands. He did the household chores and labor with moderate ease, so he was kept busy with them by giving more and more. Orel was already ready to embark, but his advisor told him they couldn't. Norman gave him a proper reason why he must wait but did not make the time go any faster. Though one would argue that there was no reason to be reckless, as they had all the time in the world, the trip would not be so simple as visiting.

While Andras was raking the foliage, Norman watched as Orel demonstrated his magic, both outside of the house, of course. A confident working woman had made sure that no one practiced any magic inside the house or the near vicinity, or it would be their job to pay for reconstruction. Orel had decided to show his magic for the first time. He took time to practice it, hoping Norman wouldn't be as disappointed as he usually was.

"So, what is it?" Norman sat down on a familiar tree stump.

Orel showed his open hand with nothing in it. "Watch."

Magic tingled through his body and gathered to one spot. There was no sound or light, so Norman waited to see the effect. Orel thought hard about a silver coin: the smell, weight, surface, shape, and taste. It could only materialize when fully concentrating on those thoughts.

The clenched hand opened, and Norman observed what Orel got there. Like a cheap party trick, a coin had appeared out of thin air.

"Have you learned a cantrip?" Norman grinned with a sly smile.

"So, this is still that level." Orel disappointedly threw the coin away. It dissipated in midair like a piece of sugar melting away in a glass of tea.

"Hmm, an interesting thing to focus on. Since when have you been able to create them?"

"I didn't mean to; I just needed to use another coin back at the lodge."

"A fight is a great way to hone magic, not create it. Making stuff up on the fly is wildly dangerous if you don't have a solid foundation. A penny for your thoughts, hehe. Have you tried experimenting with it? What do you know about it?"

"A little. I can make coins, but they go away if I throw them away."

"Looks like you might be apt in conjuration."

"You mean making stuff?"

"Conjuration is more than just creating things. Those shadow puppets you saw are a good example of a familiar. A good conjurer is stoic and practical, much like their magic." Norman explained.

"Oh, okay. Do you have any tips?"

"Ah, I can't help too much. It's different to teach the basics than to teach a different magic type than yourself. Finding another conjurer would definitely help, though it's a different story if they want to teach you."

"Uh-huh." Orel looked at someone that didn't want to teach him. "What type of magic is there?"

"Well, aside from conjuration, there's evocation, where you create different effects, like how Andras or that other mage could make fire; Illusion: well, the name says everything. They mess with your mind; Enchantment: allows you to bind magic into things; Transmutation: that's basically alchemy. Then there's psychemancy, also called manipulation, which has a bit of a bad rep. It mainly controls things, living or dead. You can loosely connect every mage under one of these six groups, but it isn't always that easy."

"So you're an illusion mage?"

"Well, they're called illusionists."

"But you really had nothing helpful to say?"

"Generally, I can say that creating coins is not useful for anything other than cheating wending machines, so I'd recommend picking up something handier for various situations."

"I already figured that out."

"Don't be in a rush. Spells almost always become tailored to fit your style. Otherwise, what's the point? Forcing a spell on someone is like trying to drink soup with a sieve. We mages figured that out pretty early on. If you need an example of a conjurer, my old professor could teleport with portals. Well, it's a bit hard to compare to your current level. I liked Dr. Weg. He was always on time for class, but he got stuck in another plane of existence for some time. The poor fellow was never the same. I've also heard that some high-skilled conjures can cast entire buildings or even magic items."

"How could they make magic items?"

"Well, only an enchanter can make magic items, but conjures can copy existing ones to a degree. Enchantments can replicate almost any effect of the other magic types, just not directly. They are almost like coding or electrical wiring, if you like to think it like that. If a magic item has a negative effect, then it's called a cursed object, and if it's a weapon, it's called a mystic sword. Wealthy mages can hire a professional enchanter, also called a mage smith to work for them."

"Oh. Do you have any magical items?"

"No, I don't need them. They are also horrendously expensive. And to correct you, many enchanted items are called magic items, but there are exceptions, like mystic swords, but it is more of a subcategory than anything. Don't mistake that term with mystic mutations."

"Do I need to know what they are?" Orel was starting to get bored.

"A little. Do you remember how you said that other mage had a weird eye? That was one form of mystic mutation called a cursed eye of Nazar, or Nazar for short. They originate from north Koonfur. Mystic mutations are rare but they carry on in blood. Having a strong mystic mutation is often a status sign in mage families."

"That thing sounds like what Andras has," Orel realized.

"I thought about it, but everything about him is weird. I can't begin to think what it means. I've never heard of a whole-body mystic mutation."

Norman secluded himself back to his thoughts. Orel noticed, but he was thinking about something as well.

"About magic items, isn't the memoir paper one too?" Orel asked.

"Oh, yes, but I don't have the skills to deconstruct it to see how it works. We also can't bring them to Albion."

"I wasn't going to."

"And make sure you don't." Norman pressed the point.

"What's wrong with that?"

"You see, official mage smiths have their signature and seal of authenticity printed somewhere on the item. Unregistered magic items are confiscated and usually destroyed when found by the police. Weapons have even stricter regulations. You need to show your ownership of the item when asked, and you also need a license if you want to carry it in public."

"Well, I wasn't going to take the memoir paper anyway." Orel was getting annoyed.

"Good. It would be a world of trouble. The police would apprehend us on the spot. We would look like terrorists." Norman only wished he was joking.

"Have you heard anything about a job?" Orel wanted to change the subject.

Norman shrugged. "No, but the Guild office said they would tell me right away once one opened."

"Then we just need to go there. To Albion."

A small moment of silence descended, as neither could hold the conversation. Both were trying to deal with the anxiety breathing down their necks when thinking about the Magistrate.

"You still have scars from that time." Orel looked at Norman's hands, neck and face.

The doctors replaced some skin near his cheeks and palms, so much of his skin seemed patched and spotted like a Holstein cow. The result was a bit rough, but most of the damage passed as large pinkish moles.

"These won't probably go away for a while. I think they look pretty cool. Even with all that sun, I didn't get a better tan." Norman laughed it off.

"Have you heard anything about those mages?"

"I read it on the news. They went to trial in Albion."

"I wonder what will happen to them."

"I'd guess a death sentence or life in prison," Norman suspected. "I'm fine with either."

It was a large and long red room with a ceiling that seemed to reach the heavens. Red velvet carpets with gold rims, crystal chandeliers filled with mystical gems, and large colored windows shone like a rainbow to the center and the throne. A large crowd quietly sat in their wooden seats on the side shelters, where their whispers filled the air around the tightly packed coops. A specially reserved box higher than any of the lesser nobles was for the other eleven Dukes, some present, yet most absent. Neatly dressed blue and silver soldiers escorted the criminals through the hall and closed the large doors at the end of the room after entering. They stopped near the golden throne, where the fair queen dressed in a pink garment full of crimson jewels sat proudly, with her assistants on each side. There was the royal litigation accountant, ready to write down their sentences, and on the right was the head butler of the royal staff. Media spread the news around the room, and cameras snapped pictures nonstop as the two criminals kneeled before the queen. Their composure was on the brink of breaking, and their suits were damp with sweat. Daniel was dressed in the royal garments of his family, a black suit called the dark mantle, and a red scarf wrapped around his neck with long ends that reached the ground. Fynn was with him, yet he already knew he was but an accomplice, while his brother would be the one to suffer.

"You may lift your gaze." The queen's stern yet soft voice commanded respect.

As the two looked upon their queen, they saw her usually calm and perfect face puckered slightly; the horrific tell that she was truly mad. Even if young, her wisdom and charisma surpassed her predecessor. She had filled her fingers with rings and jewels so that they would clank from every move if they did not lay softly on the cushioned arms of the throne. Even if it was just a couple of steps higher, it felt like the queen looked down on them from the mountain of gods.

With the rise of her hand, the crowd went silent, and everyone waited for the prosecution to start. Everyone waited for the divine judgment she would deliver to the low family that had soured their relations and tainted the title of Duke.

"Duke of Clarent, the head of House Medrawd, Lord Daniel Apellon Medrawd II, and Fynsworth Scotus Medrawd. You are accused of arson, assault, embezzlement, fraud, manslaughter, and theft. How do you respond to these claims?"

"Your highness. My half-brother Fynsworth Scotus Medrawd committed those acts only under my command. As the head of House Medrawd, I shall take full responsibility for these claims." Daniel pleaded.

"So you confess yourself as the sole perpetrator of these crimes? Through your actions, you have stained both the name of Medrawd and the whole dukedom of Clarent?"

"Yes, my queen. I am ready to accept any punishment."

The crowd smiled, as they knew it would undoubtedly mean the end of their house. No more would it taint the other royal families. The next thing in their minds was which dukedoms would inherit their lands. The closest were Gaunnes, Laghcastle, New Strian, and Tootheim, most guessing either Gaunnes or Laghcastle as the most probable candidates.

"No!" Fynn raised his voice.

"Sir Fynsworth, do you wish to disrespect the Duke's decision, or perhaps would you testify against him?" Queen Guinevere looked down on him.

He stayed still for a while. Fynn and Daniel had already gone through the conversation, but he was not ready to accept Daniel's plan to minimize damage to the house. He took a look at his beaten-up brother, who had gotten out of the hospital to attend court, still suffering from several severe injuries, possibly bearing enormous pain for every breath and sound he made.

Fynn's memories of their shared childhood rushed through his mind. Even though his brother did not like him at first, much preferring to be a single child, there was a time that changed. One day, Fynn was bullied, being called black-blooded, a slur meaning the descendant of the disastrous knight. Daniel beat the kids harder than any beating they had suffered from their parents. He offered his hand to Fynn and pulled him up. It was the first time Fynn felt cared for reasons beyond his lineage.

He was born only as a precaution, as the Medrawd family was once known for their hereditary disease that cut their lives short. Though the Duke's love for their children was vast, his fortune was not. The house could not escape their poor living, but the Duke embraced it, thinking living more closely to everyday life would be much better than the tight hold of the nobility. The Duke could see but not accept his early passing, as his crippling disease had taken a turn for the worse.

When Daniel inherited the title, the two young lords were left with their mother, Vivian. Vivian did not remarry, as she only cared about her children and knew they were fit to lead. Vivian was delighted to know that Daniel seemed healthy so that when she would pass, the Medrawd line would continue. Vivian counseled the young Duke well, as Daniel, unlike his father, went to great lengths to improve their lives and the Dukedom. Later in life, Vivian was diagnosed with a severe condition that, even with the best care, crippled her so that she soon lay on her deathbed. For how hardened Daniel was at that point, Fynn could hear him weeping during her last moments.

Fynn took a deep breath.

He turned his head to face the queen."I apologize, my queen. Please proceed."

"I will not accept further interruptions. Please be mindful of that."

Fynn swallowed his pride and bowed to his queen in silence with tears running down his face.

"For these crimes against the pride and reputation to the house of Medrawd and dukedom of Clarent, I, Guenevere III Pendragon, as the queen of Albion, with the power bestowed upon me, will now sentence Lord Daniel Apellon Medrawd II to be stripped from his title and honorifics and sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment in Shaoghal." The queen declared.

The crowd went wild—thunderous roars of applause and cheer echoed. Cameras flashed like a sparkling ocean. It had been forever since the hall was filled with such noise. It was like someone made a goal in the championship games, or the president would declare war.

"Silence!" Guinevere yelled.

Silence came again, and knowing her mood. The crowd would try their best to keep their voices low for the rest of the process, or else the secret policy would be at their door.

The Dukes were not interested, as it was only natural to be given such a sentence. They were mostly waiting to be able to go back to their castles.

"Predictable." Peredur whirled their silver hair like fine silk with their silver hand.

"Sir Lionel, does this entice you?" Amren fiddled with her medals hanging off like scale armor.

A Bulky gentleman with strong yet nicely knotted hair was indeed interested in the event, but for a different reason.

"Hmph, Sir Peredur, have you been fishing lately?" Lionel answered with a grin.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Peredur almost ripped her hair.

Lionel turned towards a silent figure sitting on the edge of their private plateau. "You shouldn't think of a meal until the fish is on the boat. Or am I wrong?"

The lean figure with short purple hair looked down on the scene, not releasing but a soft grunt. The ghoulish Duke set his greyish eyes on the two culprits, specifically Fynn. After all, he was none other than his father, the Duke of Earlake, Galehaut Du Lac.

"Your right and wrong are never two colors." Amren rolled their eyes.

"So you do know me, Sir Amren." Lionel grinned wider.

As the trial continued, the Dukes continued to watch with varying levels of interest.

"As after the previous sentence, the position of the Duke of Clarent has been lifted. It is to be granted to the rightful heir, chosen by the crown family as of this moment. Sir Fynsworth, please stand."

Doing as she said, Fynn stood up without hesitation.

"Mr. Eagton, my sword." Guinevere stood up and stretched her hand.

"As you wish." Eagton, the head butler, summoned the jeweled sword to her hand with a hole in the air that barely fit the blade through.

"Come forward, Sir Fynsworth." Guinevere held the sword high.

After walking forwards, Fynn kneeled as supposed. He had no time to think or question.

"As the adopted child of late Duke Daniel Medrawd the first and Vivian Medrawd, Sir Fynsworth Scotus Medrawd is at this moment granted the title of the Duke of Clarent." The queen passed her sword over Fynn's shoulders.

"T-Thank you, my queen." Fynn could not believe what had happened.

The crowd snapped into an uproar. It was unprecedented to have someone granted Dukedomedom after just being accused of heinous crimes.

"Silence!" Guinevere yelled. "My word holds true and wise! If the family of Medrawd or sir Fynnsworth is unsatisfied with this decision, they have the right to object and exchange the title, but you bear no right in the matter!"

Even her majesty's words could not fully silence the crowd, but it did bring them down to whispering one another.

After the ceremony, a dark figure made its way to Fynn. Someone who Fynn was sure would at some point become a bother. It was the shadow of his past looming ever so closer.

"My son, you have done it. Your family is truly proud." Galehaut congratulated with the biggest smile he could manage.

"I don't know who you are referring to. My parents are dead." Fynn looked at his father with disgust.

"Do not try to reap your roots. You are but an adopted son."

There was a hint of anger on Galehaut's face, which only made Fynn want to smile to both ends of his face.

"Yet you have no problem selling out extra furniture to the first bidder," Fynn said back in a snarky tone. "Did you have anything that I might want to hear?"

"Hmph, it seems that Medrawd's stupidity is infectious. But yes, I do have some business I would like to discuss."

"Looks like there is something between us. I was about to say the same."

"The invitation will arrive at your manor soon. Be prepared for it." Galehaut walked away.

For weeks, the news ran wild, speculating and spreading the word about the black-blooded Duke. Even in the northern Medrawd mansion, everyone had different opinions about the situation. Many were suspicious about Fynn's surprise rise to power, but most had already accepted him as the new lord and part of the family, though they would have wanted to become the leader themselves. Even though Clarent was a small dukedom in the northern part of the island, it held itself in power through agriculture and good relations with a few other duchies. Historical problems, unfortunately, held back its power with money. The financial situation was dire, and Daniel soon inherited the issue as he became the Duke, working tirelessly to the present day. Now it was Fynn's turn to try to raise the family's power.

The Duke's seat was where they left it, and now that the servants had cleaned out the room from Daniel's possessions, it felt empty. Fynn sat into the chair he had claimed. Even though Fynn stretched further than its back, the chair felt far too large. No amount of comfort it gave could ease the ill feeling in his heart.

"Lord Fynsworth, what is your first action as a duke?" The servant asked.

Fynn stared at the folded family garb and scarf waiting on the table.

"I've got some business with the duke of Gaunnes."

"Shall we arrange a meeting?"

"Yes, please, but first, I'd like to be left alone."

"As you wish, sir."

As the servant left, Fynn lifted the Dark Mantle and held it in his hands. Though it was rough and rugged, it was too fine for him. His brother wore it not too long ago, and now it was his turn. He wrapped the crimson scarf against the back of his neck so that the ends would drop forward, revealing the family emblem, a red rose climbed by two snakes. It fit perfectly, but it weighed him down.

"Dan, you think I'm up for this?" He leaned against the bench.

It was peacefully quiet. Very similarly, the only sound on a small island was the rustling leaves, many of which were collected into huge piles. Inside was peaceful, or at least until Andras slammed the door open as he stepped in.

"Finally! I need a beer." Andras wiped the sweat off of his face.

"Shhh, we're watching the tv." Norman leaned from the sofa.

"I raked those leaves for hours while you've been here all cozy!" Andras fetched a beer from the bridge.

"We trained too, but we just watched the news," Orel explained.

"Hmph. Was there anything interesting?" Andras opened the bottle with his thumb and leaned on the back of the sofa.

"You remember those two mages? The one we beat was a duke, but he got sentenced to jail. The other one that Orel fought then became the duke." Norman explained.

"How come the other one didn't get the blame? I'm surprised the other one is still breathing."

"I'm not close with the Albian criminal justice system, but that case may have been special. I should research about it before we embark."

"What's Shaoghal? Is it some big prison?" Orel asked Norman.

"It's more like a-"

A slight buzz echoed from Norman, and soon he took the phone out of his pocket.

"Tobias Norman. Yes, I am. Really? Yes, of course. We'll be there. How does tomorrow sound? Yes, I will be coming. No, we don't need that. Goodbye, Mr. Parameum."

The two waited eagerly to hear the news.

"There's a job offer. The Guild is letting us negotiate about it first tomorrow." Norman sighed.

"Did they say what type of work it is?" Orel asked.

"No, let's just wait for tomorrow."

"Will we take it?" Andras asked.

"It depends, but we might not get another chance for a long time." Norman shrugged.

"We will take it," Orel said.

"Whatever you say, leader," Norman said playfully.

So the trio would wait for tomorrow. It would mark the first step in their next adventure and determine its course. What shall await them? That question kept them awake at night, or at least two of them; Andras slept like a log. The cold and dark autumn night with its howling winds fell upon the world. Until the next sunrise, it was the time of dreams and nightmares. The countless veil of stars sparkled in the sky like an ocean of pearls, like the eyes of a young boy who could not wait for his travels to continue. The fog-filled island, a looming land beyond the horizon, and the white rock coast will welcome the travelers, but the same could not be said about the people.