SML Ch 82

Chapter 82

Far to the northeast edge of the world—beyond even the borders of the Kingdom of Carbonel, out toward the land’s end in the east—a man walked the barren grey wilderness.

The sky pressed heavy with clouds poised to break into rain. Not a single blade of grass grew in the endless, ash-colored plain. His robe, once black, now coated with dust, appeared more grey than not. A pure white mask veiled half his face, likewise dulled by a film of dust.

Yet nothing about him suggested a shabby wanderer. Despite the heavy pack braced upon his back, his gait was tall and unbowed, his step unhurried yet resonant—with dignity, with strength.

At length he halted, glancing at the staff he bore in his right hand. It was long and black, unstained by dust, gleaming almost with unearthly sheen. Upon its head hung seven gems, shifting in shades like a rainbow’s spectrum.

The man frowned as he checked them.

“Another one has burned out? I cannot fathom the reason.”

Most of the gems sparkled brightly even in absence of sunlight. Two, however, had dulled, their colors bleeding away. To discern their original hues demanded close study: faint traces in the inner runes were all that remained. The oldest extinguished stone had once been blue. The most recently darkened—with that magic sigil now barely glowing green.

“The blue one I expected. That youth I left it with—it served as token and thanks. But the emerald…the one I planted within the Dullahan… that should have lasted until last. Can it be—it has found its rider?”

He brooded. Who had the land drawn this time? Eventually he turned, retracing his steps opposite the way he’d been headed.

“Perhaps Selection stirs ahead of my reckoning. There is no leisure left to wander.”

He resolved then: to head west early. If that cursed land had begun to enthrall new souls once more, then this time—he would end it. He would kill outright whatever slept there.

Meanwhile, the man in the mask was not the only one bound for Carbonel’s easternmost province.

“Saints preserve, these wretched joints. Reynald, you damn fool—couldn’t you muddle in trouble on your own, without dragging me after!”

Bent beneath a great pack and leaning on a long staff, a woman of advanced years trudged the mountain path.

Her hair, once deep indigo, now woven with threads of grey, shone from afar like clear sky-blue. Her robe was plain brown, her steps slowed by years but steady. Nothing singled her out from any ordinary traveler save a backbone still straighter than any might expect.

Yet by the time she entered a small mountain village below, she was mobbed by onlookers.

It was Theophras—the kingdom’s wisest and most puissant Archmage—they had come to greet.

“A blessing unspeakable that you visit us, Lady Theophras. After such heights and treacherous paths, please allow us to escort you to the castle. A carriage awaits.”

“Treacherous?” she scoffed. “Bah. There were a few ogres, the steel-horned stags are surly as always. Road was fine enough—well paved through the dryads’ regions. Peaceful, really. I’ll trouble you but for one night—my schedule is tight.”

The villagers knew too well, though. No road in these mountains was safe. Only force of magic could have carried her through unscathed and unstained.

“Stay past noon tomorrow, at least,” they urged. “It is perilous to travel by dawn, with monsters wandering—”

“I would, were it not urgent. An old companion of mine languishes in hardship in some forsaken backwater. If I do not assist, he may meet ill fate.”

Her words were spoken with every air of jest. She herself did not believe them. “Ill fate”—for Reynald? That bull-headed ex-captain had survived worse, risen shaken but well, shepherding green recruits through hell and back.

No, she felt no anxiety for him. What urged her on was not duty—but curiosity.

Serna’s letter, filled with fantastical reports, had struck her like bait fit for a hungry fish. “Selection,” enacted by moss-stained knights? Phenomena never recorded elsewhere in the kingdom? Whisper of riddles she dared not refuse.

The king had commanded: resolve quickly, bring Reynald back, safeguard the princes. Theophras barely chuckled at such pomp. She cared only for puzzle, not crown.

Selection. Moss-knights. Such mysteries must be worth her haste.

“I shall sleep, then rise with dawn. Better not delay—the villagers will only plague me with petty requests if I linger.”

Her instincts, honed by decades of campaign, whispered truth: they already prepared entreaties. Some local misfortune, whispered like curse, waiting for the miracle-worker.

And indeed, the knock came ere she could rest.

Soft, weak, tapping. A child’s voice at her door.

“…Who?”

“H-hello… Excuse me… Is this the mage lady’s room?”

Thin with fear, neared by tears. Theophras furrowed her brow. She could taste the villagers’ ploy—through desperate mouth of a child, fish for her aid.

“And if it is, little one? Did your parents send you, bidding me fix their woes?”

“N-no! They don’t know. I came myself!”

“Oh-ho. And is sneaking out by night your idea of pride? Didn’t they tell you the hag-witch eats naughty children who wander dark roads?”

“…But… the grownups said, you ate five plates at supper…”

Children often made sense only to themselves. She almost dismissed the girl out of hand—but then came words no Archmage could ignore.

“Please, mage. It’s my friends. They’re… strange. My parents say it’s magic—or a curse.”

Theophras snorted. “Curse, nonsense. Has no one told your townsfolk? A hungry child—feeds them. Crying child—comfort them. A scolded child—speak gentle, not harsh. Fools call neglect a hex. I’ve seen cases enough.”

But the girl pressed on, whispering with shaking breath through her tears.

“No… it’s not like that. Their families… are dead. Mother, father, all of them. Gone.”

The Archmage froze mid-motion, then sharply snapped: “…Dead? To monsters?”

“No… to them. They killed them.”

“…What did you say?”

She shot bolt upright, leaning to hear clearer.

“Your friends—how old?”

“E-eleven…”

“And you claim children so young slew their whole families?”

“It’s true! Last year, five houses! Everyone, gone! The village turned upside-down! No one knows why!”

Theophras’ mind raced.

Last year? Five massacres, unsolved? Serna did babble of strange murders in the borderlands… Could the culprits truly have been—children?

Not deranged youths. No. Influence. Possession. A root cause not yet found. The tragedies buried under rumor, never solved.

“What nonsense could this be…”

But curiosity burned her stiff limbs into motion. She pressed low, her eyes glinting.

“Then why come now? If this happened already last year—what curse do you cry of tonight?”

The child whispered: “Because… they change. At night. Into something else.”

“…Changed? Their temper? Or their form?”

“Both. They… they aren’t human at night. They turn shadow-black, with scales and—wings. Like bats.”

The blood fired sudden in Theophras’ eyes, flaring red-white with light. She flung the door wide. The child gasped up at her blazing eyes and shrank in tears, convinced she had called forth another curse.

But the old mage only laughed, with keen delight.

“More intriguing than Reynald’s petty estate, by far.”

“…Eh?”

“Get up, child. On your feet. Take me to them—your monstrous friends.”

Theophras strode out, shepherding the shrinking child like a lamb. Her step was like drumbeat.

So be it. Reynald could survive himself. His troubles paled. But this—this was a curse worth ripping root and stem.

“I’ll see what true blight rests upon you, children of shadow. I’ll uncover it whole.”

Her eyes shone bright, avid with hunger—not for food, but truth.