King, Dukes and Masters

  —

  One minute, that’s how long the spell lasted. One minute. Most people may think that it was not enough time to do anything within reason well. But to those paying attention, one minute could be plenty of time, or it could feel like an eternity of pain and suffering. One minute. How much do you think gets done in one individual minute?

  That same one minute spread across the hundreds of thousands living in the Mountains of Taelaris, and then you would have more time than you had in a year. Spread it across those gifted with shadow aether, and you will have more time than in the week you spent, and spread it across those very few who were interested in the matters of the world of Taelaris, and you will possibly have less than half an hour.

  And that’s all it took for one spell to turn the tides, gain notice of the powerful, and awaken slumbering giants.

  …

  Fifth Wall, City of Srok, Rats Guild.

  …

  Victor Stun was one of two powerful men in Srok. He was a leader and lord in his own right; even when the old knight refused to join him, he held enough authority to send him away. He was smart, he believed himself to be so, and he was unpredictable and crafty. When the high table of the Zarynth Assassins had assigned him to the cities of the lower wall, he had first thought it a punishment, that he was being cast out of the order. But after he was given rains over the two walls and he had started gathering some talented young ones, he had found that the power and wealth he had come into had given him pause, and he relished it.

  Seated on his desk in his office in the Rats Guild, mulling over what to do next, especially with the responses he had to send up to the High Table of the Zarynth after he sent out death to one of the nobles of the lower cities. He would have to explain why he had accepted the contract and if whoever had been killed was not significant enough in the grand scheme of things to come, especially with the tides arriving.

  And just as he began to deep the quill in ink, something happened.

  The shadows bent, and not in a natural way. Although the lantern was never moved, the shadows the light cast said otherwise. His piercing blue eyes, which always held a touch of amusement, turned cold as he drew his dagger and rose to his feet, the chair cluttering to the floor as he prepared for an attack.

  In the times he had come to master his magic, the shadows around him were always at his beck and call, always at the edge of his fingertips, and never once accepted to act out of order. Yet, as he thought of this, his control shook as the shadows vibrated. It felt as though there had been a leak in the wild beaver’s dam.

  And at that same moment, he felt it. He felt the change. All the shadow aether felt harder to control in that moment, to the point where he had to abandon all the other spell forms and resort to using his innate shadow magic. If he was going to be attacked and the person was able to control shadow aether this much the way he felt it, then he would not take any chances.

  He used his innate magic.

  At least this way, his control was obsolete.

  He waited, and the seconds passed, and nothing happened.

  Feeling his sense of pride being dragged through the mud, he gave the now calming shadows an icy stare. Then he followed the aether disruption back to its source and made to cast his magic, the [Advanced shadow step] spell, a Tier III spell that made him move through the shadows and one that he shared with his favourite candidates.

  He cast the spell to find out the identity of the person who was putting on such a display, but he soon realised it was futile. It felt like the entirety of Srok was under the domain of this spell. And no matter what he tried-- casting his movement spell in the other spell’s area of influence just did not work, the aether did not obey.

  Only three people were strong enough to try to best him in Srok, and none of them were capable of casting a magic so potent, pure, and unknown that it could be considered old magic. Someone, whoever they were, was casting old magic in Srok. His eyes widened, and he felt a cold chill run down his spine at the realization.

  ‘Old magic.’ He thought.

  The scholars of the third wall would say old magic was the purest sort of magic. They would say that its efficiency and control were unmatched, and the way it affected the aether-- it was the perfect spell, unlike other grand spells. Grand spells, where the casters, due to a lack of a particular aether, had to bridge the gap with other different affinities or had to resort to rituals with multiple people.

  It was also unlike the royal magics, which the houses kept to themselves and their kin, altering them every generation and making them less potent in most cases.

  The person who was casting this shadow spell was using no other magic in the spell formation. And this fact of its purity was preventing him from walking in the shadows. In most cases, such grand spells of this nature would need another core affinity-- that way the caster would use two affinity weights to leverage and amplify the strength of the spell, but this spell didn’t use any other affinities, the only thing he could think of was, that this meant unless he had a greater affinity weight than this caster he would be stuck where he was.

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  A shiver ran down Victor’s spine. he had almost got himself killed. Whoever this was-- with a spell like that, he was no match.

  He felt himself freeze up, a nudging feeling in the back of his mind. There was only one person in the mountains of Taelaris capable of such magic and if they had got the chance to escape then even The high Council of the Zarynth would possibly be shitting themselves.

  A crooked grin came across his face, and he dipped a quill into the ink and started on another letter.

  ...

  Fifth Wall, City of Srok, West dungeon.

  ...

  He had been waiting, and he would remain here waiting. How long had it been? Five years, ten years, or perhaps fifteen. He could not tell any more.

  And in all those years, the fires around his cell had never been put out, and what little shadows they produced were sucked away by the enchantments lining his cell walls; there were no shadows around him, no shadows where they should have been, and the whole cell felt unnatural.

  He had dreamt many times of when he would be free and what he would do.

  Umber lord, master of shadows, and lastly, Butcher of Thanath. These were some of the titles he held and some of the things he was known for. That last one was what made him feared, hated and sentenced to the black stone dungeon by the church.

  As the church had proclaimed, he was to participate in an honourable duel for his then-noble House de Urnin, a merchant House that had levied against another noble house. His House had taken offence to the pillaging of their Caravan across the mountains by the warrior House of Thanath. The mistake they made was going after his mother after their warrior lost the duel.

  It was a week later, after his victory in the duel, when he returned from the king’s palace, that he found his House in disarray. He had come back to grieving servants lining the halls of the House’s Manor, injured guards, and worse, the fate of his mother. he had found his mother’s body headless in his parent’s sleeping chamber, his father with his own sword running through his gut and barely alive breathing heavily and pinned to the wall. His mother had been the clear target, for she had not even made it out of her sleep.

  In his absence, his House had been attacked by assassins.

  When he asked who had done it, His father had warned him against revenge, and yet he did not care as he knelt in front of his mother’s dismembered body.

  He looked in his father’s eyes, and he knew who had done it.

  He knew what needed to be done and he knew what it would mean. but he didn’t care for rage had taken over his body.

  That night every servant, every scion, every man, woman and child of House Thanath was a boatman of his mother’s body to the afterlife. that night the House of Thanath died to escort the Matriarch of House de Urnin to the afterlife.

  That night, the Butcher of Thanath was made in blood.

  Needless to say, he had broken many rules in accordance with the Last Cities, and the Archbishop, at the behest of the Great Chief of the Goliaths, had put out a claim on him. He was to be punished for committing a crime akin to heresy against the last races.

  But strength meant something to the last cities, and it was these same rules that had him still breathing.

  Nowadays, Vedran De Urnin, the Umber lord, Shadow Master and Butcher of Thanath, could only wait, his innate magic stifled by the Shadow enchantments.

  Or so he thought.

  And not so far away from his dungeon, a spell shook the enchantments around his prison. All the strain he had been feeling from his shadow affinity was lessened, and his eyes shot open.

  He used his [Umber Walker’s Step] spell.

  One minute, he was in his cell in deep meditation, the next, he was standing on one of the guardhouses breathing in the musky air of Srok, his gaze fixed on one corner of the noble district.

  “Interesting,” Vedran said with a broken voice that hadn’t uttered a word in over a decade, long unkempt hair and deep, piercing golden irises.

  The shadows danced again and made a path for him, and the next moment, he was standing next to the odd spell’s area of effect.

  And as much as you would have liked to call himself a master of the shadows, the fact was he couldn’t in the presence of old magic of the shadow affinity, and even more interesting, he thought, was that he could not sense the caster of the spell.

  And for as much as he wanted to know, Vedran did not step any closer.

  He had been told of what it could feel like, rumours of old magic and how coming across one left your magic feeling stifled.

  He had been told by the other elemental mages, especially those with innate magics, of what it felt like when the king used his old magic, but he never thought it would feel like this. The very aether that was once as easy as breathing to him all his life felt like he had to physically hold it in a place where, other times, he could just have called upon it with a mere thought. He was the shadow master, and yet now he had to actively urge the shadow aether, and he only thing letting him do this was his innate magic, which was a Royal magic.

  [Umber Walker’s Step] spell, a much more powerful [shadow step].

  This was something those without a higher affinity could not do. When they said magic was alive, he understood what they meant. His shadow aether was happy to stay with him-- around him as long as he corralled it, but otherwise, it was happy to join its brethren in being part of the Grand magic.

  He walked around the spells area, from building to building, disappearing and appearing from rooftop to rooftop in shadowy, smoky tendrils, watching as the shadows of the grand spell formed. It was quite the spell, but as every affinity went, the shadows were meant to conceal, and the spell was hiding its caster even from him. It may have looked ominous and grand, but that was the thing about old magic and shadow magic. Specifically, old magic borrowed every aspect of the affinity, and all he could do was watch. He watched the shadows pull themselves out of the dark pool beneath the orb.

  Aether construct of the shadow kind. A little psychic affinity, and they would become pure illusions.

  He would have liked to inspect the spell a bit more, for if he were to learn such a spell as the shadow master, his power would soar by leaps and bounds. The rules they used to keep him in the dungeons would no longer be enough to justify his absence from the mountain cities.

  He wished to inspect it but did not wish to lose all his senses. If he stepped any closer, without a doubt, he would lose all his senses. He would not be able to hear the wind on his ear, to test and smell the musk of the slams of the city or even feel the warm, moist air on his skin, especially if he stepped any closer to the black pool of shadows. It would feel like how the shadows felt. A nothing emptiness,

  He could use such a spell, and the only reason he guessed it was this strong was because the sun was setting, and the shadows were more numerous than at any time of the day.

  He looked around, memorizing the buildings, memorizing every aspect of the compound so that he could return with Night Piercer.

  And maybe he could watch who had cast it and learn more about this spell for his own grimoire.