Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Bloody Inconvenience

  The air was cold, nearly freezing, but the fire—arranged in a lean-to—was cackling. This warmth, combined with his bear-fur cloak, created a comforting shield against the cold night around him.

  He gazed upon the ancient willow, its rough bark filling his sight. Above, the branches hung like mournful tears against the starry canvas. Raclune’s silver-blue glow merged with the faint amber of Mordaros, both in their waning phases.

  And there, resting in a groove in the aged wood, was the mirror-like shard Selriph always kept with him. This instrument of reflection was not for vanity or for grooming, but for utility, one of the many items he pilfered from storage rooms whilst on duty during his time in the Templar compound.

  Reflected in the firelight was the face he’d carefully crafted, an interesting—but effective—contrast to the chubby middle-aged man’s appearance he’d adopted while fleeing the Shera woods over seven weeks ago.

  The crimson-haired elf that gazed back at him was youthful and beautiful.

  Resembling a face he had buried in the recesses of his memory.

  Her face looked sharper… let’s start with that first…

  Selriph closed his eyes, the feminine reflection veiled by the black of his eyelids, as he concentrated on the soft well of arcane energy around him—the one maintaining his facade.

  Taking a deep breath, he composed himself, directing his energy to reshape his face, adding age, or rather, a certain sharpness, to the features he was creating. It should have a charming yet worn look—from someone who had experienced comrades lost, a home trampled by Eldeitia.

  A brother lost.

  The mystical energy coursed over his skin, and he felt his facial muscles tense with magic, much like when his sister, Fionil Daryth, had dared him to put strange powders on his face—cosmetics which their mother possessed.

  As the dim shadows of the surrounding forest returned to his sight, he saw precisely what he’d anticipated: a face that resembled that of the elf, the one who lost her brother due to Selriph’s absence of mind.

  As he studied his features, his breathing began to rise, his fist clenching as the memories of their interaction came back.

  Calm down… what happened has passed…

  Selriph forced himself to breathe slowly and calmly, pushing away the rising tide of recollection that had plagued him each time before: her sorrowful face, her eyes red, tears about to spill.

  The magical energy on his face flickered erratically for a few intense seconds, close to dissipating completely as he struggled to maintain his spell, a battle fought between his intense concentration and his unresolved psychological wounds.

  Then it became stable, the new face looking as if the runaway mage had always worn it.

  For the time being.

  Good… this is even better than last night.

  As he inhaled deeply, the harsh, smoky aroma that resulted from the campfires adjacent to him. The fumes enveloped his lungs. Ironically, that brought him comfort despite the smell.

  Just a little more…

  As Selriph gestured, his hands seemingly dancing, graceful waves formed; delicate, silken threads of arcane energy hovered before him, gently contacting his lengthy crimson hair. The red gradually faded to yellow, eventually becoming golden blonde, like tides smoothing over rough, dry sand with each touch.

  With a gentle flick of his fingers, a single sphere of mystic energy descended, much like a morning dewdrop from a leaf, and landed on his forehead, flowing into his eyes—his own calm, blue eyes shifting into a searing, red-hot crimson, which reflected the intense, burning hate she felt.

  A disdain that he felt equally in his heart—for the Holy Empire of Eldeitia.

  Now, he was truly looking at a face that bore an unsettling likeness to Kela.

  Selriph stared at it as if he were facing a demon from the depths of hell, coming to take revenge.

  Of course, no reckoning came; he kept his breath steady; this was his face now, an exercise. It could not harm him. It was likely that the real Kela was located in the Greyspire Mountains, or maybe she was returning to Venthar, disillusioned by her brother’s demise.

  Or maybe she chose a self-destructive path that led to her death as she fought against Eldeitia, one that would allow her to reunite with her brother.

  Either way, it was speculation, and what mattered was that she wasn’t present before the runaway mage.

  The memory—a deep scar from those interactions — became the very mould for his new features. He chose to bear that face, not to hide, but to confront the trauma head-on every time he looked in a reflection.

  All this, in the hope that he could overcome that event’s debilitating effects on his magical repertoire.

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  And this time, the face didn’t melt like slag. It held, and so did the youth’s resolve.

  His internal words were directed at the face before him. A whisper.

  There… Whatever happened has passed… this girl.. Kela… I am not going to be haunted by you any longer.

  Then he paused, breathing in deeply.

  I should have…

  The image flashed in his mind; what could have happened—after the elf’s cold dismissal?

  Walking towards the elf, in place of the runaway, turning his back on her.

  As it played in his mind, Selriph outstretched his palm, tracing a shifting line from azure blue to a light, earthen brown.

  Terramantic energy.

  With mental discipline and magical focus, his mind replayed the moment: this time, he did not turn away. Instead, he moved toward the grieving Kela, Emmett by her side, intent on placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He stood resolute, intent on confronting her grief, absorbing every one of the scathing, fiery accusations she threw at him.

  The gauntlet he would need to pass to overcome this phantom that haunted him.

  The mystical orb ignited with earth magic in his hand for the first time in weeks. The power within it wavered like a fragile ember in moist tinder.

  In his mind, he saw himself with his hand on Kela’s shoulder, waiting for the elf’s tears, ready for reconciliation, resolution—on the cusp of overcoming his block, this obstacle in his mind.

  However, instead of the visage—one that he bore on his face as well as the one he expected in his memory—he was confronted by a skeletal, almost ghoul-like entity, barely any resemblance to the elf, yet very much in her likeness.

  A razor-sharp claw struck him, raking across his face with an otherworldly force, and the accompanying words echoed in his mind like a jarring, agonising, untuned melody.

  “Get away from me!”

  In that moment, he felt it as if it were real. With arcane energy blazing on his face, Selriph grunted and drew back, as if branded by a red-hot iron. The arcane energy meant to hide his features tore apart at the seams, causing unseen cuts on his hand. He then felt the warmth of blood on his cheek. Simultaneously, the earth-magic sphere burst at the seams, and a nearly corrosive feeling washed over his hand, the magical energy burning it like acid.

  “Argh! What in the hells! Selriph’s fist tightened, and his other hand went to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. His breathing was a struggle, weighty, surpassing even the most tomentous lash of whips within the Templar compound.

  Selriph heard the soft shuffle of leaves behind him as Emmett came to him, its eyes staring at him, almost in concern at the blood-streaked face of the youth.

  He grunted, summoning the golden-blue arcane energy into his palm, and as the minor healing began, a comforting warmth spread across his face, feeling like a balm.

  “It’s alright... I’m okay, Emmett... just give me a second...” Selriph said as he fumbled with his bag, retrieving a linen cloth to dab his face.

  While he focused on his injuries, a surge of magical energy washed over him, reversing the damage from the spell’s recoil on his hand, where inflamed skin swiftly transitioned to a delicate pink.

  Emmett paced in front of the boy, its nostrils smelling the fresh blood on the undergrowth, before it looked to Selriph. A flicker of something–concern? Perhaps even surprise in its eyes.

  “It’s fine… I just… lost concentration… leave me be…” Selriph waved off the wolf as he stared at the blood-stained hand.

  Then down to his blood-soaked garments—a crimson-stained byproduct of his failed endeavour that he would need to resolve.

  Above the hollow trunk, Selriph channelled ocean-blue arcane energy with his outstretched hand, which made a surging hum, while a quiet sloshing sound emerged from beneath his palm. Water began to form and fall, collecting in the basin he had made below.

  The chilly wind nipped at Selriph as he stood not far from the cosy haven of his temporary camp. In his peripheral vision, he saw the dark horse and the grey wolf engaged in a silent, knowing conversation by the fire—if such a thing were possible.

  When the makeshift basin had been filled with the conjured water—courtesy of his nascent hydromancy—Selriph flicked his fingers as the other image came into his mind, one of crystalline, frosty lattice.

  In place of the watery orbs, cyan-blue magical power solidified into spherical ice blocks, which then fell with a distinct plop into the tree trunk basin. Selriph pulled the blood-soaked linen next draped over the sides of the drunk, dumping it into the makeshift basin.

  His hands ached from the extremely cold water as he wrung the blood from the fabric, squeezing and scrubbing it harshly; crimson blood then stained the water, which was illuminated by a weak magical glow hovering above him.

  When he had finished the motion, he pulled the cloth out of the water, folding the bloodied parts in, wringing out the excess water.

  He then put the cloth back on the basin’s rim, using his hands to create a small flame, like a torch, to thaw his cold fingers.

  The first step to cleaning a mere piece of cloth: completed.

  Once he regained feeling in his hands, he moved them gracefully above the dirty water, which was tainted with blood. Surrounded by a shimmering ocean-blue arcane aura, he started scooping, and the water splashed onto the plants beneath.

  After that, he grabbed the soapwort that was already crushed, and then he created a splash of water with his other hand. He then worked his finger as if it were a fancy bar of soap to generate a rough, improvised lather.

  Next, he used the damp cloth on the empty basin, rubbing in circles and kneading it, much like he would when making bread at the Daryth estate, allowing the natural soap to penetrate the fibres.

  The rest of the cleaning process played out through automatic motions—his mind drifting as his body automatically conjured hydromantic and pyromantic energy to heat another fresh batch of water, this time for the almost tea-like brew in the stump—the final step, to disinfect the cloth.

  Although it was the most practical choice, Selriph felt a tinge of annoyance that he had decided to set up camp inland. After all, it was in his best interest not to set up camp near the lake if he was going to practice magic. He didn’t want any curious wanderers to see a restless mage using the mystical arts, no matter how improbable their appearance was at that hour.

  Cleaning the linen cloth? Or any blood-soaked garment, for that matter? At least he managed it, in no small part due to his hydromancy skills, which he’d only learned the basics of in the three weeks following his departure from Jokanek, the town located on the eastern side of the mountain range.

  However, there was one thing that pricked at the youth’s mind, not from the lack of a flowing water source but from the frigid air around him as he had to perform this act, away from the comforting embrace of his campfire.

  All because he could not use his terramancy to conjure an earthen basin, instead having to use what nature had provided him.

  As Selriph wrung the linen cloth one last time, his feet carrying him back to the campfire, he muttered under his breath.

  “What a bloody inconvenience… all these issues just because I cannot use terramancy….”

  At that instant, the fugitive mage wasn’t just talking about the brief stroll and the cold he’d felt for half an hour in his noble engagement with the fabric-cleansing arts.

  It arose from a more significant worry: his method of crossing the border—one that demanded the very terramancy that remained impotent.