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 was reasonably quiet. Orel was training hard in magic, though some of his exercises felt more like chores. Norman had access to the Eislandr artifacts and took the time to listen to Ymir tell them everything she knew about them. The strange artifacts and general anxiety appropriately challenged his wits. Ándras 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. They had all the time in the world to prepare, yet Orel could not wait to embark.

While Ándras was raking the foliage, Norman watched as Orel demonstrated his magic outside the house. A certain 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 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 midair like a piece of sugar melting away in a glass of tea.

"Hmm, an interesting thing to focus on. Was there any specific reason that you came up with it?"

"It felt like a good way to create ammo. I thought about it while I fought against that mage in the lodge."

"Well, I'm glad that you didn't try it there. Making spells on the fly is wildly dangerous if you don't have a solid foundation."

Norman paused to think."A penny for your thoughts. 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 like making stuff?" Orel said as he understood it.

"Conjuration is more than just creating things. Those shadow puppets that mage controlled are a good example."

"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 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. "I guess there are other types of magic?"

"The western way is how most mages know it. They categorize magic into six types depending on its effect and what they affect. For example, conjuration is about making objects and concepts out of magic, like coins in your case."

"Then, what type of magic does Ándras have?"

"Since he produces flames, he would be an evocation mage. That Daniel fellow was one too."

"But didn't he have familiars, those little light balls?" Orel remembered.

"Summoning familiars isn't specific to conjurers." Norman shook his finger.

"I'll have to keep that in mind."

"Then there is enchantment. Enchanters, or mage smiths, however you like to call them, can basically code objects with magic and create various mechanisms. You've heard of swords that shoot beams or magic scrolls, and that's what they do. They can also create golems, a sort of magical robots."

"Oh, so they use runes?"

"Well, some do," Norman pondered why Orel suggested runes of all things. "While your type creates things, alchemists, no, that's an old term. Transmuters are a type of mage that can change existing matter, even flesh."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"All magic is dangerous by default, but transmuter experiments can be gruesome." Norman thought back to the academy. Thankfully the teachers were able to undo most of the damage. "Then there's illusion magic. It affects people by making them see or hear things. That's about it."

"You said there were six types. What's the last type of magic?"

"I saved the best for the last." Norman posed menacingly with a sly smile. "Manipulation, or psychomancy, is the rarest and most despised one."

"Why?" Orel raised an eyebrow.

"Why? Well, in the old days, it was called necromancy."

"That doesn't sound very nice." Orel thought about zombies.

"That's why they changed the name, though it didn't help much with their reputation."

"Then what do they do?" Orel didn't understand what the problem was.

"It's said that they affect the very definition of our souls." Norman tried sounding grim.

"That sounds powerful."

"Heh, maybe, who knows." Norman looked away.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's the least researched type because of its infamy. Even mages have some limits on doctrine. I would say that they aren't more powerful than any other type."

"Now that I've heard all of them, I guess you're an illusion mage?"

"They're called illusionists, actually." Norman shook his finger again.

"That was a nice lecture, teacher, but how does this help me?" Orel raised his hand.

"Good question, my pupil." Norman pointed. "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." Orel rolled his eyes.

"Don't be bummed out about it. Besides, cantrips are special in that they don't matter when creating your spell."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but you tend to forget them when you come up with a spell."

"Oh." Orel slumped.

"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. My old professor could teleport with portals if you need an example of a conjurer. Well, it's a bit hard to compare to your current level. Sigh. I liked Dr. Johnsson. He was always on time for lectures but got stuck in another plane of existence for some time. The poor fellow was never the same." Norman had a moment of silence. "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. On the topic, if a magic item has a negative effect, it's called a cursed object; if it's a weapon, it's called a mystic sword. Wealthy mages can hire a professional enchanter to work for them, but not everyone prizes 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 that I mentioned, but it is more of a subcategory than anything. And don't mistake that term with mystic mutations."

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

"A little. One form of mystic mutation called a cursed eye of Nazar, or Nazar, originates from Koonfur. Mystic mutations are rare in their entirety. They carry on in blood, though not consistently. A strong mystic mutation is often a status sign in mage families and treated as a nice bonus since it doesn't hinder magical aptitude."

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

"I thought about it, but I am not a doctor, much less a mage doctor. I can't begin to think what he has. 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.

"It would be fun to get one, but if they're that expensive, I guess I shouldn't bother."

"Well, yes. Also, we can't bring them to Albion."

"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 a license if you want to carry it in public."

"By the way, 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 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. The result was rough, but most damage passed as large pinkish moles. His skin seemed patched and spotted like a spotted cow, but thankfully, it did not hurt anymore.

"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?" Orel was reminded after Norman mentioned their names.

"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. "To be honest, I'm fine with either."

It was a large, 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 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. Though it was the court of law, they celebrated with drinks in their hands.

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. Her assistants looked down at the accused. There was the royal litigation accountant, ready to write down their sentences. On the right was the head butler of the royal staff. Media spread the news around the room, and cameras snapped pictures nonstop as Daniel and Fynn 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 furious. She had filled her fingers with rings and jewels so they would rattle 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, 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 was sure to deliver.

"Duke of Clarent, the head of House Medrawd, Lord Daniel Apellon Medrawd II, and Fynsworth Scotus Medrawd. The royal court has finished its investigation." Queen Guinevere turned her head to face Daniel. "First, sir Daniel. You are accused of embezzlement, manslaughter, and arson. How do you respond to these claims?"

"Your Highness. My half-brother committed those acts only under my command. As the head of the house, 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 your house and the whole Dukedom of Clarent?"

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

The crowd smiled at the thought to see the house of Medrawd gone. 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.

"However." Queen Guinevere raised her voice. "That does not exclude sir Fynnsworth from all their responsibilities. However, this will affect your sentence."

"...Of course not, my queen." Daniel gritted his teeth.

"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 glanced at his beaten-up brother, who had gotten out of the hospital to attend court, still suffering from 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 was as cold as everyone else, much preferring to be a single child, there was a time that changed. One day, Fynn was bullied. He was called black-blooded, a slur meaning the descendant of the disastrous knight. Fynn was used to it, as long as he could hide the bruises. Yet, this time, Daniel appeared and beat the royal kids. He offered his hand to Fynn and pulled him up. It was the first time Fynn felt cared for reasons beyond his lineage.

In truth, he was born only as a precaution. A deal between two families suffering from their blasphemous past. 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 worsened.

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. She was delighted to know that Daniel seemed healthy, so the Medrawd line would continue when she passed. 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 fell to the same illness as his husband and died a quick yet unfortunate death. However 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." Yes, my queen. I am willing to testify against my brother, sir Daniel, in exchange for immunity."

The crowd gasped. They did not know whether to cheer the honesty or shun the backstabbing.

"Are you sure of your decision? Your testimony will be heard in private."

Fynn glanced at Daniel. Though he wanted to stay strong, seeing Daniel silently nod broke Fynn into silent tears.

"Yes, my queen." Fynn bowed to his queen with tears running down his face.

"Then, I shall give the final verdict. For these crimes against the pride and reputation of 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. There is but one punishment fit for these horrible atrocities, and that is 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 with dignity.

Silence came again, and knowing her mood. The crowd would try their best to keep their voices low for the rest of the process. The Dukes were not interested, as it was only natural to be given such a sentence. They were more interested in being served another glass of the finest vine.

"Predictable." Sir Peredur whirled their silver hair like fine silk with their silver hand. "Another glass." They gestured at the waiter.

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

A Bulky gentleman with strong yet nicely knotted hair could barely fit inside his green suit. Flexing his muscles with every adjustment, the man was grand from his legs to his wide smile.

"Sir Peredur, you are not a fisherman, are you?" Sir Lionel answered with a grin.

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

Sir 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 gray eyes on the two culprits, specifically Fynn. After all, he was none other than his father, the Duke of Earlake, Sir Galehaut Du Lac.

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

"So you do know me, Sir Amren." Lionel grinned even wider. "Did you enjoy my wine?"

"It seems the only reason to have you here." Sir Amren grasped the newly filled glass.

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

"Onto another pressing matter." Guinevere raised her voice again. "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.

"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 yet formally recognized 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.

Fynn froze in time. His heart was racing with his mind to open his mouth.

"T-Thank you, my queen." He was able to muster and mumble the oath. "I will serve you with all my being and offer my eternal servitude to you and you only."

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

"Silence!" Guinevere yelled like a singer. "My word holds true and wise! If the family of Medrawd or Duke Fynnsworth is unsatisfied with this decision, they have the right to object and exchange the title, but no commoner, Duke, or order has a word about another house!"

Even her majesty's words could not entirely silence the crowd, but they brought them down to whispering.

After the ceremony, a dark figure made its way to Fynn. Someone he was sure would, at some point, become a bother. It was the shadow of his past looming ever so closer. It was certainly not the man he wished to first see after clearing up his tears.

"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.

"Did you have anything that I might want to hear?"

"Hmohm, the Medrawds have infected you with their nasty nature. But yes, I have some business I would like to discuss."

"What a poor coincidence."

"Gah, shut your mouth! 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. 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 their power with money. The financial situation was dire, and Daniel inherited the issue as he became the Duke. If he did not die from stress, it would have been from overworking. The same burden was then passed to Fynn.

"Dear cousin, I know it must mean a lot to you, but perhaps it is not in the best of our interest for you to hold the title-" A cowardly relative suggested while rubbing his hands.

"Get. Out." Fynn pointed at the door. "And tell anyone else that if they come through that door with such useless words they will be kicked out of the house."

" Y-yes, your grace." The man ran out.

"You as well." Fynn turned to another member of the family.

"Very well, but please remember, your grace, that I will always be on your side." She walked away with a knife tugged in her sleeve.

The Duke's seat was where they had left it, and now that the servants had cleaned out the room of 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.

"My lord, what is your first action as the duke?" The remaining 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, your grace."

As the servant left, Fynn lifted the Dark Mantle and held it in his hands. Though it was rough and rugged, it was too delicate for him. His brother had worn it not too long ago, and now it was his turn. He wrapped the crimson scarf against his neck so 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 Ándras slammed the door open as he stepped in.

"Finally! I need a beer." Ándras 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!" Ándras fetched a beer from the bridge.

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

"Hmph. Was there anything interesting?" Ándras 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 then the other one became a duke." Norman explained.

"How come the other one didn't get the blame? I'm also 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 more about it."

"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. Sigh, yes, Norman-Alcaeus. What is it? 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 explained.

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

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

"Will we take it?" Ándras 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 waited for tomorrow. It would mark the first step in their next adventure and determine its course. What would await them? That question kept them awake at night, or at least two of them; Ándras 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 travelers, but the same could not be said about the people.