There are as many paths to power today as there used to be of old.

Victor Maistry, Warden of the Montana

The group had moved around, finding a square of ruin with several feet of walls still up, reaching just above their heads. Tom had hastily propped some additional sheets of Ancient material, looking like half-rock, half-metal. Rule Nth of scavenging: never make a camp where the light of the fire can be seen from afar.

And now, the small campfire was burning in a corner, and Johanna had not even needed her trusty lighter – one of her most prized possessions, a retooled Ancient lighter working with distilled alcohol rather than whatever liquid fuel the original used.

No, she just had remembered her state of mind, when she was burning the Canid’s head, and focused on her hand, trying to bring that feeling back. And flame had sprung. She’d nearly yelled in surprise when she did because flame burned, or at least it was supposed to. But the three-four inches flame dancing in her palm merely felt warm. Warm like skin, like placing her hand on Tom’s chest as he curled up to sleep. Not even warm like a pot stove.

Lighting a campfire was trivial with that flaming hand, not like the hard work of sparking the old lighter until she had a good tiny and stable flame. And now, they were gathered around the fire, cookpot slowly boiling the ration mix. In awkward silence.

The two men were watching the two women with unreadable expressions. No, not entirely unreadable. Johanna knew Tom well enough to recognize this was his “in which mess did I put myself now” face.

Laura broke the silence first.

“Come on guys. It’s us. I feel like you’re going to ask who the hell we are.”

Both made a grimace.

“Who are you?” Peter joked.

At least, Johanna thought it was an attempt at a joke. She wasn’t so sure now.

“A sorceress and a saint,” Tom said.

“Come on. We’re not that. I’m no saint, that’s sure,” Laura replied.

Peter barked a small laugh, and even Tom displayed a small smile.

“Still. Removing that burn. That’s what the holiest saints can.”

“Yea, and there’s, what… Saint Malcolm, in Amminvale city? Have you heard about another saint around in the Northwest, besides outrageous claims by charlatans?” Laura replied.

“Besides, Saint Malcolm is said to cure plague and disease, he doesn’t erase burns,” Johanna added.

“Maybe, but then there’s you,” Tom replied.

“Me,” she sighed.

She raised her hand, looking at the empty palm. She reached into her memories and flame sprung again from her hand.

All the eyes of her team turned to the flame burning from nothing, like moths attracted to a lantern. She let the flame subside to nothingness, then reached her hand into the campfire. As before, she felt only a mild warmth, which slowly increased. She pulled out the hand when it started to become noticeable enough to remind her of actual burning, although this was merely hot, not truly burning.

Then she swore and blotted out the fringe of her tunic arm, which had started to blacken. Her hand might be entirely untouched by the burning wood, but the leather garment was very obviously not immune to fire. It was already worn out by the constant delving in ruins, and she definitively didn’t need to burn it as well.

“Sorcery,” Tom said laconically.

“But why? You hear of sorcerers, in the employ of mighty kingdoms in the south and east. But the Columbia? Since when is there a sorcerer here?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Tom grimaced.

“Think we can all guess why.”

Despite herself, Johanna’s head turned to the side, toward the distant and now invisible line of taller ruins.

“You think that magic trap is what did it?” she asked.

“Don’t see what else it can be,” Tom replied. “That room and the skeleton and the mana event? Too much of a coincidence with you becoming a sorceress and Laura a saint, both at the same time.”

“But why us? Why not you?” Laura asked.

Both Tom and Peter shrugged almost simultaneously.

“Maybe the skeleton was female, so only women got affected?” Peter offered.

Laura snorted, and Johanna almost started to laugh.

“Okay. I did not check the hips on that thing,” he continued lamely.

Johanna laughed at that one, and even Tom shook his head at the humor. You were never entirely sure with Peter if it was unintentional or not.

“Okay, maybe you’re also magicians now. You just don’t know what you can do,” Johanna finally replied after smothering her laughter.

“I don’t feel particularly magical, honey,” Tom replied.

“Who knows? We shall see.”

Johanna changed tracks.

“I can call up the fire at any time. Laura, can you do… your burn healing on command too?”

“Well… unless we have a volunteer…” Vogel grimaced.

“Maybe it’s not just burns,” Peter said.

Both women frowned and he pulled out his knife.

“Wait, what?” Laura exclaimed.

He raised his hand to placate his girlfriend, and before she protested again, made a very shallow cut on top of his arm just, behind the wrist.

“Let’s see if you can do that one.”

Laura shook her head, incredulously, but nevertheless reached with her own hand and moved her thumb across the cut. Peter watched her wiping the blood that had welled up with the gesture, then exhaled slowly.

“It’s closed. Not even a line.”

“So. Not just burns then,” Laura said softly.

“No. Looks like you heal wounds of all sorts.”

Laura shook her head, still disbelieving the evidence.

“Hey, I got lucky with my girlfriend. She gets the useful supernatural ability,” he said, reaching her shoulder.

Johanna snorted.

“Tom? Can you hit the small guy?”

Tom Welter laughed.

“Sorry, Peter. Not going to say no to someone who can torch me from behind…”

They all started laughing again before Johanna stopped them.

“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t make that much noise. There might be no other predators around now that we’ve killed those, but, well, there’s that other group in any case…”

They all watched silently the campfire slowly burning out before it was time to unroll the bags and catch sleep.

“Okay, I’ll take first watch,” Tom said.

“Second,” Peter added.

“And me third,” Johanna concluded.

“Good for me,” Laura said.

She was always grumpier in the morning if she did not have at least eight good hours of uninterrupted sleep. She did keep watch at times, to be fair with the rest of them. But she never liked it.

They started unrolling their sleeping bags. Separate ones, as usual in the field, to avoid disturbing their partners when they took or ended their watches.

Despite everything, Johanna moved to Tom’s figure, before sitting against him. He moved slightly, letting her curl inside his slightly larger frame.

After a short while, he let his head rest on her shoulder, cheeks touching, in the comfortable feeling of being together. Against the world.

“Pretty sure you were trying to flatter me. Clueless sorcerer, eh,” he finally said to her.

“We are all changed. I’m sure of it. You were closer to the skeleton than me or Laura,” she replied.

“But we’re not. No warping, no flesh change. Besides, all the Change happened decades ago, or so my schoolteacher said. Remember any instance of a Mana storm strong enough to be a Changestorm?…”

“That wasn’t a Changestorm. That was… localized. Targeted?”

Tom stayed silent, as they contemplated together the dimming embers of the campfire, in their small hideout.

“Get some sleep. Or you’re going to hate him when Peter wakes you up later,” he said, kissing her on the head.

Johanna snorted a little, but Tom’s advice was good. As usual.

Watching people sleep was boring. That was a new activity for one Douglas Moore, disembodied spiritual entity. When he had been alive, or at least incarnate, he’d never done that. When the party wound down, he’d crash on a couch and fall asleep immediately or take a ride home, not keep watch on a bunch of revelers already halfway asleep.

But in his new state, it didn’t seem as he had any need to sleep. There was no tiredness of a non-existent body, not sleepiness of the mind. It looked like boredom did exist in his state, at least somewhat. But sleep? No.

No dreams as well? Well, at least that means no nightmares. Thank God for small mercies.

At least he could definitively rule out seeing only through his charges’ eyes. The three that were asleep still showed the view from their lying forms on the group of their makeshift camp, and they definitively didn’t sleep with their eyes open. With the campfire dulled, it was mostly black, but with just enough light from a starry sky to see hints of shapes, turned sideways by the sleepers’ perspectives.

The designated watchman – Welter – had a slightly more interesting view as he looked at the city under the night. From that perspective, Moore could see the night sky and the stars. And the Milky Way – at least he assumed the vast band of light across the night was it. That was a view you never saw in the 21st. Here, there were no street lights, anywhere, and the handful of clouds did not hide a view that was glorious. And the Moon. The familiar, real three-quarter Moon and its many Maria that told him it was truly Earth, at least in some changed way.

Moore would have tried to busy himself looking at the interface options, but instead of being a way to pass time, it was going to be a way to massively increase time due to the differential when he was not “looking” through his team’s views.

So, he tried to remember constellations and stuff. To pass away his first night after he died.