The ore-gold sun hangs in the grey sky above the horizon. From her window the ships in the harbour bobs as the tide changes. The factory whistles cut through the air; disturbing the peaceful atmosphere of the room. The inn they found is small, with a two stall stable off to the side. The room is sparse, with one narrow bed, a fireplace, and a single table and chair.

It’s quiet except for Sara’s gentle snoring. The child can sleep anywhere, which at this moment causes a twinge of jealously. Moira’s mind isn’t ready to sleep, despite the excitement of the day and the temptation of a warm bed; she can’t quiet her mind.

Artie’s interference caused them to miss the last ferry to Alexanderia; prolonging her misery for another night. Tomorrow she’ll be in the capital. She still can’t believe she’s doing this; she wishes she sent a letter instead; but Allan deserves to hear it himself. Kipling robbed him of his family and the least she can do is tell him the truth to his face.

The walls around her close in; as her choices narrow. She dreads Alexanderia but she can’t stay in Lollardum either. Her nails tap the armrest of her chair; the smell, the people and of course the men; are all reasons to leave as soon as possible.

“Calm yourself,” Eclipse mumbles as he sleeps beside Sara, “one more night and then all of this is behind us,”

That’s what I’m worried about.

“If you ask me,” he continues, “I doubt Captain Dawson recognised you.” She huffs at the mention of the ignorant knight. His attitude needs adjustment, but she can’t ignore how he stared at her staff. How can she be so stupid to think Allan wouldn’t search for her.

“General Stone is probably on the lookout for me.”

“Yes, but Lex will not trust someone like Zack with the details. Be grateful Sunshine found you instead.” She rolls her staff in her hand watching the fading sunlight reflect in gem; it’s a blessing and a curse. “Where were you today, the cathedral again?”

“I went to pray, but it’s destroyed. Arson of some kind, but no one wants to talk about it. There’s lots of archers stationed on the rooftops.”

“Why are they surveying a ruin cathedral?”

“Don’t know,” She bounces the opal against her palm, trying to predict Castellan’s agenda isn’t an easy task. A slight rattle catches her off guard. Its subtle, but its there; “The opal is loose.”

“We will get it fixed in Alexanderia.” He mumbles, trying to sleep.

“I wonder if Mister Drover still has his shop. It won’t take long.” But he’s doubtful, “See?” shaking it in his ear. “You hear it right?”

“I disapprove of you seeing the flea-ridden thief.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with him.”

“Moira…”

“Stop.”

“But last time…”

“It won’t happen again. We’ve been through this.” She pauses at the door, “I want nothing more than to leave this kingdom and the men here behind.”

She closes the door and rushes down the stairs before the tears well in her eyes. It was a hard lesson to learn but she did; he can’t expect more. The changing factory shifts create a stream of sweaty and exhausted workers flooding the streets. She meanders past them, recalling various landmarks from the last visit.

Some structures are more run down than last time, a statue has lost an arm, but others like the Painted Horse tavern is still as busy as ever. The streetwalkers leer as she passes, and their johns are not as subtle. She’s weary of any group of any children running at her, careful to keep her hand on her coin purse.

The Theatre District is the poorest and most desperate part of the kingdom. The gang leaders pay the soldiers to stay out, which is a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t have to worry about their harassment, but on the other hand, repercussions from insulting a gang boss are a hefty price. Keep your head down and keep moving. She understands Eclipse’s worry, but the trip through the district is worth if for Mister Drover.

His reputation proceeds him; he's one of the few staff makers using traditional methods of wood preparation. He sells the most potent gems, or so his patrons say. She isn’t versed in how to create magic staffs, but she does prefer him over others outside the Kingdom of Ancients. A pebble rolls from an alley, hitting her boot. She pauses and spies a shadowy figure leaning against some crates in the alley.

“Hey there beautiful,”

“Have you been following me since I left the inn?” Chris emerges with a broad grin, “My answer stands. Besides I have important business that doesn’t require you.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to see the pattern with you and your business.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“There’s no need to pretend. I get it, someone like you will be socially ruined if you’re seen with a poverty-stricken chum like me. I just want to get to know you better. Nothing more, nothing less. I promise. Just let me help you with your ‘important business.’”

She studies him, noting his pleasant demeanor and trustworthy face. But he’s a thief, Eclipse’s outrage rings in her ears. She doesn’t know whether she’s desperate for someone other than Eclipse or Sara to talk to or that she rather not walk the streets alone. Either way she agrees and regrets her decision once he smiles.

“So, where we going?”

“The magic shop owned my Mister Drover. My opal is loose and he’s the only one in this place a Mage can trust with their staff.”

“Whacking some bones as hard as Artie’s would do that to ya,”

“I regret nothing,” she smirks.

A wooden sign creaks on rusty metal hook above a nondescript door. Engraved in the aged wood is an eight-point star with a sun in the middle. Weathered paint clings to the cracks and edges but the vibrancy is long gone. She sighs in relief, finally something familiar. The door squeaks open; the smell of incense and dust permeates the warm air. It’s a cramped space, at one time it was a family home with the first floor converted to a shop.

Along the left wall are shelves and tables of books and items. Enchanted scrolls and tomes occupy an entire case. While others contain, candles, ceremonial knives, emblems, and vials of liquids and preserved ingredients. There’s a rack of dusty garments but at first glance they’re outdated. Although a decent cloak is always useful. The room is dark, the few windows on the floor have a layer of dirt on the glass and thick iron bars on the outside. Lanterns and candles with trails of dripping wax provide the only light.

How she wishes she can spend a few hours browsing the treasure trove of the shop, but she doesn’t want to linger; not with Chris as her shadow. Instead, she focuses on the shop’s prize items; rows of fist-sized gemstones of various kinds, shapes and colours enclosed in a glass case. Emeralds, topaz, garnets, and even a few Alexanderian Rubies. They’re breathtakingly beautiful but she won’t change her Opal for the world. Along the right wall is a row of wooden staffs in various sizes and designs. She shouldn’t have brought a thief inside. She glares at him; and he obeys, abandoning the books to join her side.

There’s no one in the shop, but she rings a small tin bell on the counter. A minute later a short man in oversized robes emerges from behind the curtain. His features are hidden behind a face of white beard, mustache, and bushy eyebrows. His long hair is tied in a braid down his back. He shuffles towards her with his hands resting across his chest.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry for the hour but is it possible for you to examine my staff, I think the gem is loose.”

“Haven’t heard that in a while,” she it to him for inspection, “hmm…oak handle, heat and water-resistant polish. This text, the staff is older than I am!” He runs his fingers around the letters engraved in the brass plate at the base of the arch. “They certainly don’t make them like this anymore. Quite impressive Mistress Mage.”

“Can you secure the opal?”

“My dear, I can fix anything.” He smiles disappearing momentarily to fetch his tools. He starts his work with her attentive eyes watching his every move. Chris leans in, whispering so only she can hear.

“What does he mean by ‘impressive.’”

“That’s no business of yours,” pushing his face from hers.

“She’s being modest,” Drover interjects, “an Opal Staff is quite a remarkable thing. While other gems limit a Mage’s magic to one element, an opal allows the owner a chance to master all four elements without modifications. Although, that’s not to say it makes learning magic any easier, it still requires work.”

“What does the gem have to do with anything?”

“My boy! It’s crucial. It allows Mages to use magic safely with less physical strain on the body.”

“It focuses magic and ensures a safe manipulation.” She adds, “without the gem, magic is unstable and dangerous to everyone within the vicinity.”

“I’ve seen others with every other kind of staff, but not yours. There isn’t even an opal here.”

“Because it is illegal to sell them,” Drover answers, carving the wood with a miniature tool.

“Shops in the Mage Capital near the Academy, make money when students replace their gems.” She begins bitterly. “You can’t sell much if students own an Opal Staff.”

Mister Drover smiles behind his beard. The official story is that the Council believed they were too powerful for the general population. They destroyed most of them about a hundred years ago and made it illegal to create new ones. However, there’s no evidence proving one staff is more powerful than the other. But the Council claims their decision was made to ‘protect the population’. Only six remain in circulation, however, the Council bestowed them to their elite members.” He brushes a sticky glue substance under the gem.

“And let me guess, they passed the staff on their children and each family member since?”

“More or less, but then again there are a few staffs unaccounted for. Here you go Mistress Mage, now try to avoid getting it wet for the next day, the paste needs time to set.” He finishes his work and returns it with a smile that makes her warm inside. Such genuine kindness is rare around these parts. She thanks him, paying his price and they leave.

He insists on walking her to her inn, she protests, but eventually gives in. She hates to admit it, but he’s easy to talk to. Perhaps that’s the problem. He’s attentive and charming, but she can’t help to think its part of some scheme of his. Either way its nice having a conversation with someone without judgment.

“So that staff of yours, does it mean you come from some rich and powerful family?”

Is this your game? “Maybe. Or a member of my family happened to steal it, and I am descended of thieves and pretenders.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “What’s the Imperial Council exactly?”

She sighs, the Council is a lot of things.

The people pass them by, at least the leering stopped when he joined her side. But she can’t help but wonder what it’s like for these people, the ones who are oblivious to the Council and the power it wields. Like kings they hold absolute authority over every Mage, even if these Mages don’t recognize them. The Innocent’s here are too arrogant to believe the Council workings have any thing to do with them. All it takes is one word and… she shudders at the thought.

Have faith in the leadership, her teachers told her. Even Eclipse preached the gospel back in the day. But one night it changed, and he never spoke of it again. The people around her move about their evening, enjoying the stale summer evening. Living in destitute, they people have too much on their plate to worry about a government across the continent. But Chris still looks at her, his pleading eyes want—no crave—answers.

“It is a group of influential Mages elected as elite representatives of the Order. They ensure all Mages obey the Mage Oath of Obedience and Code of Conduct. We usually refer to them as the Imperial Council or The Council.” She pauses, sniffing the salt air, “this isn’t the way to the inn.”

“I told you,” a grin cuts his mouth, “I don’t take no for an answer.”

A head of her, the hustle and bustle of the kingdom fades away, and the narrow road leads to the path leading away from the district. The horizon is a rich violet with dimming stars awakening from their slumber. The docks stretch before her littering the harbour with boats of all sizes and functions. But they aren’t their destination. He guides her to a small dirt road, usually frequent by lovers and dreamers. It curves around the eroded rocks that shelter the harbour, leading to a dense wooded area.