Ignuss 26 3012 PSE (Xander)

  The first thing Xander felt as he came back to reality was his toes. It was an odd thing to feel when regaining consciousness—you’d think it would be something like your head, hands, or even your heart. But no, for him, it was his toes. Slowly, his feeling returned, spreading from his legs to his torso to his head as he opened his eyes and moved. A headache shattered his forming thoughts into smithereens.

  In front of him was a horror scene—his childhood home, the place he had lived since he could walk, was gone. Vanished into smoke, as if some malicious god had plucked it from the ground and erased it from existence. All that remained was rubble and charred wood, the skeletal remnants of the foundation.

  Slowly, he moved forward, searching the wreckage for anything salvageable. He found nothing.

  Instinctively, he knew his father wasn’t dead. He was too stubborn for that. But something had happened, and he wasn’t here when Xander needed him. That realization broke him. He collapsed, clutching a charred stone in his hands. It grew thick and wet, but not just from his tears. Blood—his blood and the blood of the man who had run in on him—stained his fingers.

  He had a vague idea of what had happened. As he frantically searched for any sign of normalcy, he felt his affinity toward the lingering flames surge to life. He felt like a bag of incongruities, thrown onto the back of a griffon and shipped out into the Eternal Storm.

  Wiping the tears and blood from his face, he returned to where he had awakened. A bag and a letter lay next to his resting spot. He hadn’t noticed them in his mad scramble, but their presence offered him the solace he needed to push forward.

  Inside the bag were three books—The Guide to the Great Powers, along with two unfamiliar tomes. The first was thin, bound in black leather. The second was almost double the size of the already impressively lengthy Guide to the Great Powers, nearly as thick as both his fists stacked atop each other. It was bound in scaly red leather and, frankly, looked like something he shouldn’t be handling, let alone carrying around in a bag. In addition to the books, there were some basic camping supplies and food—barely enough for two or three days. He’d have to forage.

  He opened the letter.

  "Remember our promise."

  His father’s handwriting was clean and neat. Xander wiped the tears from his eyes and took a breath as memories rushed through him.

  He couldn’t remember if he was 13 or 14 at the time, but he remembered coming home from a day of work with Ben. His father was sitting behind the bakery counter, just staring at the door. That was odd. In fact, it was more than odd—it was unnatural. His lack of response, the dead look in his eyes, as if he had been wrestling with his inner demons all day…

  Before Xander could even shut the door behind him, his father began to sign.

  "Follow me, boy."

  Dutifully, like a gosling following its parent, he obeyed. His father sat him down at the table—the same way he had a few months earlier when he had that talk with him. But this time, there was a far more serious air about him.

  "What’s up?" Xander asked, trying to sound casual.

  His father’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it hardened further under the dim candlelight of their dining room. He hesitated, then began to sign again.

  "There may come a time when everything feels lost and confusing."

  "What the fuck do you mean?"

  "Language, son. You’re not some street urchin from Cromio City," he chided before continuing. "Although I hope this never happens…" He sighed, his shoulders dropping.

  "I can’t tell you everything. Knowing would put you in more danger than the knowledge is worth. But you must understand—your mother’s and my past is more complicated than a simple baker and his son."

  Xander just stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

  His father’s chest convulsed—not in laughter, but in that strange, silent way he always did, as if he were repressing even the air in his lungs.

  "Yes, yes, I know. Shocking." He waved a hand dismissively. "But listen. If something happens, you must promise me one thing. Do not come looking for me."

  "What?"

  "Promise." He held Xander’s gaze.

  He hesitated before finally sighing. "Fine. I won’t look for you. As weird as that is."

  "Good. Now, enough of this melodrama. Let’s eat dinner."

  Xander smiled bitterly at the memory, his heart and his mind at war with one another. On one hand, he desperately wanted to search for his father. He was confident he wasn’t dead—after all, the last thing he remembered was being knocked unconscious. And whoever had left his belongings neatly beside him wasn’t some random soldier. The only possible culprit was his father.

  He continued reading the letter, hoping it would provide more answers.

  "I cannot explain what happened or what is happening. The truth is, I don’t even know all of it myself. Most of what I do know comes from secondhand accounts and predictions based on the information I possess.

  That being said, you need to get stronger. Not a little, not even a reasonable amount. You need to be far stronger. How much? I don’t know. I hope I have underestimated the danger, but I fear I haven’t.

  Head north to Cogsworth. Seek out the Red Feather Inn. An old platoon member of mine runs the place—he’ll give you shelter. Also, the large tome in your bag… keep it hidden. Like your life depends on it. Because it does.

  Yours always,

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Father."

  Taking a steadying breath, Xander wiped the tears from his eyes.

  He was alive.

  Xander was confused as a bat in the morning sun, but he was okay. If nothing else, he was okay.

  He turned northward, stepping into the forest without looking back.

  Then—

  SNAP.

  He froze.

  He knew who was behind him before he even spoke.

  "Xander. In the name of the Clans—where are you going?"

  He forced a grin onto his face, the most convincing he could manage.

  "I’m going on a trip north."

  "Bullshit." Ben’s voice was sharp. "Your house is a mess. You’ve got a rather large bag. Your father is God knows where.” His voice cracked. "And you didn’t tell me?"

  "Ben, I—"

  Before he could finish, Ben wrapped him in a tight embrace and squeezed.

  "You ginger idiot… I’m going to miss you."

  "Me too, Ben," Xander murmured.

  He tried to keep the smile on his face, but he doubted it reached his eyes. He turned and kept walking.

  Behind him, Ben’s voice rang out, full of forced cheer.

  "When you get back from your little adventure, make sure to bring old Ben a souvenir!"

  Xander didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

  Because deep down, he knew—he would never see Ben again.

  Unbeknownst to Xander—or most mortal men, for that matter—far to the northeast of the Golden Plains, near the great city of Nevermiyer, deep within the heart of Yoragrial’s Spine, stood a man overlooking a vast landscape. His long, silvery hair was tied up in a topknot, and his youthful orange eyes gleamed like a lemur investigating something fascinating.

  If any man were to see him atop the peak, they might wonder what profound mysteries occupied his mind. Clearly, they didn’t know him very well.

  “I wonder… should I have steak with potatoes for lunch? Or maybe… hmm… no, a—”

  His thoughts were abruptly cut off by a booming sound. Looking up, he saw an arrow hurtling toward him from nearly two hundred miles away, closing the distance in mere seconds. Judging by its velocity, he had only moments. Pulling mana from his core, he channeled it into his arms and caught the arrow just as it whizzed past his skull.

  He examined the arrow now resting in his palm. It was solidly red, like crimson blood, and attached to it was a familiar ring. Twisting it in his fingers, he palpitated its surface, searching his memory for where he had seen it before.

  “Ah… it’s from Luke Fedra. Haven’t heard from him in a while. The boy must have grown… counting the years… oh man, time really has slipped. He must have Awakened or been Awakening soon. That must be what this is about.”

  As he opened the ring, his heart stopped. The signet ring was inside.

  That only meant one thing.

  Grabbing a communication crystal from his own spatial ring, he frantically yelled into it.

  “Ramirez!”

  A startled crash echoed through the crystal.

  “Boss! Sorry, sir!”

  “Grunt, urgent business has come up. Lieutenant Whitecastle is in command until I return. Send a space mage to Point Echo immediately.”

  “But sir, the Imperial Investigator—”

  “Cram that nonsense! He knows we’re fine. The hatchlings will have to be taken care of, order the command structure to handle it. Point Echo. Now!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He stormed off, leaping from peak to peak. How could this happen? They were so well hidden. Gods above and below, he’d rather face Ragnarok than deal with this mess.

  Back in the South, Xander remained oblivious to the furious man now tracking him. He only knew one thing: he was hungry and exhausted.

  The first night he camped out was tolerable. He built a fire and rationed his meal. The problem was the second night.

  The sky had opened as if the reservoirs of Krival Lake had burst forth, drenching everything. His clothes, his bags, his remaining food—utterly soaked, completely ruined. To make matters worse, the night had been relentlessly windy, reducing his tent to little more than tattered rags.

  By the morning of the third day, With the aid of Hera's knife, he had caught a rabbit—a skinny, miserable thing, but still a meal. However, since that meager catch, he hadn’t eaten. The once-plentiful water had vanished into the parched autumn grass, leaving him desperate.

  As the light of the sixth day beamed down on him, he stumbled, tripping over a root. Cursing his luck, he rubbed his ankle and limped onward. At this rate, he was going to die of dehydration.

  The world blurred around him, leaving only the burning sun high above, beating mercilessly on his skull like a drummer at the New Year’s Festival. Hunger gnawed at his insides. He barely noticed the small scrapes and bruises accumulating on his body. All that mattered was moving forward.

  Then, in his delirium, he felt it.

  A trickle.

  For several moments, he failed to process what it was. Then, as if the water had washed away his stupor, his gaze fell upon the sun-speckled stream.

  His throat was so dry. But he knew he couldn’t just start chugging it down.

  Slowly, agonizingly, he cupped a handful and sipped. The risk of sickness was there, but at this moment, he had no choice. The water looked clear and ran freely—he would take his chances.

  After the first drink, his body seemed to recognize salvation. Over the next few hours, he drank his fill and refilled his small waterskin. With renewed strength, he pressed forward into the night.

  As he walked, he began to notice changes. The sparse patches of deciduous and occasional pine trees had given way to an entirely different landscape. Towering evergreens and ancient Partawoods surrounded him, their blue-green needles glimmering in the dim light. The unfamiliar terrain only deepened his unease.

  Then came the pain.

  His stomach twisted violently. He doubled over as a wave of nausea overtook him, and moments later, his body heaved, expelling its last remnants onto the forest floor.

  The water hadn’t been entirely clean after all.

  Once again, exhaustion weighed down on him. He wanted nothing more than to collapse, to surrender to sleep. But something deep inside—some primal, animalistic survival instinct—screamed at him to keep moving.

  With what little strength remained, he veered off course, heading south. His vision narrowed to a small, distant light.

  A fire.

  Scrambling over roots and vines, he pushed forward. The point of light widened into a clearing where a hooded figure sat, staring at the sky. Relief flooded him, but his body had reached its limit.

  Just as he broke the tree line, his knees buckled. He fell.

  With the last of his strength, he croaked out one desperate word before darkness consumed him.

  “Help.”

  His face hit the ground, pain ringing through his skull like the village bell, before everything faded to black.