The following weeks passed in a blur. After returning to the town, they had dutifully informed the village council about the curse, and had been met with skeptical concern. A search party had been sent by the council to look for Polenach but had returned empty-handed. They had found the site of both the wagon attack and the beast ambush and confirmed to the horrified villagers that the remains they had found were consistent with what Gost had reported to them. Gost had taken the lead with the council, and with the village in general. The people of the town found his brash confidence to be reasurring, especially compared to Dyrik’s sarcastic mutterings. Krosa had received comfort, offers of shelter, and a steady supply of baked goods from her friends and acquaintances.

While considered a bit odd, she and Polenach were both well liked in the village, and had never been thrifty when sharing a kind word or deed with their neighbors. She did grow somewhat tired of the sympathetic looks as time wore on, but soon enough most of the people in town got back to their normal lives, or as normal as they could be with the now dreadful forest looming over them. As more time passed without any further disappearances or sightings of the terrible monstrosities, and Gost and the other woodsmen reporting a decrease in the restlessness of the normal animals, most returned to their usual routines.

Fall brought a sense of calm to the village. Falling leaves muted the steps of the woodsmen, who attempted to make up for their lost days of work over the summer by spending days on end among the trees. THe sound of chopping axes and falling trees filled the mountainside, and the village stores of firewood grew at a rate that brought a great deal of comfort to everyone anticipating the winter chills. Krosa was no exception, using her dwindling funds to put up enough wood to keep her comfortable in her house on the edge of town well into spring. She had enough leftover that, along with her garden and the steady supply of fresh meat that Gost brought in, that she was not concerned about having to look for paying work for at least a year. So it was that she was able to devote nearly all her time and energy to the work of learning magic to advance her talents.

After the fight on the road, she was determined to never again be anything but a useful contributor to future conflicts. Much of her time was spent reading books in Dyrik’s store, and the rest on putting what she had learned into practice in her garden. She had quickly surpassed her initial goals of a self-managing garden, and moved on to more complex magic. She now knelt in the soft loam of her behind her house, hands digging into the soil as she concentrated on the plant in front of her. An ordinary gourd vine, it trembled slightly as her focus intensified. Through her fingers, she felt the connection to the vine, to its roots, its stem, the round flask-shaped gourds that grew along its length. She then drew from her will, and introduced what she had learned to think of as a suggestion to the plant. As she did so, one of the fist-sized gourds grew slightly, changing colors as it hardened. The stem thickened and lengthened, until it was as long as Krosa’s forearm. Finally, small spikes grew from the gourd which now perched on the end of the stem, which detached from the vine and rolled slightly as it came to rest at her feet.

She picked up and examined the mace she had created. It was light, but strong. The gourd was no longer hollow, and now felt heavy at the end of the haft she had created from nothing but magic and the stem of the plant. Of course, it wasn’t that simple, but overall she was very pleased with the result. She tossed the mace aside and it joined a growing pile of weapons, armor, and even a few household items that rested in the compost heap. What she created was strong and useful in the short term, but it was all still made out of garden vegetables and lacked permanence. Many of her early attempts had already begun to decay on the pile.

But that was the beauty of the garden, nothing truly goes to waste. Each plant that died, each failed experiment just became compost, fertilizer for the next attempt. Even the garden pests that had plagued her for years occasionally found themselves unwilling contributors to the fertility of her creations. Perhaps it was a bit grim, but the insects that attempted to eat the leaves of her cabbages now found themselves consumed in their turn. Rodents and birds had also learned to keep a wide distance from her territory, and even the village children had begun to take a different path than the one near her house when they ventured into the woods to gather fall mushrooms.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her pants and looking around in satisfaction. Green things grew everywhere. Vines snaked up the wood shed, massive pumpkins sat with stately gravity among tangles of leaves that now intercepted any attempts to approach the massive fruits. In just a short while, she had gone from simple botanical cantrips to actively manipulating growth and form of a variety of plants. Dyrik had pushed her almost as hard as she’d pushed herself, and even given her a steady supply of the special coffee he seemed to drink constantly. Apparently, it was more of a potion than just a stimulating drink, and greatly benefited both one’s mental faculties and magical abilities. Magical power, as Dyrik had explained, came from mental focus and clarity, along with the practitioner’s will. Essentially, Krosa could do almost anything, if she was able to properly understand what she was doing, and how to do it. Once that was accomplished, it was just a matter of projecting her will. All of which made it sound a lot easier than it actually was. Fortunately she did have an affinity for manipulating organic matter, as Dyrik had told her. She had tried to use other general magic with little success.

Attempting to light a candle under her mentor’s watchful eye had been an embarrassing failure, although he had said that the smoke she had produced hadn’t been bad for a beginner with no affinity for what he called, “the transformative arts”.

That was how he explained his ability with fire. It was less about fire, and more about transformation and synergy. Fire requires fuel, air, and heat, and what he called a “chemical chain reaction”. If the first three ingredients were combined, you generally got the fourth. Dyrik was usually able to just introduce heat into the equation, as air and fuel were generally already available. But he also manipulated the air, and adjusted the heat, and even could interrupt the chain reaction that caused fire to gradually increase. Then, when he released that control, the resulting inferno would be sudden and potentially even explosive.

He had described the effect such an act had on living flesh in a very clinical manner, sharing with her personal stories of various battles he had been in, and the ebb and flow of magical powers being hurled wildly among combatants. Some of those stories had been shared while studying at his shop, but most of them had been shared at The Lodge with Gost insisting on buying the drinks in exchange for their company. Dyrik would sip brandy, Gost would down ale like it was air to a drowning man, and Krosa had discovered that she was fond of Mrs. Pechen’s peach wine. She’d even begun to work on a special peach tree that she felt could, if properly enhanced, produce fruit that would make her favorite drink even better. After a few drinks, the more taciturn Dyrik would occasionally open up and share strange stories that he had read, or things that he’d seen.

It had been a surprise to her how easily the men had opened up to her. It had almost been shocking how close they were in age, with the two outsiders only older than her by a few years, but seeming much older because of their experiences. Gost still didn’t say much about his past, except to interject a correction or a dissenting point of view when Dyrik “misremembered” a story that involved both of them. But she felt that she had made progress on assembling the large man’s puzzle in her mind, and hoped that the next phase of her training led to even more pieces falling into place.

Krosa washed her hands, changed into a pair of trousers with slightly less dirt on them, and set out for the inn. She hadn’t been one for wearing dresses much even before her father disappeared, and had given them up completely since then. Provints was a town that held practical values though, so such a fashion choice was not as out of place as it might have been in some of the larger towns or cities. She got the occasional nod or smile as she walked past shops and houses that grew closer together as she approached the village square. While friendly with her fellow villagers, she didn’t have anyone in town she considered a close friend. Her best friend from her childhood had gone missing when they were young, and she now suspected Skyrik may have been taken by the curse, or the beasts it spawned. The disappearance had coincided with a surge in wild animal attacks, and the roads had been especially dangerous that year. She shook her head to clear the memories. She had never really gotten over losing her friend, and though she was pleasant enough to the other villagers as they were to her, she had never grown that close to anyone else.

Krosa kicked the last of the small pieces of dirt from her boots as she entered the Lodge. She waved a greeting to Pechen the proprietor and he nodded towards the usual corner, where Gost and Dyrik were already deep in conversation and what appeared to be a second round of drinks. Or maybe a third. She wove through the room, dodging tables occupied almost entirely by her fellow residents of Provints. Men and women ate stew, drank ale, and played games of pathar on leather boards, intensely moving brightly painted stones around, occasionally shouting and slapping the table at particularly good moves. There were few outsiders in the room, and none of them were strangers. The merchants who plied the road between Provints and Shebivil were not numerous, and they were well known. Many of them sat in small groups, some with influential local merchants. Unlike the farmers and crafters, the merchants seemed more prone to serious faces and more serious drinking. Krosa knew that although the roads had become less dangerous since her father had disappeared, it felt like the calm before the storm, a temporary reprieve before the occurrence of further calamity. Polenach had been known by these people, and well liked. Their sad glances in her direction only served to further cement her desire to find out what happened to him, and to prevent it from happening to anyone else.

The great room of the Lodge was large enough to accommodate the crowd that currently filled it, so by the time she had worked her way to Gost’s corner, the two had spotted her. Her usual chair moved out to welcome her, and she couldn’t tell if Gost had kicked it, Dyrik had used a small bit of magic to push it, or if the chair was beginning to take a life of its own and had moved on its own when she came near. She had heard of such things in her studies with Dyrik, inanimate objects brought to some semblance of life through magical means. As she understood the concept, it happened in one of two ways. The first way was to start with a conscious being and change it into the object one desired. The second way involved coaxing some kind of mind or will to form in an object that previously had none. That method was not only more difficult, it was more dangerous. In trying to imbue the object with character, the mage could end up transferring their own mind into it instead. More than one ambitious wizard had found themselves cursed to a lifetime stuck as a carriage or a door because they had been too careless or too inept to manage the transformation. Apparently though, if successful this was by far the better method, as the object gained consciousness without any confusion as to its identity. Doing it the other way, the object would still remember being what it was before. You could turn a person into a door, but they would never be as good at being a door because they would refuse to forget being a person.

Dyrik had told a story about a friend of his who had tried to turn an oxen into a carriage. The resulting magical object had moved under its own power, but would often try to fight other carriages, and would occasionally wander off into fields and crash into fences. Dyrik had eventually destroyed the carriage, which he considered a mercy to the poor creature that had been used in its creation. Apparently that had led to some kind of formal magical duel with his friend, but he had said that was a story for another time. Krosa eyed the empty mugs on the table and thought that maybe that time would be tonight, if the drinking kept going as it had been.

“Krosa!” Gost expounded, throwing his arms out in welcome. A bit of ale spilled onto the floor from the mug still in his hand. “We were just talking about you, young lady.” “Young lady? I’m not THAT much younger than the two of you by age, and in conduct, well…” she eyed the spot of ale on the floor meaningfully. Gost just grinned unabashedly and took a long drink from his mug. “Wasting good alcohol is a sure sign of immaturity” Dyrik interjected, taking a meaningful sip from his own cup. “But we were hoping you would join us tonight. We would like to discuss your winter plans.”

Krosa leaned back in her chair, and considered the men across from her as one of Pechen’s barmen placed a cup of strong berry wine in front of her. “Better bring me another, Kelner” she said “It appears I have some catching up to do.”

“So, Dyrik and I were thinking about your training.” Gost said. “You’re getting better at magic all the time, and you’ve made great strides with your plants. Now that you’ve learned to make weapons, it’s probably best that you start learning to use them. Not only will that improve your chances of survival in the future, it will also improve your crafting if you better understand how your product is going to be used.”

Dyrik nodded in agreement. “He’s right. Making a mace out of a pumpkin is one thing, but hitting something with one, getting a visceral understanding of the impact, the force, the weight as you swing it over and over, none of that can be learned in a garden. Or a bookshop.”

“Visceral means guts” Gost intoned.

“Yes, more or less. Anyway, the way I see it we have two options. One, is that you spend the winter training with Gost, hunting in the forest, seeing what ability you have with tracking, shooting, wielding a blade, things of that nature. The second option, is we leave town and head to the capital, see if there is any… violent… work that can be found there. I admit, I’m not fond of the second option. It would be better for your studies, but the environment would not be easy to control, and you’d be far more likely to meet an untimely end and undo all of our hard work.”

“Well, I'd hate to have wasted all your time and attention by going off and dying somewhere” Krosa said. “So I think the first option will probably be the best. I know a bit of archery, but I'm not much of a hunter. I’ve never so much as picked up a sword, I'm a danger to myself with knives, and I don’t think I have the strength to swing a mace for hours on end, even with the extra training to improve my physical ability with magic. I mean, I’m certainly stronger than I was, and my endurance is better, but not enough that I’m about to go swinging a club about on a battlefield like some western barbarian. So that leaves…”

“Spear” Both men said in almost perfect unison. “It’s perfect” Gost slapped his hand on the table and leaned forward. “Not too heavy, gives you some distance from your enemy, mostly just a pointy stick so you can make them without too much trouble. Plus, you can throw them, and they don’t require anywhere near the training of a sword or some of the sillier weapons out there, like chain whips or tri-section swords. Now, an axe might not be bad for you, but you’re going to run into similar problems as the sword or mace. No, I think the spear is the right choice. A good spearman, or woman, as the case may be, is worth two lump-headed bumpkins waving swords around and cutting off their own feet.”

Dyrik snorted a laugh “I seem to remember a couple of fresh cuts on the tops of your boots, back when you were first starting on the longsword.”

Slapping the table again, Gost grinned happily. “My point exactly! We’ll want to work on your archery a bit of course, but the spear’s the thing that will make you a dangerous woman, and worthy to join the company of us legendary adventurers.”

Krosa sat back and stared into her wine, contemplating a spear. She had many gardening tools that held a similar shape, hoes and pitchforks, shovels, things of that nature. So she felt that the men were right, and that it would be a good choice for her. She had even made a few, coaxing some of her viny plants into long pointed shapes. But at the thought of a spear, a proper weapon of war, her mind turned to a flower that liked to grow in the shade of the forest, and produced small yellow petals in the springtime. The leaves of the flower were broad, and came to a distinctive point. Some folks called the plant a Halberd Flower because of the leaves, and she knew that it would be far easier to coax a plant like that into a spear shape than most of her more domestic vegetables. The stem of the plant was a bit too soft to transform into a proper haft, but she thought perhaps she could combine the Halberd Flower with a small sapling, get them to grow together to form a more durable weapon…

She realized suddenly that she had been staring into her mug for an awkward amount of time, and her friends had fallen silent. She took a quick drink and looked up. As she did so, Dyrik showed the face of his pocket watch to Gost, then slid it back into his vest. Gost shook his head and slid a small coin across the table to the wizard. “Only 2 minutes, was sure she was going to be at least 5.” He said.

“Sorry, I was just…thinking about spears.” she said lamely.

Gost snorted, “you were costing me my hard-earned money is what you were doing. If you were thinking about making them, don’t worry about that for now. You’ll be better with steel and a proper seasoned haft than something you fling together from forest plants. That’s the problem with you magic types, always overthinking things.”

Dyrik rolled his eyes and downed his drink. “Well, how about you think of getting the next round, since that was part of the bet I just won.” Gost grumbled as he rose from the table and wove his bulky form gracefully through the crowded room, his muttered complaints about wizards quickly lost to the noise.

Krosa looked back to Dyrik, who downed the remnants of his drink and sat back with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about that book you loaned me” she said. “The one about magical ethics. I’d like to talk about it, while Gost is occupied?”

The wizard nodded, and waved his hand in a vaguely encouraging manner. She continued, “There was a chapter in particular, the one about the unintended consequences of our actions, and how the cycle of cause and effect that applies to everyone can be far worse for mages than normal people, but I just wondered how me using magic to grow my garden could have as much impact on the world as the careless decree of a king or something like that?”

Dyrik leaned forward as he spoke, words only slightly slurring. “You’re absolutely right of course, the ripple effects of a King’s decree likely will have more of an effect than you giving your plants a bit of a boost here and there. But you’re comparing the wrong thing. You in your garden isn’t comparable to a king, it’s more like a mayor of a village, or a local militia leader. You may affect things, but it will be local, temporary, and your touch on the world will fade before it’s even felt. But if, IF, you grow more powerful, you become more like that king. Or an Emperor, or someone else who can ruin lives or entire civilizations with a careless word or deed. So, the question is, do you want that kind of power? That kind of responsibility? If so, then you must think seriously about the ramifications of everything you apply your will to.”

“But the book made it sound like even if i’m careful, the properties of consequences will turn even my best intentioned actions into agents of harm, how does one avoid that?”

Dyrik smiled sadly. “You don’t. That is another thing you must accept- the burden of knowing that no matter how pure your intentions are, no matter how much you mean to do good, you will inevitably, inescapably, do evil. And the more power you have, the more evil you will do, all without intending to or sometimes even being aware you’re doing harm. That is the nature of power, of magic, of life, in many ways.” He held out his hand, palm up and empty. “I could summon a flame to my palm, here and now. It would bring light, and warmth, and possibly even cheer to those around me. An entertaining novelty to delight and distract. Why don’t I?” He asked the question, palm held empty and still in front of her.

She thought for several moments before attempting an answer.

“Well, there’s already candles for light, and the fireplace gives enough warmth, and you’re not a performer so there would not be a point. It would just be a waste of energy.”

She stated her answer with confidence she did not feel. Dyrik had taught her to always answer as if she was certain she was correct, even if she had no idea. IT was a skill she was still practicing, but it had made her begin to suspect that her tutor might not be as informed on as many subjects as he made it seem. “Not a bad guess,” He emphasized the word “guess” to make it clear that he saw through her attempt at certainty. “But not true. The energy I would expend to do such a small thing would not be noticeable, and the act would bring me no small amount of enjoyment and even relaxation. Try again.” Sighing, she took another guess. “Because the Innkeeper wouldn’t like it, and might kick you out.”

He grinned wolfishly at that. “So close! A wizard’s flame in an inn made mostly of wood will be a source of tension with any good inkkeeper. But let's be honest. Aside from the fact that I spend a great deal of coin in his establishment, if I want to sit here conjuring fire in my hand, I”ll do it, and there is nobody in this village who is capable of stopping me. So why don’t I?”

She frowned at that, and after some time, had to admit that she didn’t know.

Placing his hand on top his empty glass, he rolled it on its base in circles on the table top. Just as he was about to speak, Gost returned with a new round of drinks. Thumping them down on the table, he asked “What did I miss? Dyrik looks like he’s either about to say something profound, or loose gas. I can never tell!” Laughing at his own joke, the big man dropped into his chair, causing the joinery to groan in protest. Kicking his feet out and taking a swallow of his ale, he raised his eyebrows expectantly. “We were having a discussion on magical ethics.” Dyrik explained.

“He was just about to tell me why he doesn't light a flame in his hand here in the Inn. Or make me guess again, not sure which.” Krosa expanded.

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Gost stated confidently. Unlike Krosa, Gost actually had mastered the art of speaking with an absurd amount of conviction on any topic, even ones which he was completely unfamiliar with, this time he seemed to actually know the answer. “I know this one. He doesn’t sorcel up a flame here at the table because he’s afraid.” another tip of the mug, and half the ale in it disappeared. Krosa eyed the silent wizard curiously. “Afraid? Of what?”.

“Of burning it all down, of course!” Gost responded.

“Surely you have enough control of your will to not do something so careless?” She almost kicked herself as she began to realize the point he was making. But it was too late, and the man across from her made it anyway. “Of course I do. I have enough control that I could put out and light every fire in the room. I could make flame dance on every table, and spell out verses from the great poems on the wall above the bar. I could do all this and more, but I don’t. Because I respect fire. I fear it. What it can do, and what I can do with it. Mostly though, I fear how much I like it. I don’t light a flame here because I have to draw a line between doing nothing, and burning everything and everyone in this room and loving every minute of it. So I do nothing, because if there is no reason to light a fire besides the fire itself, that is the sort of self-gratification that leads to a dark path. To evil. And that is the difference between the ethical use of magic, and becoming the kind of mage who curses remote mountain castles.”

Uncharacteristically long lecture over, Dyrik returned to his drink. Krosa tried to absorb what she had just learned about her friend. Puzzle pieces spun through her brain, connecting to previous hints and glimpses she’d gotten about the wizard’s relationship with his flame affinity. She glanced over at the faint scars that ran across Gost’s face, but decided to leave that question for another time. As the conversation moved to other topics, she tried to relax and enjoy the evening. But she couldn’t help but think about what Dyrik had said, about going down a dark path and creating something like the curse that had taken her father. A sense of growing unease followed her home that night after she left her companions snoring on their table, and her sleep that night was troubled.