Time bled into the quiet. Dunce pushed himself up off the forest floor, the strange, comforting light that had enveloped him moments before fading into nothingness. The warm current that had flowed through his meridians vanished, absorbed into flesh and bone. Besides the unpleasant stickiness coating his skin and the grime on his clothes, everything seemed… normal. Little Bone-tired, he dragged himself back to the log cabin. He drew water from the spring, soaking his soiled clothes, then rinsed off the worst of the grime before collapsing onto his bed and sinking into oblivion.
Dawn broke. Dunce awoke, feeling surprisingly refreshed. Last night was the first night since Gorith had departed months ago that he hadn't meditated; he'd already memorized every word, every diagram in that notebook. Resolved, he decided meditation would fill the empty hours ahead. Magic, specifically fire, had become Dunce's sanctuary. Over the past weeks, he'd managed to summon pale green flames to his fingertips, and his fireballs had swelled to the size of a large apple. Unbeknownst to him, his magical reserves now matched that of a Novice Mage. It was progress, slow but tangible.
Gorith finally returned to the Riverwood two months after leaving. His quest hadn't gone smoothly; procuring enough Stormvine was proving unexpectedly difficult. As his cabin came into view through the ever-present mist, a wave of familiar silence greeted him. Nothing had changed since his departure. He scanned the clearing.
"Dunce? Dunce—" Gorith called out, surprised by the faint tug he felt in his chest. Against his expectations, thoughts of the quiet, earnest boy had often surfaced during his absence.
"Gorith! You're finally back!" Dunce burst from the cabin door, throwing himself into Gorith's robed figure, his relief and joy radiating out from him.
Gorith studied him. Two months had added definition to the boy's frame. His skin had a healthy glow beneath its usual pallor. The inherent shyness was still there, etched into his features, but there was a new kind of resilience now. Gorith pushed down a flicker of… something… deep inside. "I'm weary," he stated, his voice flat. "Fetch me some fruits from the grove. I require rest." He needed distance. Immediately.
"Yes, Gorith!" Dunce bounded off, basket in hand, toward the orchard. He returned to find a rough burlap sack resting on a chair inside. Gorith sat nearby, eyes closed in feigned meditation. "Fruits, Gorith. Is this the Stormvine?" Dunce gestured to the sack. "Should I store it?"
Gorith's eyes snapped open, sharp with surprise. "The boy gains insight? Unlikely. This isn't Stormvine. It's for you."
"For… me?" Dunce stammered.
Gorith gave a curt nod. "Open it."
"Thank you! Gorith, thank you!" Dunce clutched the surprisingly heavy bag to his chest, trembling. This was a first – a gift. Slowly, reverently, he untied the sack. The contents made him freeze. Not treasure. Not trinkets. But to Dunce, it was worth more than all the jewels in the world. Inside lay a pile of slightly stale, but unmistakably real, **bread rolls**. The simple, yeasty aroma filled his senses. Tears welled unchecked, tracing hot paths down his cheeks. "Gorith… thank you," he choked out, voice thick with emotion.
Gorith, busying himself with a piece of fruit, waved a dismissive hand. "Sentimental nonsense. Just cheap bread. I considered dried jerky, but it spoils too quickly." He changed the subject abruptly. "My notebook. How has your study progressed?"
Dunce carefully produced the immaculate notebook. "Gorith, I've committed it all to memory."
Gorith arched a skeptical brow. "All? Lies earn harsh penalties, boy."
Dunce met his gaze squarely. "No lies, Gorith. Test me."
"Very well." Gorith leaned back. "What properties define the ideal base metal for enchanted weapon forging?"
Dunce answered without hesitation, launching into a verbatim recitation of the metallurgy section, detailing the necessary elemental affinities (Light, Dark, Water, Fire, Earth, Wind), the paramount importance of sustained extreme heat, and the intricate interplay of celestial timing and geographical location required to imbue the weapon with its soul. His recitation was flawless.
Gorith stared, dumbfounded. How many hours, days, weeks had this slow-learning boy invested to achieve such mastery? "Enough," he interrupted, his voice tight. "I concede your feat. Preparation resumes tomorrow. I need rest now." The ease with which the boy recited his life's work was unsettling.
"Of course, Gorith." Dunce retreated, clutching his precious sack of rolls. He sat on his pallet, pulling one out. He took a careful bite. Five months without the simple comfort of bread… it tasted like home.
The following months became a blur of focused activity. Gorith worked tirelessly at his small crucible, assisted by Dunce. Having memorized the notes, Dunce now anticipated Gorith's steps, understanding the expected outcome based on the reagents used. It was like watching his own knowledge manifest physically. Gorith seemed focused exclusively on creating specific metal alloys, each with unique and potent elemental signatures. Dunce recognized them all as legendary master-grade materials from the notes – Stella Silver, Shadow Iron, Deep Earth Steel. Gorith meticulously stored these alloys away, their purpose a closely guarded secret. Dunce's gut tightened with unease he couldn't name.
One afternoon, while practicing his flickering fireball and unstable gout of flame outside the cabin after assisting Gorith, a mocking voice sliced through the mist.
"Well, well. What's a tadpole doing all the way out here?"
Dunce spun, startled. A figure emerged from the swirling fog, clad in a deep crimson cloak mirroring Gorith's own. The hood obscured his face. A gnarled staff was gripped tightly in one hand, its tip aimed subtly in Dunce's direction.
"Who… who are you?" Dunce stammered, taking a step back.
The figure drew himself up. "I am a Master of the Arcane Arts." A snap of bony fingers, a muttered phrase, and a blazing sphere of purple fire, easily the size of a large melon, bloomed over his palm. Heat washed over Dunce even from yards away. He glanced from the roaring violet inferno to his own puny red flame and extinguished it, shamefaced.
"Hah! That's power, tadpole. Real power!" The crimson mage laughed, a harsh sound.
"Spare me the theatrics for children's sake," a familiar cold voice snapped. A sphere of liquid black shadow, wreathed in utter darkness and radiating intense cold heat, shot from the cabin door, aimed squarely at the newcomer.
The crimson figure yelped, stumbling back. With a shout, he hurled his violet fireball. Magefire met Darkflame in a cataclysmic collision. Blood Skeleton's fire was pure, raw destruction. Black's fire was entropy given form. Color and darkness warred in a blinding flash and deafening boom.
Dunce felt himself picked up and deposited gently ten yards away by an unseen breeze. When the sparks cleared, the crimson mage was panting, having retreated a full step.
"Whew! Some welcome for your own flesh and blood, brother!"
Gorith emerged from the cabin, face like stone. "Family? More like a viper bearing poison. What do you want, Gorithon? My pantry's bare."
Gorithon, the crimson mage, gave a theatrical sigh. "Brother, must you always be so… difficult?" His staff tip pointed back at Dunce. "Who's the tadpole? Never took you for the mentoring type."
"My apprentice. Why?" Gorith's voice was clipped.
Gorithon chuckled. "Interesting. Kid shows promise. That fireball had Novice-level punch. Been scouting for a protege myself. Hand him over?"
Gorith's hooded gaze darkened. "Not a chance. The boy serves a higher purpose than satisfying your whim." The chill in his voice promised frostbite.
"A higher—? Oh. Oh no, brother. You can't mean…?" Gorithon's voice dropped to a horrified whisper.
Gorith cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Inside. *Now*. Dunce, guard the door." He didn't raise his voice, but the command brooked no disobedience.
Dunce nodded, watching the two robed figures disappear into the cabin, a cold knot of dread forming in his stomach. *Higher purpose?* The words echoed ominously.
---
**Inside the cabin**
Gorithon lowered his hood, revealing a face ashen beneath its similarities to Gorith. "Brother… that child? He's the vessel? For *that* ritual?"
A muscle jumped in Gorith's jaw. "Mind your tongue. Knowledge has its price."
Gorithon ran a hand over his face. "Gorith, he's just a kid. A slow, earnest kid. Look at him! Is the cost truly worth it? Even for you?" His plea hung heavy in the silent cabin.
Gorith spun, his eyes blazing with sudden, uncharacteristic fury. "My path is mine alone to walk! Speak your real reason or leave!"
Gorithon held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, peace. Your… endeavors are your own." He sighed, the mask of levity slipping back into place, tighter this time. "Lord Shadow sent me. He seeks… a guarantee… on your upcoming project's success." With a swirl of his staff and a whispered word, a shimmering rift tore open in the air. A weighty leather pouch floated out and landed with a heavy *thud* on the cabin floor. It spilled open, revealing a staggering pile of glittering diamond sovereigns – wealth enough to buy a small county. "A retainer."
Gorith didn't spare the fortune a glance. "My work is not for sale."
Gorithon leaned closer, voice dropping lower, persuasive. "Brother, listen. What glory is locked away in a tower? You labor for years, decades! The culmination approaches. Lord Shadow offers resources, protection… stability. Align with us. Your discoveries deserve recognition… and patronage."
"Recognition?" Gorith spat the word. "My masterpiece is mine! It defies duplication! It defies commodification!"
"Does it?" Gorithon pressed. "Lord Shadow values… uniqueness. And the boy has latent talent. Wasting that potential for a single artifact… think it through. The cost."
"Cost?" Gorith's voice dropped to an icy whisper, all fury gone, replaced by implacable certainty. "To birth perfection? *Anything* is justified. A thousand lives would be a trivial payment."
Gorithon flinched as if struck. He stared at his brother for a long, silent moment. A flicker of something like grief passed over his features. "So be it. If that's your final answer…" He straightened. "Farewell, brother. Stay vigilant." He turned towards the door.
"Gorithon." Gorith's voice stopped him. The fire mage paused, back still turned. "The experiment… remains uncertain," Gorith said, the words clipped, almost grudging. "If… *when*… it succeeds, I will… notify you." A beat. "Guard your own life."
Gorithon looked back, a complex mix of regret and resignation in his eyes. He simply nodded and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
---
**Outside the cabin**
Gorithon emerged. Dunce watched him approach, his youthful face etched with confusion and lingering dread from the muffled anger inside. The crimson mage stopped before him. He looked at Dunce, truly looked at him, his earlier mocking amusement gone, replaced by an unsettling pity.
"Boy," Gorithon said, his voice low and serious. "Pray to whatever gods you hold dear." He sighed, a sound like dry leaves in autumn. "Survival favors the prepared. And the lucky." Without another word, he raised his staff. Winds, unseen but powerful, swirled around him. They lifted him effortlessly off the ground, carrying him back into the swallowing mist, leaving Dunce alone with the cryptic warning and a heart pounding with unnamed fear.
---
Another three months flowed into the relentless rhythm of study, practice, and assisting Gorith. Dunce absorbed the practical nuances of Artificing like parched earth soaking up rain. Under Gorith's gruff guidance, the intricate procedures became less daunting. Their collaboration expedited preparations far beyond Gorith's original projections. Pieces were falling into place faster than anticipated.
Dunce kept his secret. The agonizing transformation sparked by the Phoenix Heart berry remained locked within him. He feared Gorith's anger over such unsanctioned consumption. In Dunce's eyes, Gorith was the anchor, the liberator, the provider. Gratitude and profound respect had taken root, blossoming into something deeper, something akin to the devotion owed a father. Gorith was his world.
Unseen by Dunce, a war raged within his teacher. Gorith knew Dunce's role was pivotal to fulfilling his life's ambition. Yet, the ritual demanded everything from its vessel – body, mind, essence. Success guaranteed Dunce's obliteration. Time, proximity, the boy's unwavering dedication and simple goodness – they had etched lines into Gorith's hardened soul. The ruthless pragmatist found himself hesitating.
But the siren call of the experiment, the culmination of a century's obsession, proved overwhelming. The opportunity – a celestial alignment not witnessed in a millennium – was a prize countless master artificers had died waiting for. It couldn't be squandered. Ambition crushed the fragile sprout of attachment. Gorith steeled himself. The ritual would proceed as planned when the stars converged.
One crisp morning, Gorith summoned Dunce. "You've been here near nine months now," he stated, a strange distance in his voice.
Dunce chewed his lower lip, calculating. "Yes, Gorith. That's right."
"I must depart again," Gorith announced. "A crucial component remains. Essential for a… pinnacle experiment." He hesitated, the pause heavy. "The Riverwood remains your charge. Expect my absence to span three moons."
"No! You're leaving?" The words burst from Dunce, raw with dismay. A fresh wave of abandonment washed over him.
Gorith avoided his pupil's desperate gaze. "This acquisition is non-negotiable." Distance. He needed profound distance to cauterize this inconvenient empathy. Only detachment could forge the necessary resolve. He continued firmly, "Cease the histrionics. My return is inevitable."
"Gorith, Gorith… promise you'll hurry back?" Dunce pleaded, tears threatening. "I'll… I'll miss you."
Gorith gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Before I go, a final technique. Your reserves have deepened sufficiently." He needed to offer something, anything, to make this parting easier for the boy… or perhaps for himself.
If Gorith expected joy at the prospect of learning new magic, he was met only with quiet sorrow. Dunce barely registered the news through the fog of separation.
"Uninterested?" Gorith inquired, a flicker of surprise replacing sternness.
Dunce shook his head quickly. "Interested… but…" He swallowed hard. "Staying… matters more. I want… I want to stay near you, Gorith."
The declaration struck Gorith with unexpected force. A lump formed in his throat. For a long moment, neither spoke, the silence thick with unacknowledged bonds.
"Dunce," Gorith finally said, the edge gone from his voice, replaced by an unfamiliar gentleness. "I give you my oath: When this journey concludes… I return. To stay." The lie tasted bitter but necessary. He needed Dunce compliant, hopeful… waiting. He needed the boy exactly here, isolated, ready, when the heavens aligned. "You'll wait for me?" The question held an undercurrent Dunce couldn't interpret.
Dunce's face lit up, the sorrow momentarily eclipsed by pure, trusting radiance. "Yes! Yes, Gorith! I'll wait!"
Gorith nodded, the weight of his deception settling heavily. "Then listen well. The technique is 'Falling Embers'. Its foundation lies in controlling your Fireball and Flame Fan simultaneously…"
The lesson consumed the morning. Dunce struggled, his focus compromised by grief and the gnawing promise of Gorith's eventual return. By dusk, he'd grasped the basic incantation and gesture, though his initial attempts produced little more than pathetic, sputtering sparks that scarcely singed fallen leaves. Gorith insisted he needed to conjure embers the size of pebbles encased in stable green flame upon his return. Before retiring, Gorith wrote down the key steps and arcane syllables – insurance against inevitable lapses of memory.
Dawn arrived grey and muted. Gorith left before first light, his pack minimal. He slipped from the cabin as Dunce slept, leaving behind only the lingering scent of herbs and ozone, and the crushing weight of the lie he'd forged. He needed solitude, stark and absolute, to rebuild the final, unflinching wall around his heart before the inevitable reunion beneath the destined stars.
---
**Alone Again**
Gorith's absence carved a cavernous void. Silence replaced the rhythmic clinking of tools and the low drone of incantations. Time stretched, viscous and oppressive. Dunce sat before the cabin more often than he practiced, staring into the mist where the path vanished, cradling the hope Gorith would materialize again. His 'Falling Embers' practice was halting, frustrating, yielding little visible advancement.
Two months trudged past. Dunce finished his meager breakfast of fruit, the familiar emptiness settling deep. He sat on the cabin step, the perpetual damp of the forest seeping into his clothes. From his pocket, he withdrew something precious, wrapped carefully in a scrap of silvered foil: the last, preserved remnant of Gorith's gift – one bread roll, encased in the enchanted foil he'd nervously forged during one of Gorith's baths. That quiet act of preservation hadn't gone unnoticed by the Master Artificer, though it remained unspoken between them, a small, hard ember of… something… buried deep within Gorith.
Dunce ran his fingers over the cool metal. "Gorith," he whispered, voice thick with longing. "It's been two months. The next moon… won't you come back? Please… come back. I'm waiting."
**Clang! Clang! Clang!** The harsh, metallic cry of the alarm charm shattered the forest silence.
Dunce jolted to his feet, heart hammering. The charm! Gorith had enchanted it, a complex webbing of detection spells covering three square miles around the cabin. Its genius lay in filtering out animals – only creatures bearing significant human consciousness would trigger its discordant scream. The forest perimeter had other, fiercer deterrents; this alarm was solely for… people. People who *shouldn't* be here. Fear prickled Dunce's skin.
He focused, translating the jarring clangs based on Gorith's teachings. *North.* The intrusion came from the north. *The path! Gorith's path!* Panic flooded reason. What if it *was* Gorith? What if he'd been injured? What if he'd stumbled?
The thought crystallized into conviction. *He needs help!* Abandoning caution, ignoring Gorith's strict injunction against wandering, Dunce plunged headlong into the mist, driven by desperate concern.
The distance vanished beneath the boy's fearful sprint. He knew these woods now, at least a ten-mile radius. Breaking through the densest fog into the thinner outer haze, the sounds of conflict reached him: the sharp clang of steel, grunts of exertion, and a sudden, strangled cry. Dunce ducked behind a massive, gnarled oak trunk near the path's edge, scanning the clearing ahead.
Chaos erupted less than a hundred yards away. Eleven figures clad head-to-toe in non-reflective black fatigues – sleek, efficient, menacing – moved with lethal coordination against a solitary opponent. One of the blacks lay unmoving on the leaf litter. Their target stood defiant: a towering giant, easily six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, wielding a heavy, gleaming broadsword one-handed as if it were a willow switch. Despite being heavily outnumbered, the big man was holding his own, his movements economical, his massive blade a gleaming barrier of light against the Shadows' venomous thrusts. Light – pure, white, and cold as starlight – radiated from him and his weapon, casting stark highlights on the scene. Shredded tree trunks and deep gouges scarred the earth around them, testament to the titanic forces unleashed. Dunce felt the pressure wave even from his hiding place – a palpable, deadly energy that vibrated the air. This wasn't like the pirates; this was a league of predators he couldn't comprehend.
Despite the overwhelming odds, the giant flowed with surprising fluidity, his powerful strokes intercepting the black-clad attackers before their deadly precise, needle-thin blades could find flesh. Nameless Black moved like wraiths, blades black as void, flickering, probing relentlessly for an opening. They were precision; he was relentless power.
Suddenly, the giant faltered. A near-imperceptible stumble. It was enough. One Shadow, a viper uncoiling, struck. The thin dark blade didn't pierce deep, but bright blood bloomed across the giant's shoulder where a rent opened in his tunic. A roar erupted from him, primal and furious. White light erupted from his body in an incandescent nova. He shifted his massive sword to a two-handed grip and unleashed three blindingly fast horizontal arcs – a whirlwind of pure destruction! Nameless Black scrambled backward, shields of pure force shimmering into existence barely in time, narrowly avoiding being cleaved apart. The pressure wave sent leaves whirling through the air like shrapnel. They regrouped ten paces away, blades still held low and threatening, a semi-circle of obsidian death focused on their quarry.
One Shadow stepped forward slightly. The voice that emerged from the shrouded figure was low, rasping, synthetic – filtered through tech or magic. "Hades Boss… Stand down." The honorific confirmed Dunce's suspicion – this man held rank. "Assessing your peak condition would be tactical suicide. But the Reaper's Nectar flows strong within you now. You've pushed far past your limits to reach this dead end." He paused, the black blade unwavering. "Return. Submit. Lord Shadow values capability. Acknowledge your… lapse… pledge renewed allegiance. Your stature within the Fold remains."
The giant – **Hades Boss** – lowered his massive blade slightly, though the white radiance still pulsed around him. Pain etched tight lines around his eyes, warring with defiance. His knuckles were white on the hilt. The mist curled silently between them.