I once had the pleasure of learning from a Royal Historian of the Empire. My close friend, a man known to be a [Scribe] of no small caliber, introduced us. Given that this was a rare opportunity and being of the Scholarly sort myself, I took full advantage to draw them in with all manner of conversation. Perhaps, my curiosity was infectious- or, perhaps they were just a kindred soul: for I soon found they were of the most verbose and exemplary in their explanations. Through great details, they provided me with far more information than I’d ever hoped. Openly sharing not only facts and previously unknown connections, but their personal thoughts on past events. In which, I found there were many details to be inferred, and of the variety that were not recorded by most.

Somehow, our topic of discussion lead us to discussion of the lost island Nation of Logatha, and their conflict with the Empire. This was, I will admit, a subject, in which I was most interested. An entire people, almost completely erased with none the wiser. All records of them, vanishing over the course of a century. Yet, having learned what I could from both the Kingdom to the far south, and the Citadel itself (although I made sure to omit such from our talk) I knew more than most, and I inquired as to what had befallen that place. If there was any truth to the rumors of their rebellion, or if there was some deeper story to be had. I was deeply curious.

Alas, the question must have shaken my conversational companion free of the flow of conversation we’d found. Where there was once a fellow explorer of the past, I found a statue. Where the spark and joy danced behind his eyes, there was but a dull gray. Two pieces of cold and dead glass, looking down upon the map with an emotion I cannot properly define. Our talk had ended, and there would be nothing further on the subject of Logatha, beyond one final statement:

“It’s gone now.” He said.

....

Despite the Baron's claim that wolf meat wasn't all that terrible if it was properly seasoned, upon closer inspection he decided that we wouldn't be eating it after all. Which, I will just outright state for the record: was something of a relief.

Monsters with saliva that could paralyze a person should not be treated as edible, ever. Add in a sickly scent of rot and blood, the idea hadn't been very appealing, no matter how many times I was assured that the meal was, quote, "to die for."

Fortune smiled upon me as, nose wrinkled to the point of stretching his scars, the Baron gave the beast a kick and decided it to be lacking. Perhaps, it was because the creature looked somewhat sickly. Whatever his reason, he elected that we simply "burn the filthy thing" before stepping away.

I then realized that by "we" he meant me.

Another test, of course.

Thankfully, I found this one to be an examination of my ability with a slightly less threatening end, should I have failed to completely meet his expectations. If anything, the hunt had been a venture towards some basic level of trust-building, and our previous conversations had settled my thoughts on the matter.

With the added silver-lining that he'd saved my life only a few moments beforehand, of course.

Don't think I didn't connect some additional dots, though.

Trust or no, the Baron had almost certainly just used me to lure out a monster. More specifically, one that had probably been after me since I'd stabbed its partner to death near Gregory's hut. One that absolutely would have killed me, had I been foolish enough to try and run away from the fort before this.

It was hard to think of "trust" while acknowledging that.

Regardless, chilling thoughts could wait for some other time. I made an effort to metaphorically tie those up and throw it somewhere in the back of my mental landscape to be unpacked all later. Perhaps, over a tall mug of ale or three. Maybe a cheap bottle of some sort of spirit, or whatever the cooks might have hidden away.

I had a job to do.

With no further explanation to be had and the Baron's expectations clear, I went about proving my worth. Sucking in a deep breath of air, I let [Lesser Flame] come to life before my palm, setting my hand down on the corpse. Fire began to roar to life, as I set myself to testing my own abilities. In fact, I was very curious how this would work. With magic rushing through my system, and nothing but careful, quiet, tests, prior to this, I couldn't help but recognize that this would be my opportunity to see if my hard work had paid off.

[Lesser Flame] began to form under my right hand, warm and steady, as I focused...

And I immediately discovered there was a problem.

Firstly, unlike a torch (which is specifically intended to be set on fire) or a small pocket of air floating above my hand: a dead monster is not nearly so flammable.

While, of course, a person could argue that almost anything is flammable as long as you try hard enough- I found that in this case, dead monster flesh was not very cooperative in that regard. If I had to compare it to something, the corpse was very much the type of kindling you would encounter after a rainstorm. Not to say it couldn't be set ablaze, but it might need to have some serious help along in the process.

Fernwolves are just that: wolves. If you've ever seen a wolf, you will know that they are large, hairy, and have intimidating teeth, but they're not exactly what someone might use for tinder. People do not start their campfires using wolves. For obvious reasons, they use small bits of wood, or paper, or spam mail, or dryer-lint.

This is a long winded way to say that I was struggling a bit. I wasn't, though, going to give up.

No, I felt confident I could still salvage the situation. Motivated mostly by the urge to try and avoid wiping out whatever goodwill this hunting trip had earned me with the Baron, I decided I would need to fall back on the only real option immediately available to me. Which was, unfortunately, expending mana at a more rapid pace.

Mana: 91/100

So, it began.

The feeling of magic in my chest flared, and barely a second later, the spell began to rise up in an impressive fashion. As if I had a jet under my right palm, hot air and smoke blasted out in all directions, and for a few seconds, I'm sure I looked to be very much the proper [Mage]. I even heard the Baron let out a rumble of approval, although I was more focused on the fact that it was starting to feel as though I happened to be leaking my very mind and soul out of the palm of my hand.

But even with that, the job was not quite done.

Gaunt and sickly as it had been, I was fortunate that the coarse fur was matted with a sheen of oil and grime. This was helping the process along and making me look quite impressive. From the Baron's perspective, I could only imagine I looked as though I had truly unleashed a far stronger spell. As wolf hair caught like wildfire, smoke billowing out in all directions...

But, the truth be told, it was simply the creature's coat of fur was burning up and nothing under it was catching. Roasting away and smelling rather terrible, to be sure, but not catching beyond directly beneath where my hand was resting.

Mana: 71/100

My mana was also running itself empty. I was already down a dramatic amount, compared to what I'd started with just a few seconds ago.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

I considered the remaining option.

Magic may be an impressive or terrifying force in this world, but I couldn't help but acknowledge that mine had the "Lesser" terminology stapled to the front of it. This was, quite clearly, hampering progress.

So, I took a final gamble.

I let it all out at once.

The resulting explosion of fire tossed me backwards. My right arm was thrown up and rotating like the reverse of a ball pitch, and the rest of my body was repelled by the sudden force exerted, as almost every last point of my mana expended itself in a sudden blast. Stumbling, my back foot caught the much-needed balance with a saving-grace I can only explain by the Attribute of Dexterity, and my right shoulder over-rotated more than just a bit with a serious twinge of pain: but the Fernwolf burned for true.

The bonfire rose up, perfectly.

"Gods, that was something." Breathing heavy, I barely felt the Baron set a hand on my shoulder, as he laughed."You're going to be fucking deadly, lad."

"Thank you, Sir." I replied, as the fires I'd cast moved with unnatural speed. I watched as they devoured the corpse faster than should have been possible. Not simply orange and yellow in color, but greens and dark blues, dancing about as they burned the creature away to ashes.

Silently, the cinders rose up towards the canopy of branches, flickering out one by one, and barely a moment later, there was nothing left. Only a scorched mark on the forest floor, absent of leaves compared to the surroundings. There, the Baron murmured something as he crouched down to poke with a thick hunting knife, plucking free a small stone. Tossing it over, I distantly felt my hands catch the odd piece.

"Wolf had a mana stone." He stated, face contorting into a wide grin. "I take back what I said about your luck, John. Consider it a bonus."

I nodded my thanks, pocketing the item without trying to identify it. I didn't even look at it.

I wanted to, of course. Both respond vocally, and use my oldest skill to take a look at what might well be the most interesting item to cross my path in recent memory. In fact, I would have done both, were it not for how I was looking out at the world as if I were in the very far back of a long, dark, tunnel.

Oh... I'd overdone things.

Mana: 1/100

One.

Singular.

Low.

I was low.

Stupidly, dangerously, low: I'd lacked proper control and I used far too much. All of the mana had rushed out and I'd just barely cut off the flow before my own spell killed me.

Wordless, I followed the Baron along the trail as our hunt continued. Time passed, and I felt my body work, muscle-memory knowing the steps and balance I needed to have to stay upright.

I could barely believe it was possible.

With every twist and turn of the path, I felt my consciousness trailing along behind my body, as if a balloon tied to a string. Limping along, just alive enough to exist, but nothing more. Thankfully, the Baron seemed content to leave our discussions as they were. Perhaps, he knew of my plight, although I had no way to know for certain.

Onward, we went.

In time, the trail narrowed, and the sounds of town returned. The fort and the hill it rested on, came into view, just as the sun was setting and as we entered, I bowed to acknowledge my dismissal.

Mana: 1/100

The resource wasn't recovering.

Or, more accurately: if it was, I could see it wasn't recovering quickly. Instead, it just lingered there at the very bottom, with no signs of movement.

I should have felt horror at that realization. Instead, I only felt exhaustion.

Somehow, I found the courtyard, then the kitchen, then the stairs. I passed as many eyes stared at me, lurking out in the evening crowd. It seemed that meals were still being served, and the kitchen was full of the Baron's loyal Keepers. Those who had settled into their bowls with hunched shoulders and stern expressions, familiar faces in the mix. From the back, I remember Karen smiled at me, hand on Gregory's knife at her belt.

She wanted me to see it.

Eyes meeting mine, she dared me once again.

But I didn't care.

There was nothing to be felt, then.

My lack of reaction caused her smirk to fade into a dull frown, which I know should have brought me some form of satisfaction, but it didn't.

No surge of anger, or emotion.

No sense of attachment, or thought.

The fire in my chest was almost non-existent. Its faded-ember was kept aglow only by the horrible after-shock of magic having flooded my body.

My body moved on, uncaring, unfeeling, and almost entirely on its own.

In a feeble way, I told myself that I needed to stay awake. That I'd used too much magic, and I should not sleep. That doing so would be dangerous, possibly in more ways than one.

Yet, when the door to my small room shut behind me, my head hit the cloth mattress.

I collapsed in my entirety, and in that state I left the waking world and stumbled into the dream.

...

The Dream waited, just as it had before.

Above me, the Throne sat above a tower of gold, and the crown of the [King] rested upon it. Empty, silent, and cold, it stood as if a monument to some strange God. The steps below, studded with the bones of the fallen, the bottom sunken into the blood sacrificed at its feet.

I found that I could not wake.

Not even as that crown began to shift.

I knew I should not, could not, be here.

Fear gripped me, as I turned and ran. Distance blurring, no longer bound to the laws of motion. The world shifted around me, as I passed through cities, mountains, plains. I sprinted in leaps and bounds for those distant fires I remembered, when standing beside that horrible throne of gold.

The battles raging, on the border of the Empire.

As fast as I could, until my lungs felt raw, I ran.

Yet, no matter how far I went, it was always there.

Always visible.

Always terrifying.

The throne was behind me.

Soon, any moment now, they would know.

I knew I had to escape.

Leaping through the air, the world blurred again. Shifting and shaping around me, until I was among the fires I'd seen. The roaring flames of a battle, echoing into the dream.

Shadows of men falling, as magic rippled beneath the surface. Steel flying through, blinking like lights and stars, into and out of reality. Swords and spears flashed to life as quickly as they faded. Sometimes held in hand, sometimes drifting, like they were phantoms.

All around me, I heard screams calling out like echoes. Rumbles descending through the soil, as the ground splintered into dust and smoke.

And I kept running, through it all.

Step after step, I continued. Past cities, past strange and unfamiliar lands, until I found nothing but waves.

Until there was nowhere left to go.

Yet that golden tower still watched, leaving me torn in my terror as the dark chill of oceans rushed up to meet me, crashing down upon the beach of black sand.

They would find me, soon.

So very soon.

Impassive as death itself, I felt that cold gaze approaching. I felt the whispers of recognition worming their way ever-closer.

They could not find me. I knew beyond any shade of doubt: It would mean my end.

Desperate, I found myself among the spray. Wading in, arms tearing through the surf, I stumbled forward as the bottom dropped away, and my feet could no longer find purchase among the depths.

Then, I swam.

Into the currents, into the waves. Past the shadows and phantoms of ships, I fled.

Anything, to escape.

The farther I went, the farther the throne seemed to get. Unable to follow, my arms fought the sea, as I swam for miles and miles, out into the black.

Out until there was nothing but darkness and waves.

An alien ocean, waiting in silence to take my lost soul.

Alone, under an empty sky.

There were no stars, I realized. There was no sun, no moon: nothing but the deepest dark, no matter how my eyes strained against it.

I felt a different kind of dread, then.

One brought by the churning of force, leaving the surface still, like glass. Fear, which came of old, ancient things, peering up from the ink of this black ocean, in which I tread. Things which bore teeth of gray, and scales of silver, winding upwards from the horrid depths, while I could barely keeping my chin above the surface.

Around me, I could see stillness of the waters, as the ripples of my actions cast out in all directions.

What had I done?

In desperation, I began to swim again. Even as exhaustion gripped me, and strange currents moving beneath my kicking feet, I made my way towards the only thing in sight: the faint shadow of a ship.

Small, wooden, yet tangible, I clawed at its side, pulling myself into the confines of its dark substance, gasping for air.

Was this shelter enough, in the dream?

Had I made it?

I wondered as I pulled myself to my knees, coughing out as much as I managed to inhale. Air in my lungs bringing the heat in my chest back to life. Bringing some small semblance of color, back to my surroundings.

Out on a boat, in the awesome emptiness of an ocean.

Staring back towards the shore, the fires of distant battles seemed to glimmer like candles, but the throne was no longer visible.

There were no eyes watching from that golden monument of death.

Did that mean I was safe?

Could I stay here?

"No." A hollow voice answered. Quiet from where it sat, beside two thick oars, familiar but empty. "This ain't no place for the living."

There, just outside the light in my chest, he sat. Hunched in silence, just beyond my sight. The outline of a man.

A man I knew.

"Gregory?" I whispered, my voice hoarse. "Gregory, is that you?"

The figure sat in silence.

Around the small boat, I could see the glass of the ocean was changing. Cut apart by sharp fins, cresting up before rolling back down into the deep.

"You shouldn't be here, John." The shadow replied, unmoving from its seat across the boat.

Even as the waves formed anew, and we began to sway, that shadow did not move.

I saw massive shapes, impossibly large coils, twisting and turning as they slunk beneath the depths. Surrounding, enveloping...

As I turned back, a skeletal hand waited me.

The figure had leaned forward, ever so slightly, into the light.

Bones.

I saw their arm: that of a skeleton, then rotted flesh, then shifting into gray skin that was speckled with mold and tears as they came closer. Tendons and blood dripped and dangling down, splashing about the boats bottom as they turned to dust and shadows. Only one finger, barely settling into shape as a solid mark of gray flesh placed itself against my chest, and pushed.

"Wake up."

I did.