Ignuss 26, 3012 P.S.E(Xander)

  The long stalks of wheat fell under the careful administration of Xander’s scythe. The early Ignuss morning shone as the fields of unharvested crops and autumn leaves glinted in the rising sun. Lashing the cut wheat together, he heaved it onto his shoulder and marched toward Cruxdea. It was a small village located at the crossroads between the great forests of Perth to the northeast, Emerrla to the northwest, and the Golden Plains to the south. It was a flat country, and its people were just as grounded as the land itself.

  He didn’t hate his home, but it was boring. Nothing ever happened there. There were no guilds, no warriors, no mages—just acres upon acres of farmland, bartenders, and bakers. The village housed only about 300 souls, most clustered around the main road like plants following a river in a desert.

  Loading the wheat onto the cart, Xander turned southward, away from Cruxdea. His home, which he shared with his father, sat on the edge of town, surrounded by fields of wheat. It was a humble abode, a single-story structure mostly constructed from Perth pinewood. As he pushed the cart forward, his foot suddenly caught on something, nearly sending him sprawling. Sticking his arm out, he grabbed the wagon to steady himself. Looking down, he saw that the annoying obstruction wasn’t a root or a rock—it was a booted foot.

  Looking up, he was met with a shit-eating grin. It belonged to his best friend, Ben—the one he’d known for as long as he could remember, the one he’d gotten into more sticky situations with than he could count. The boy—now a man—stood about a hand shorter than Xander, his muddy brown hair perpetually tousled, his dark green eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “Hey, birthday boy!” Ben said

  “It’s not my birthday.” He responded

  “But I got you a gift, so…it’s totally your birthday.”

  “It’s tomorrow, not today.”

  “Duh, that’s why I got it today—because you’re going to be out of it tomorrow.”

  “Unlike you, Ben, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll be up in four hours.”

  “Four hours? If I know you, you’ll be bedridden for at least twelve.”

  “That would still be better than you. After your Awakening, you were out for what” he paused scratching his chin. “ fifteen hours.”

  Grinning, Ben retorted, “They say the longer you’re under during your Awakening, the stronger your affinities are.”

  “You know that’s dragonshit. Plus, if your affinities were that strong, you’d have figured them out by now.”

  Ben fell silent, matching Xander’s steps.

  “Okay, fine, whatever. Anyway—” He shoved a rectangular object wrapped in brown paper toward his friend.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t give me horseshit like you did last year.”

  “Horseshit? You call a new quiver horseshit? Your standards are clearly flawed.”

  “That thing looked like a bucket of rust.”

  “That thing didn’t even have a speck of iron on it! Plus, what do you know, baker’s boy, You can't even shoot a goddamn arrow?”

  “More than you, accountant’s son. I actually see tools being used in the field instead of sitting behind a desk, writing everything down.”

  “Pish, you damn numbskull. I’m not my parents. I’d be bored to death if I had their jobs.”

  Xander chuckled. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Well, open it,” Ben urged his tone suddenly anxious.

  Stopping at the foot of his home, Xander unwrapped the gift. As the paper tore away, soft, supple leather emerged. He ripped the last shreds of packaging off and revealed a familiar leather-bound tome. The book brought back memories.

  The old door creaked open as Xander held up a small handheld candle in the dusty, forgotten building. The dust, as if possessing a will of its own, crawled up his nose, and he let out a sneeze that rattled the shelves. To his left, he heard a thud. Jumping in fear, he dropped the candle. It hit the ground, its flame beginning to rise higher in the chaos. Panicking, he quickly stomped out the fire.

  Turning around, he saw a figure. Though not tall, Mrs. Pennsworth was a frightening presence. Her curly brown hair added another three inches to her height, and she had thick, coke-bottle glasses. But it wasn’t her appearance that made her terrifying—it was her personality.

  In a thick accent not inherited by her son, Mrs. Pennsworth began to berate him. “Oh, young man, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t just go mucking about the bloody place, not going over the bloody tomes, and expect to get away without repercussions! No, sir, your father’s hearing about this.”

  He mustered the courage to plead with her, but his protest died on his lips. In her arms was a book—not particularly gaudy or thick, just a simple leather-bound volume that looked like a notebook. But on its cover was something that baffled him: The Great Powers: Their Histories and Abilities by Clive Glacier.

  Back in the present, he smiled at his friend’s generosity but felt a pang of guilt. “Ben, I can’t accept this. This is from the archive.”

  Ben scoffed. “Xander, listen to me. Besides you, nobody else in this little town wants anything to do with the outside world, let alone the Great Powers.”

  “Ben, but—”

  “Mom and Dad insisted. You’ve been trying to get your grubby mitts on that book since you were five. It’s about time it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” Xander said, pulling him into a hug.

  “Hey, don’t get sappy on me now, man. I’ll see you tonight for the Harvest Festival.”

  Wiping a tear from his eye, Xander nodded. “Yeah. See you there.”

  Ben ran off back toward the village. Turning around, holding his new present in hand, Xander opened the door to his home. The familiar scent of fresh bread greeted him. Watching his father work was always a pleasure—his fists kneading the dough like a drummer in a band, rhythmic and soothing. The way he stretched the dough was almost miraculous, the sound of it pulling like gently plucked strings.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Moving closer, he dropped the book on the counter and waved. Looking up, his father smiled. Brushing flour off his apron, he began to sign.

  “I take it Ben stopped by?”

  “Yes, Father. He dropped off my gift,” he said back.

  “Good, good. And did you get the wheat?”

  “It’s out front, ready to be processed.”

  “Excellent. Well, this old timer best get back to it.”

  Smiling, Xander ran up and hugged him. Though he could not respond, Xander said it anyway: “Thank you. I love you.”

  Grunting, his father got back to his work, once again conducting the dough into its perfect shape. Xander rushed into his room and quickly got dressed in his cream tunic and oil-stained pants. They weren’t much, but they were his. Nodding at his father as he shut the door behind him, he took in a deep breath of autumn air. He was so close to becoming a man. It was hard to sink in, to even feel how he was supposed to feel. Shaking his head, he pushed thoughts of the future away.

  The town square bustled with festival preparations, decorations hanging from every available space. The Harvest Festival was the one time of year when everyone let loose. Brindle would tap a keg, and people would make merry. As he scanned the crowd for familiar faces, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

  Spinning around, he saw Hera, a coquettish grin plastered on her face. She was tall, only a few fingers shorter than him, and surprisingly broad at the shoulders. If not for her long black hair and slight curves, she could have been mistaken for a young man.

  “Happy birthday,” she said before crushing him in a hug.

  “Thanks,” he wheezed.

  “Anyways, have you seen Ben? I’ve been looking all over for him,” he asked.

  “He stopped by my place a fiw minutes ago,” Hera replied. “He said something about preparations for the festival. Smacking her palm with her meaty hand, Hera nodded. “That’s right! He’s over at the tannery. But before I run off, I gotta give you this. I finished it up this morning with the help of my paw.”

  As he looked down, she presented a leather-wrapped bundle. Pulling back the light strings, he uncovered a short dagger housed inside a sleek black sheath. Drawing the blade, he inspected its edge and tested its balance. It was excellent—almost on par with his father’s knives, which had been crafted by Scion, Hera’s father.

  “Your skills have improved phenomenally. At this rate, you’ll catch up to your father in a few months,” he said, impressed.

  She scoffed. “I wish. He had to step in a few times when I almost folded the steel the wrong way. If not for him, that blade wouldn’t be half as decent. Anyways, gotta run! See ya later, Xander!”

  Tucking the knife into his belt, he quickly finished dropping off the grain. With his chores completed, he rushed home to test his new gift.

  The bell chimed as he entered the shop. Looking around, he noticed his father wasn’t present. Shrugging, he moved behind the counter, pulling out his knife and twirling it in his hands. He marveled at its balance, watching how the midday sun gleamed off the blade. He sat there, lost in thought, until the sound of the doorbell snapped him out of his trance.

  A soldier stepped in, bearing the insignia of Baron Bramblethorne—a fierce mongoose emblazoned on his chest. Xander didn’t know much about Lord Bramblethorne. He governed the region two hours north and was a Baron under the jurisdiction of Marchioness Evergreen.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  The soldier smiled. “I’m here to pick up an order.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Xander nodded. “All right, I’ll need to see the contract.”

  His armored boots clicked against the floor as he walked over, reaching into his messenger bag. He produced a scroll sealed with wax. Taking it from his gloved hand, Xander cracked the seal—a stylized mongoose—and verified his order.

  “We have it just about finished. Let me make the last loaves of rye and I’ll pack it all up for you.”

  Grunting, the soldier moved to sit on a bench, crossing his arms. Within moments, he seemed to doze off.

  Turning back to his work, Xander began kneading the dough. He could never quite mimic his father’s rhythmic technique or his ability to add just the right amount of yeast to make the bread rise perfectly. But when it came to baking itself, he surpassed his father. No matter how many times he failed in other aspects of the craft, his bread always turned out with a flawless crust—almost as if the very flames refused to consume his hard work.

  As he worked, the flames reminded him of mornings in his quiet life—the red, roaring sun dominating his field of vision. Within it, flickering stalks of gold and the occasional blue river cut through the heartland. As he stared, the colors seemed to burn brighter, as if kindled by passion and remembrance. It was as if they were the flames of his very heart, the core of his being.

  Something clicked.

  He knew.

  It was his Affinity, plain and simple. It felt so natural, so obvious. How had he missed it all these years? But in that moment, nothing else mattered—just him and the flame.

  That moment shattered.

  The sound of shifting steel rang out. He felt rage. Hot anger. The flames leapt up his arm, licking at his neck, blazing like a newborn sun.

  For a moment, he felt peace.

  Then everything went black.

  Lowering the last bundle of wheat into the silo, Xander’s father returned to the shop, expecting to find his son behind the counter. Instead, he was greeted by a terrifying sight.

  A spirit of flames, writhing on the floor.

  And behind the counter, standing like a statue—his boy.

  Waves of energy pulsed off Xander. It took a moment to grasp what had happened. He had awakened early.

  And someone had seen.

  Shaking off his shock, he reached for his pendant, yanking it free with a pop. He felt good. Unchained.

  He had to kill that man. It didn’t matter who he was. He had seen too much.

  Murmuring a quiet oath, he stepped forward. The flaming figure stilled, his body cooling as the fire extinguished. Not giving the body a second thought, he scooped up his son laid him on the floor, and began to pace.

  This was the worst possible outcome. Xander was so close to his Awakening, and now he had been discovered.

  There was no time to dwell on it. He needed to move. Now.

  Pulling at his core, he felt the rush of mana for the first time in over fifteen years. It was overwhelming—like pouring water onto the lips of a dying man in the desert.

  Moving quickly, he shoved aside the furnace, revealing a small trapdoor. Pressing his hand to its surface, he heard a click. Pulling it open, he stepped down.

  Beneath lay a dark, quiet room. In the corner sat an old friend—a red guitar, its neck engraved with roses and crows. Wiping off the dust, he slung it over his back, feeling at ease. Running his hand along the wall, he found the small, near-invisible indent. Pressing it, a hidden stone panel slid free.

  Inside were two items—a ring and an arrow.

  Grabbing both, he rushed upstairs.

  Ripping a page from his ledger, he scribbled a quick message. There was no time for code; all he could do was pray it reached its intended recipient first. Tying the note to the arrow, he slid the ring down its shaft. He felt the tug northward and released it.

  The arrow sailed high, vanishing beyond the horizon.

  Hurrying back inside, he packed two bags—one for himself and one for Xander. Hoisting his son over his shoulder, he carried him outside, brushing his hair back and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

  It would likely be the last time he saw his boy.

  Turning to the house, he whispered a single word: “Burn.”

  Through the window, he watched as the hearth roared to life. The candle flames trembled, listening, obeying. They rose like demons from the depths, consuming the house in a violent inferno.

  He smiled.

  He was finally going home.

  It was a bittersweet feeling.

  Glancing at Xander one last time to ensure he was safe, he walked away.

  And he prayed that man would find his son.