Rowan’s mind was cloudy. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the hard wooden floor of his room digging into his back. It was a relief to know they’d made it back, even if he couldn’t properly appreciate it at the moment.

  Thoughts of the still sea fluttered through his mind. Of that warm wind against his brow, the soft sand beneath his feet, and that radiant liquid making its way down his throat.

  It had filled his Core and channels to bursting with a strange sort of energy, different from either of his affinities. Those had an inherent Intent—Fire would always burn, and Wind would always blow. No matter his skill, Rowan couldn’t change that. But this energy had been different.

  Pure potential.

  There had only been one thought in his mind when he’d drawn it from that sea.

  To make the Wyrmlings gone. Dealt with as a threat.

  And in that moment of desperation, it had made that happen.

  The explosion that followed had been pure, soundless force, blowing their bodies away like ragdolls and plastering them against the walls like soft clay.

  But it had left its mark.

  Rowan’s channels were raw, strained beyond what they could take.

  So in and out of consciousness he went, waking only long enough for the pain rampaging through his body to throw him back under. In the end, what finally woke him was a soft tapping against his cheek, accompanied by soft, concerned caws.

  Rowan worked against the fog, forcing his mind to focus.

  It wasn’t just his spirit that was sore, but his body was as well. He was covered in soot, his exposed skin red and angry from the heat. Rowan’s breathing grew shallow, and the tapping became more insistent, keeping his mind focused on the task.

  With an effort of will, Rowan pulled a healing potion from his ring.

  A sharp pain tore through him, his fingers clenching around the vial. Every single muscle in Rowan’s body tightened, a muffled groan escaping his lips, his throat too tense for anything else.

  Once more unconsciousness threatened to claim him, to safeguard his mind from the pain. But Rowan fought back. He forced his eyes to flutter open, moving the potion closer to his lips. He popped open the cork with his thumb, pouring it down his throat.

  It did nothing for the pain he felt in his spirit, but his convulsing muscles slowly calmed, his throat relaxing. It allowed more of the healing liquid to drip into his mouth, and slowly, his back straightened.

  Rowan grunted as he pushed himself up, looking around his room.

  A crystal as large as his hand lay next to him, the enchantments chiseled into its surface glowing faintly.

  The beacon had done its job. They managed to get home.

  Kai let out a soft trill, climbing onto his lap and nuzzling his beak against his chest.

  Rowan chuckled, wincing as another sharp pulse of pain tore through him. He might have been alive, but that didn’t mean he was whole.

  For now, he ignored the way his Core felt dim, the way his channels felt clogged and heavy. He wrapped an arm around his familiar, lightly scratching the back of his neck.

  “Told you I’d get us home,” he said, groaning in effort as he stood back up, moving to the bed.

  Dust and blood clung to him, but Rowan didn’t care. The only thing he wanted right now was to lie down. He sat on the edge, swinging his legs over with visible effort.

  He looked over his familiar, noticing the way he cradled his wing, his once pristine feathers singed and burnt.

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Rowan muttered.

  He closed his eyes, tightly gripping the sheets in preparation for the discomfort to come.

  A low hiss tore out of his throat, agony tearing through his channels. But Rowan pushed through, another vial appearing in his hand a heartbeat later.

  He took a moment, his teeth clenched tightly, face scrunched up in pain.

  Probably best I don’t do that again, Rowan thought, sweat dripping down his back.

  The fight against the Wyrmlings had left him in an unexpected state. One Rowan hadn’t expected to face. His trait had always taken care of it, but it seems he finally found a limit.

  I just had to go and get my soul injured, he thought ruefully, uncorking the vial. Kai took it with his beak and drank.

  It acted quickly. His familiar settled in, letting the potion do its work.

  Rowan sighed, closing his eyes. He spent a few minutes letting the tension leave his shoulders, content in the knowledge that they managed to come out on top.

  “That sure went sideways quickly,” he muttered softly.

  Kai trilled, his healthy wing flapping playfully at Rowan’s face.

  “I think I underestimated just how much noise I was making,” he sighed. “We were there for what, half an hour? And with the rate I was getting better, I think I threw somewhere around a hundred [Fireball]’s,” he snorted. “Don’t know how I thought that wouldn’t attract attention from deeper in.”

  He tried to go over his thoughts during the fight, but everything since mastering [Fireball] was a blur. His rapid progress had left him feeling restless. Hungry for more. And all of it had mixed into a perfect cocktail designed to make him stupid.

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  I should have activated the token as soon as the first Wyrmling showed up. If I just thought for a moment instead of letting my confidence get the better of me, I’d have realized that more had to have been coming. They’re pack hunters for gods sake.

  It was hard not to feel angry at himself. His recklessness had almost cost him everything. And if he hadn’t pulled whatever that energy was out of his ass, there would be no almost about it.

  Rowan sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair.

  It was an ongoing issue. One he just couldn’t seem to shake. His first instinct was always to go forward, not back. And while that had served him so far, it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. One mistake and Rowan would join his family in the afterlife. His potential unexplored, his goals unfulfilled.

  It was a hard balance to find. Weighing the likelihood of death against the progress he would make wasn’t a skill Rowan had mastered yet, and he doubted he would any time soon.

  You can’t grow strong in a library, he thought to himself.

  Risk and reward were intertwined, and with the path Rowan was walking, he’d need a whole lot of the latter.

  The fight had brought him to the brink of death, but Rowan survived. And in the end, that was the only thing that mattered. It had been a close call, with just a few seconds separating him and Kai from oblivion. Yet here he was, in his bed, while the Wyrmlings lay broken and lifeless back in the cavern.

  Rowan winced, the pain in his spirit flaring up.

  “That might be a problem,” he muttered, taking a deep, calming breath.

  His soul being injured had consequences Rowan didn’t want to think about yet. There wasn’t anything he could do about it right now, so he set his mind towards a problem he could solve.

  There were ways to deal with pain, no matter where it came from.

  Rowan forced his mind to still, clearing his thoughts and steadying his breathing.

  He slipped into meditation with unexpected ease, the technique coming to him easier than ever before. There had to have been a reason for that, but Rowan pushed his curiosity away. He’d have time to think about that once he dealt with the issue at hand.

  Mainly, him feeling like someone ran him over with a wagon.

  As his breathing calmed, he held an image in his head.

  Rowan imagined a raging current, stretching from horizon to horizon. He waited a moment, and when no pain came, he continued.

  The Rivers and Waves technique wasn’t magical in nature, it was a mind construct. A way for him to manifest his pain in a form he could affect.

  He appeared on a riverbank, the shore littered with pebbles, rocks, and boulders.

  As Rowan stood there, he couldn’t help but compare the turbulent river in front of him to the calm sea from where he drew that power. It was a stark difference, yet he wondered if there was some kind of connection.

  Not the time, he reminded himself.

  If he let his curiosity run free, it would take a while for him to rein it in. There were questions he desperately wanted the answers to, but they would have to wait.

  Besides, if Rowan was right about how much damage his spirit suffered, he’d have a while to think them through.

  Kneeling down, he picked up a small pebble—barely larger than one of his knuckles—and threw it into the river.

  The rock floated on the surface, fighting against the current to stay afloat. But in the end, the river won, pulling it into itself and out of sight. It wasn’t gone. Rowan knew the current still held it, just waiting to dislodge it further downstream. But in the moment, a small sliver of pain went along with it.

  Rowan didn’t know how long he stood there. Picking up pebble after pebble, rock after rock, boulder after boulder. He threw each one as far as they could go. The river swallowed them all, the smaller ones going willingly while the biggest battled against the current. But the longer he kept at it, the less cluttered the riverbank became.

  And then, after what might have been a minute or an hour, he was done.

  Rowan slowly blinked open his eyes, his vision blurry but his body surprisingly light.

  Kai slept beside him, nestled in a mound of blankets twisted into a makeshift nest. Making sure not to disturb him, Rowan made his way out of bed and towards the bathroom.

  His trip to the Plateau had left him covered in grime and soot. Not to mention something slimy on his sleeves that he really hoped wasn’t brains.

  The Rivers and Waves was a bandage more than a cure, but for now, it was enough.

  After a nice, long shower and a warm meal, Rowan moved to the living room.

  He sat down on a plush chair, crossing his legs and closing his eyes.

  Where do I even start? he thought. I advanced my Core, mastered a Chant, and fought off a horde of Wyrmlings.

  Rowan chuckled, shaking his head. Busy day.

  The calm of his house in Litwick was a sharp contrast to the chaotic atmosphere of the cavern. He still felt the aftershocks of the battle, an anxiety at the back of his mind that just wouldn’t go away.

  But all of that paled in comparison to how it ended.

  Rowan’s thoughts drifted to that still sea. To the power it seemed to hold, to the feeling of it flowing through his throat. It had filled him with something he couldn’t quite describe. But he did have his guesses.

  It had something to do with my trait. My soul. There’s nothing else it could be.

  As he pulled out his stats, something else caught his eye.

  “What the…” he muttered, frowning in confusion. “My Core… it went up?”

  Rowan looked further down, his eyes widening further. “My Focus too?”

  The fact that his Core went up in strength was somewhat understandable. That strange energy had filled it to the brim, expanding it by a substantial margin. But his stats going up was another thing entirely.

  That was something reserved for alchemy of the highest level—not something an Orange-Core mage should have been able to do.

  His mind raced, and it didn’t take long for a realization to dawn on him.

  If I could repeat it, do it consistently… Just how fast could I advance?

  His rate of progression was already prodigious. And if he managed to master whatever aspect of his trait he’d glimpsed, there was no telling how much more he could push it.

  Rowan had expected it would take him decades to reach the realm of power he was pushing towards. It was a stark improvement to the centuries it took most other mages, but it was a long time still.

  This might turn that into years.

  Rowan’s hands shook with excitement, his lips curling up into a giddy smile.

  His task had seemed so overwhelming, and while he’d never said it aloud, Rowan had spent more than a few nights lying awake, wondering if it was a fool’s endeavor.

  There was no doubt someone powerful was involved in the death of his family. And if he had to guess, Rowan would pin the act on one of the other Great Houses.

  That was the only thing that made sense.

  They’re the ones who benefited the most. Taking over our lands, our people. Lining their pockets with my birthright.

  Rowan's teeth clenched at the thought, rekindling the anger he had fought so hard to keep buried.

  It took him a minute to calm down.

  There wasn’t anything he could do but continue growing stronger.

  Having the strength to single-handedly contend against a Great House was the height of arrogance. Each one had dozens of Archmages, thousands of warriors at Ebony or higher, all of them strong enough to wave Rowan out of existence.

  But it wouldn’t always be like that.

  A single sip of that water had unleashed more power than his strongest spell magnified tenfold. And somewhere inside him, there was an ocean.

  It took a moment for that thought to settle, and when it did, a strange chill overtook him.

  Rowan glanced down at his hands. “How much power am I holding inside me?” he whispered.

  A mouthful had been enough to destroy a cavern. What would happen if he drank his fill? Or if he somehow managed to release all of it? Would the explosion destroy the city? The region? Or maybe even more?

  Rowan stood up, walking to the window with unsteady steps.

  The sun hung low in the sky, painting it a soft orange. Rowan could hear the streets of Litwick slowly filling with people, going out to supper, or more likely, a tavern.

  He tried to cast the simplest spell he knew, [Heat]. But before the mana even exited his Core, the pain returned, his channels vehemently protesting the strain.

  Rowan sighed, trying not to grow overwhelmed.

  His magic—a constant companion since he Awakened, the comforting source of energy he’d spent his youth wishing for—was gone. Barred to him.

  Closing his eyes, he released a long, drawn-out breath. “I need a damn drink.”