“You have survived by the thinnest of margins, your hands are still trembling, and your immediate desire is to seek out another fracas.” He pronounced the word as if it were a piece of rotting fish he’d found in his food bowl. “Humans. Utterly barbaric.”
“Hey, it’s called grinding. Level 16, remember?” I shot back. The adrenaline was still pumping, a frantic, electric hum under my skin. My brain, in a stunning act of self-preservation, had decided to file the whole ‘guts and gore and near-death experience’ under the heading ‘Epic Boss Fight.’ It was cleaner that way. Less traumatic. “You kill things, you get XP, you level up. It’s the circle of life. Or, you know, the circle of getting strong enough not to be the circle of life’s next meal.”
Without waiting for his surely scathing retort, I plunged deeper into the woods. Rusty felt heavy and real in my hand, a solid counterweight to the unreality of everything else. The trees grew closer together here, their branches weaving a dense canopy that blotted out the afternoon sun, dappling the forest floor in shifting, uneasy shadows. For a while, the thrill held. Every rustle of leaves was a potential enemy, every shadow a lurking monster. I was ready. I was a hero. I was a badass sword-wielding, magic-handed warrior woman.
Except, there was nothing.
No more wolves. No goblins, no slimes, no grumpy badgers with a quest for me. Not even a wayward knight eager to leap to my rescue. The woods were just woods. Silent, watchful, and deeply, deeply indifferent to my newfound bloodlust. The adrenaline high began to curdle, leaving a sour, jittery residue in its wake. The silence, which had at first felt like a challenge, now felt oppressive. The shadows, which had been full of potential loot drops, now seemed to hide, well, nothing.
By the time the last vestiges of sunlight were being strangled by the treetops, my bravado had evaporated completely. I was just Paige again. Paige, covered in wolf grime, and holding a sword that was probably giving her tetanus.
“Okay, maybe a strategic retreat is in order,” I finally admitted, my voice small in the encroaching gloom.
“A brilliant deduction,” Bartholomew drawled from somewhere near my ankles. “It has only taken you several hours of fruitless stomping about to arrive at the conclusion any creature with a modicum of survival instinct would have grasped immediately.”
He led me to a shallow overhang of rock at the base of a mossy escarpment. It wasn’t a cave, but it offered a sliver of shelter from the open woods. The temperature was dropping fast, and a damp chill was seeping into my bones.
“We need a fire,” I stated, shivering. Then, a brilliant, obvious thought struck me. I grinned, the manic edge returning for a moment. “I need a fire.”
I held up my left hand, the one that had managed to conjure a spark earlier. I remembered the sensation—the heat, the raw power thrumming from my core. I could do this. No more fumbling with sticks and stones like some reality TV reject. I was a mage. Sarcastic Sorceress was the class I had been given, after all. I had the sarcasm on lock; now it was time to figure out the rest.
I knelt, gathering a small pile of dry leaves and twigs.
“Okay, Bartholomew, watch and learn. The new and improved Paige Hawking, now with a built-in flamethrower.”
I closed my eyes, focusing. I pictured the fire, just like before. I thought of heat, of light, of a cozy, crackling campfire. I pushed, mentally. Come on, Sparky. Do the thing.
I opened my eyes.
Nothing. My hand remained stubbornly, disappointingly, flesh-colored and non-incendiary.
I tried again, gritting my teeth. I flexed my fingers, trying to coax the magic out. I pictured the wolf, the fear, the desperation. A faint warmth prickled my palm, then faded. The twigs sat there, mocking me with their unburnt potential.
“What the hell?” I muttered, frustration bubbling in my chest. “It worked before. I saw it. You saw it!” I looked at Bartholomew, who was calmly grooming a stray tuft of fur on his shoulder.
“Indeed,” he said, pausing his ablutions to fix me with an unblinking green gaze. “I did.”
“So why isn’t it working now? Is it broken? Did I only get one free trial?” The sarcasm was thick, a defense against the rising tide of panic. This had been my one ace in the hole, the one thing that made me feel like I wasn’t completely helpless. And it was gone.
Bartholomew sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to emanate from the very soul of cat-kind.
“You imagine magic to be a tool, a simple switch to be flipped upon command. You think because you have stumbled into the stream, you can now command the river. It is not so.”
“Okay, Yoda, less with the riddles. I value clarity. Speak English. Or, you know, whatever it is you speak.”
“Very well,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “Allow me to elucidate for the simple-minded. What you possess is not a ‘spell.’ You have not learned an incantation to summon fire. You are a Conduit, a wellspring of raw Anima, the life-force of Eldoria. Until this day, that wellspring has been capped, dormant. The imminent threat of your own disembowelment served as a rather… potent key.”
I stared at him.
“So my magic is powered by mortal terror?”
“In a manner of speaking. The Anima responds to will. Not the fleeting, conscious will of ‘I should like a cup of tea,’ but the primal, fundamental will of a soul crying out. You cannot just request magic at will. It is not a force to be commanded, but a collaborative entity. It will collaborate with your panicked cry for survival, but is not subject to your whims, such as a bit of comfort on your camping trip.”
It clicked into place, a horrible, inconvenient kind of sense. The magic wasn’t a button I could press. It was a panic alarm.
“So you’re telling me,” I said slowly, gesturing with my useless hand, “that my one magical skill only works when I’m about to be eaten? That is the most situationally-specific, least helpful superpower I have ever heard of. I can’t roast a marshmallow unless a dragon is actively trying to roast me first?”
“Precisely,” Bartholomew said with an air of satisfaction, as if pleased I’d finally grasped the tedious concept. “Control requires discipline. It requires understanding, practice, and a connection to the Anima that goes beyond a base cry for self-preservation. You are an infant with the strength of a giant. You can smash things in a tantrum, but you cannot yet tie your own shoes. Of course, that does not mean that it cannot be done; merely that it cannot be done by you.”
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I slumped back against the cold rock, defeated. Magic. XP. Loot. My gung-ho video game fantasy dissolved into the grim reality of my situation. I had a power I couldn’t control, a sword I could barely swing, and a guide who seemed to actively enjoy my suffering. I’d scooped his shit for three years for this?
Bartholomew, seeing my crestfallen state, gave another long-suffering sigh. He padded over to the small pile of wood. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, cease your moping.” He nudged a stone with his nose, revealing a small, smooth, dark object. He tapped it with his paw, and a single, brilliant blue spark shot out, landing perfectly in the driest part of the tinder. A tiny flame flickered to life.
I gaped. “You could have done that the whole time?”He sniffed haughtily, turning his back to the now-growing fire and beginning to wash his face.
“My abilities are my own concern. You needed to understand the nature of yours. Besides,” he added, a flicker of what might have been amusement in his voice, “your histrionics were moderately entertaining.”
I stared into the crackling flames, the light pushing back the oppressive darkness of the woods. He was right. I was an infant. And in the deep, whispering woods of Eldoria, under the cold, unfamiliar stars, I had a terrifying amount of growing up to do.
The warmth from the small, impossibly perfect fire was a balm against the creeping chill of the night, but it did little for the cold dread coiling in my stomach. An infant. He wasn’t wrong. I felt about as useful here as a waterproof teabag. I could probably write a killer press release about my impending doom at the hands of a goblin, but that was about it.
“Do not look so utterly morose,” Bartholomew said, his voice a low rumble from beside the fire. He was meticulously cleaning a single, pristine white paw, as if the dirt of this world was a personal affront. “It is unbecoming. Your predicament is dire, certainly, but not yet fatal. There is a difference.”
“Wow, thanks for the pep talk, Tony Robbins,” I muttered, pulling my knees to my chest. “Feeling super inspired. Ready to go build my brand in this exciting new market.”
He paused his grooming, fixing me with a flat, green-eyed stare.
“I do not know this ‘Tony Robbins,’ but I suspect he is a boor. And your brand, as you so crudely put it, is currently ‘Lost, Inept, and Prone to Whining.’ We must endeavor to change that.” He finished his paw and tucked it neatly beneath his fluffy body, assuming the regal posture of a well-fed sphinx. “You attempted to force the world to bend to your will. You poured your panic, your fear, your raw, untamed energy into the wood, hoping it would combust out of sheer annoyance.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a valid strategy. It sometimes works on baristas.”
He ignored me.
“That is mana manipulation in its most brutish, most costly form. Imagine a river, if you will. You stood on the bank and attempted to empty it with a thimble, all while screaming at the water. You exhausted yourself for a few pathetic splashes.”
I frowned, tracing a pattern in the dirt. The analogy, annoyingly, made sense. “So what’s the alternative? A bucket?”
“Nothing so inelegant. A water wheel,” he corrected patiently. “A system designed to harness the river’s existing power. A guide. A spell. The power—the mana—is all around us, a current flowing through all things. A spell is a set of instructions, a key that unlocks a specific channel and directs the flow. The words, the intent, the focus… they form the mechanism. The river does the work for you. That is why my effort seemed so… effortless.” He preened a little. “It is a matter of knowledge, not brute force.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, my brain, which was used to processing hashtags and social media trends, trying to catch up. “So, you’re the system admin, and you have all the passwords. And I’m the user who’s forgotten her login and is locked out of her own account.”
Bartholomew’s ear twitched.
“Your metaphors are as primitive as your technique, but the essence is not entirely incorrect. You have access to the river, Paige. Every living thing does. But you have no water wheels, no irrigation ditches, no knowledge of the currents. You were born in a desert and now stand at the edge of an ocean, complaining of thirst.”
“Well, excuse me for not being born with a magical instruction manual,” I retorted, an edge to my voice. “Where I come from, the only flowing current I had to worry about was my bank account draining faster than I could fill it.”
A strange sound escaped him, a sort of low purr that might have been a chuckle.
“Precisely. And now, your education must begin. We cannot have you collapsing in a heap every time you wish to boil water.”
He stood, stretched with an elegance that defied his fluffy bulk, and padded a few feet away from the fire. He motioned with his head toward an old, moss-covered stone.
“Come.”
I hesitated, then scrambled to my feet, brushing dirt from my jeans.
“What, is this the part where you make me wax on, wax off?”
“Should I require my carriage to be waxed, I shall inform you,” he said dryly. “For now, I merely require your attention. We will start with something simple. Illumination. A task even a dull-witted child can typically manage.”
My pride bristled. “Gee, thanks.”
“Place your hand upon the stone.”
I did as I was told. The stone was cool and damp beneath my palm, alive with the faint thrum of something I’d never felt before. It was like standing under a high-voltage power line, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated up my arm.
“That is the current,” Bartholomew said softly, his voice losing some of its usual condescension. “The flow of mana through the stone, through the moss, through the very soil. Feel it.”
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the chirping crickets and the whisper of the wind. I focused on the vibration. It was there, a steady pulse of energy. The river.
“Now,” he continued, “you will build a small, simple water wheel. The words are the frame. The intent is the axle. The words are: ‘Fos parvus, serva me.’”
I opened my eyes.
“Foss what now? Is that Latin for ‘this cat is a jerk’?”
“It is Old Eldorian,” he sighed, the long-suffering tone back in full force. “‘Little light, serve me.’ It is a request, not a demand. You are not commanding the river to stop; you are asking it to turn your wheel. Now, clear your mind of your incessant, vapid chatter.”
Rude. But he was right. My mind was a chaotic mess of fear, sarcasm, and a running commentary on how insane this all was. I took a deep breath, like my yoga instructor Brenda used to tell me to do before I’d inevitably start thinking about what I wanted for lunch.
I pressed my palm flat against the stone, focusing on the hum.
“Fos parvus, serva me.” I whispered the words.
Nothing happened.
“I’m not feeling it,” I said.
“That is because you are not feeling it,” Bartholomew countered. “You are reciting a line. The words have no power on their own. It is your will, focused through the lens of the words, that gives them meaning. What do you want? Truly?”
“I want a cheeseburger and a milkshake,” I grumbled.
“Try again,” he said, his voice flat with warning.
I closed my eyes again. What did I want? I wanted to see. I wanted the oppressive, suffocating darkness to go away, just for a second. I wanted a little bit of control in a world where I had none. I remembered the comforting glow of my phone screen in the middle of the night, the warm lamplight of my apartment, the obnoxious fluorescent buzz of the 24-hour diner near my old place. Light. Safety.
I focused on that feeling, that desperate need for a small, personal piece of the day to hold back the night. I let the memory of light fill my head, pushing out everything else.
“Fos parvus, serva me.”
This time, I felt it. A pull. A strange, tingling sensation started in my chest and surged down my arm. It felt like static electricity, but warm and alive. A soft, greenish-white glow began to emanate from my hand, spilling over the mossy stone. It wasn’t bright, more like a cheap glow-stick from a rave, but it was there. It was mine.
My breath hitched. I opened my eyes and stared, mesmerized. The light pulsed in time with my heartbeat, casting strange, dancing shadows on the ground. The moss on the stone seemed to drink in the light, its green deepening to a vibrant emerald.
“It’s… I’m doing it,” I breathed, a grin spreading across my face. It was the first genuine smile I’d had since I’d arrived in this nightmare.
“A modest, albeit sickly-colored, success,” Bartholomew observed, though I saw his tail give a single, approving flick. “You are channeling the mana from the stone, through your body, and shaping it with the spell. Maintain your focus.”
I tried, but the sheer giddy excitement of it was overwhelming. The light flickered wildly, flared bright enough to make me squint, and then died with a sad little pop, leaving behind the smell of ozone and burnt sugar. My hand felt pins-and-needles numb, and a wave of exhaustion washed over me, making me lean against a tree for support.
“And you have emptied the thimble once more,” Bartholomew noted. “But this time, you at least managed to water a flower. Progress.”
[You have learned a new spell!][Little Light][Incantation: Fos parvus, serva me.][Conjures a dim light to illuminate your path]
I pushed myself upright, still breathing heavily, but the fear in my gut had been replaced by something else. A flicker of hope. A spark of power. It was a tiny flame in a vast darkness, but it was a start.
“Okay, furry sensei,” I said, looking from my tingling hand to the unimpressed cat. “What’s next?”
Bartholomew began washing his face again, as if the entire lesson had been a minor inconvenience.
“Next,” he said, pausing to lick his whiskers, “we rest. Your first lesson in the esoteric arts has left you looking like wilted lettuce. And tomorrow, we walk. There is a place we must reach, and it is a very long way from here.” He looked up, his green eyes catching the firelight, and for a moment, they held a gravity that chilled me more than the night air. “And we are not the only things that walk in these woods.”