The shop smelled of cinnamon, wet dog, and despair.
Elias stood before the counter of , staring at the steaming mug that had been placed in front of him. The liquid was a murky, brownish-green color.
Bits of unidentified sediment floated on the surface like shipwreck survivors.
"Oakhaven's Finest Blend," the shopkeeper announced proudly. He was a man who looked like he had been dried in a kiln, all leathery skin and missing teeth. "Five copper a cup. Good for the joints."
Elias leaned forward. He sniffed.
‘It smells like someone had boiled a leather boot in a puddle.’
"This," Elias said, his voice carefully neutral, "is tree bark."
"Birch and pine!" the shopkeeper beamed. "With a dash of dried moss for flavor."
Elias felt a piece of his soul wither and die.
"I do not want moss," Elias said. "I want tea. . Black. Dried. Preferably grown in the highlands of the Western Reach."
The shopkeeper blinked. Then he laughed. It was a wet, wheezing sound.
"Listen to the Lordship!" the shopkeeper cackled, slapping the counter. "He wants the Royal Leaf! You think we keep that in a frontier town? That stuff is extinct, friend. Only the High King and the Mage Lords drink that. Costs a gold crown an ounce!"
Extinct.
The word echoed in Elias’s mind.
The Apocalypse hadn't killed humanity. It hadn't destroyed the cities. But it had apparently killed the tea trade.
This was, realistically speaking, a worse outcome.
Elias looked at the mug of hot tree water. He felt a sudden, profound exhaustion.
He was rich beyond measure—he had an inventory full of artifacts that could level mountains—but he was destitute. His Platinum Coin was counterfeit. His knowledge was outdated. His favorite beverage was a relic of a lost age.
"I see," Elias said.
He turned to leave.
"Hey!" the shopkeeper barked. "You ordered it, you pay for it! Five coppers!"
Elias stopped. He turned back.
"I did not drink it," he pointed out. "Because it is poison."
"Wasting my time is not free!" the shopkeeper shouted, reaching under the counter for a club. "Pay up, or I call the guards!"
Elias sighed. He felt that familiar twitch in his fingers. The urge to tidy up. To remove the loud, rude obstacle in front of him.
He reached for his staff. He didn't intend to kill the man. Just... . Maybe a localized stasis field? Or perhaps he could
the shopkeeper's vocal cords into a separate pile?
A hand grabbed his arm.
Elias froze.
He looked down. A gauntleted hand was gripping his sleeve. Tightly.
He looked up. Rylus, the Knight, was standing there. His face was pale, sweating, and terrified. But he didn't let go.
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"Sir," Rylus whispered. "Don't."
Elias stared at him. Nobody had touched him in three hundred years. The sensation was alien.
Warm.
"He is threatening me," Elias noted. "With a stick."
"He is a shopkeeper," Rylus hissed. "You cannot just... people because they are annoying. That is not how civilization works."
Elias looked at the shopkeeper, who was brandishing the club. Then he looked at Rylus.
The Knight was trembling. He had seen Elias flatten a boulder and disassemble a mantis. He knew, logically, that grabbing Elias was suicide.
But he did it anyway.
Brave. Or stupid. The line was thin.
Elias relaxed his hand. The mana dissipating from his fingertips caused the air to hum.
"Fine," Elias said. "Civilization. How tedious."
Rylus exhaled, a sound like a deflating bladder. He quickly fished five copper coins from his purse and slammed them on the counter.
"Keep the change," Rylus choked out. "We're leaving."
He dragged Elias out of the shop before the Librarian could critique the moss content again.
They sat on a wooden bench in the town square.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The town was winding down. Farmers were packing up their stalls.
Elias watched them.
He felt detached. Like he was watching a play in a language he didn't speak.
"Thank you," Rylus said quietly. He was polishing a dent in his breastplate.
"For what?"
"For not turning the herbalist into a pile of ingredients."
"He was rude," Elias defended.
"He's a civilian."
Elias grunted. He looked away, scanning the square.
His eyes landed on a statue in the center of the plaza.
It was old, weathered stone, covered in bird droppings and ivy. It depicted a mage in flowing robes, holding a staff aloft, defiant against the sky.
Elias squinted.
He knew that stance. He knew that nose.
He stood up and walked over to the statue. He brushed the ivy away from the plaque at the base.
Master ArionGrand Archmage of the Third EraDied Defending the Void Gate998 - 1000"He held the door."
Elias stared at the stone face.
Master Arion. His mentor. The man who had taught him how to catalog grimoires.
The man who had shoved Elias into the Athenaeum and screamed,
Elias had locked it.
He had waited. For three hundred years.
Arion had died. Probably five minutes later.
"He held the door," Elias whispered.
He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.
It was indigestion. Surely. The smell of tree bark fumes must have been toxic.
It wasn't grief. Grief wasn’t something a mage should have.
"Sir?" Rylus asked, stepping up beside him. "Do you know the statue? It's one of the Heroes of the Calamity."
"I knew him," Elias said, his voice hollow. "He... owed me five silver."
He turned away from the statue. He couldn't look at it. It made him feel heavy.
"Look! A ghost!"
A shrill voice cut through the air.
A group of children raced past, chasing a hoop with a stick. They stopped when they saw Elias.
They stared.
Elias stood in his dusty grey robes, his skin the color of milk, his eyes glowing faintly with the residual mana of the Void.
"It's a ghost!" a boy screamed. "Get him!"
The boy picked up a rock. A jagged piece of granite the size of a fist. He threw it.
The rock sailed through the air, aimed directly at Elias’s face.
Elias didn't dodge. He was tired. He was sad. He just raised a hand.
"[Halt]."
The rock stopped in mid-air, inches from his nose.
The children gasped.
Elias looked at the rock. He felt the anger, the grief, the frustration of the last few hours bubbling up.
The dead mentor. The bad tea. The loud world.
He clenched his fist.
He meant to just drop the rock.
Instead, exerted five thousand pounds of pressure per square inch.
CRUNCH.
The rock didn't break. It was atomized. It exploded into a puff of glittering, diamond-like dust that shimmered in the sunset.
The children screamed.
"He crushed it!" the boy yelled. "He's a monster! Run!"
They scattered, screaming for the guards.
"Guard! Guard! The Ghost Man is doing magic!"
Elias stood in the cloud of rock dust. He looked at his hand.
"I just..." Elias started.
"We need to go," Rylus said, grabbing his arm again. "Now. Before the Watch arrives."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Rylus said. "But they won't."
Rylus dragged him into a side alley, then toward a building with a peeling sign that read .
They burst into the common room. It was dark, smoky, and smelled of stale ale.
Rylus paid for a room with the last of his gold—the Mage, Kael, and the others had vanished hours ago, fleeing the "Dark Lord."
They went up the stairs. The room was small. Two straw mattresses. One window.
Elias sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the wall.
He was in a strange time. His mentor was a statue. His tea was extinct. He was a monster to the children.
"This era," Elias whispered. "It is very loud."
Rylus didn't say anything. He just poured a cup of water from a pitcher and handed it to Elias.
"It's not tea," Rylus said. "But it's cold."
Elias took the cup.
"Thank you."
He drank it. It tasted like dirt. But it was the best thing he had tasted all day.
Status Update Mana Consumed: 0.0002% (Rock compression) Current Mood: Hallow Rylus Loyalty: +2 (Respects restraint) Reputation: The Cursed Librarian (Local Legend)
