Days eased by with surprising alacrity. September breathed its last and summer was forgotten in the misty marshes and grey heaths of England's moors. October's autumn hung upon the land in a dreary cloak of tenuous rain storms—not that I was able to experience much of the weather.

For the most part, I spent my days in the dungeons of the manor's depths, sitting on the cold floor as I read books by torchlight with my incarcerated mage instructor. The page margins were always full of Cage's surprisingly tidy and well-penned annotations. I would puzzle through his old notes while the mage lectured or just talked about past events or items that caught his attention. Cage spoke often and yet never really seemed to say much. 

He never asked about me, about the world outside his homey little cell or the murder I had confessed to. Nor did the mage ever say another word about his own crimes. We spoke only of magic and the strange, mystical things that populated this world and the next.

Today I sat with a blackboard balanced on my knee and a nub of chalk pinched between my fingers. The chalk hadn't begun as a nub, but two hours of attempting to draw constructs had worn the stick down to almost nothing. My black jeans were pattered with white fingerprints and my teal blouse was equally dusty.

I stared at my newest attempt, trying to discern any defects in the smooth lines of the nesting circles. Finding none, I spun the board and held it up to the bars, clearing my throat to get Cage's attention. The mage had left me to my work, drifting off to his own experiments and activities. He returned from his burnt table, brushing soot from his fingertips.

"Hmm...." The mage took the blackboard and held it up to his face, studying my work. I waited with held breath, exhaling only when Cage lowered the board and shook his head.

"By the King below," I exclaimed, vigorously rubbing at my tired eyes. I was covered in chalk dust from head to toe and could feel the small granules grate beneath my fingertips against my skin. "What's wrong with it now?"

"The space between your rebound line and the distal arc is exaggerated too heavily." He pointed to the line of the outer circle, then to the line of the middle one. "The curve is too extreme and will never be able to set." He held his branded hand through the bars, fingers wiggling and palm upright. "Allow me."

Grumbling, I slapped the chalk into the mage's out held hand. Smirking, Cage used the nub to quickly sketch a new construct alongside mine. He completed it in a matter of seconds and spun the board to display a perfectly formed set of nested circles. Next to his work, my painstakingly crafted construct was wobbly and off-kilter. 

"You're trying too hard," Cage said as he handed the blackboard back to me along with another stick of chalk. The nub was flicked somewhere into the darkness beyond the torchlight. My frustration must have been evident, as the mage spoke slowly in a calm, even tone. "Magic is a practice, like medicine—but, in many respects, it is also an art form. Allow the natural pull of your muscles to guide your hand. Magic is all about your intent. Stop trying to make perfect circles and simply create an unending line." 

That was undoubtedly the most unhelpful thing he had said all afternoon. I puffed out my cheeks as I tugged at my hair and spun the skinny stick of chalk between my fingers. Magic was a practice, magic was an art, magic was hard, magic was easy. I had heard many opposing definitions from the mage during our time together. As far as I was concerned, magic was a mystery that defied solving.

I had memorized terms and had copied runes until I understood their basic meanings—though, when they were thrown into constructions and combined into scripts, those meanings became as convoluted as the most difficult of foreign languages. It was time to try my hand at setting a construct—but it was proving to be a daunting task.

I stared at Cage's work, tracing my thumb along its extremity. "Why can't I simply use your construct?"

"You can't," he said as he looped his arms through the bars and leaned upon the supporting struts. "You could try. Nothing would happen. The construct must be set by the user. The same can be said of runes, or a witch's potions. You see, when you set a spell or a construct or a rune, you pull a strand of your essence through your creation—not unlike a thread creating the final stitch to close a wound. So even before you begin to pour energy into the construct to activate it, the construct is already attuned to your particular soul's signature." 

"What about tracing? Couldn't I just trace yours or the book's construct?"

"Certainly." Cage shrugged, his dark brows drawing nearer one another. "Many wizards and ley users who fail at creating their own constructs do so. To be plain, however, I consider doing so a half-measure. A cheat. A way for an untalented student to pass a course but never learn the applicable skill. What would happen if you needed a construct while you didn't have your tracings? What if you were in danger and couldn't stop to sit down and trace new ones?"

Despondent, I leaned my elbows upon my knees and wilted with my face resting in my palms. "No. No, I guess you're right." I didn't have to be happy about him being correct, though. Tired and sore from sitting on the floor, it was only natural I'd want to find a shortcut.

I tried what the mage had said, allowing my hand to move swiftly in a single, arcing line until the three circles were done. I had to admit it was better than my previous attempt, but it still didn't have the perfectly smooth arc of Cage's work. I sighed. He wasn't even a wizard, which meant he wasn't able to use constructs—and yet he could draw them seamlessly. 

I worked for a while, scrubbing my failed attempts clean with the heel of my palm before trying again. Cage watched me with his arms still looped through the bars, his body blocking the light emanating from inside his cell. Something started to burn, the faint whiffs of smoke reaching my nose, but from the corner of my eye I saw the mage's fingers twitch, and the smell receded.

"Sara," he said, drawing my concentration away from the smeared blackboard. An unusual severity framed his face and his eyes, usually bright with humor, were somber in the stingy torchlight bathing part of his countenance. "You're unusually dedicated." 

I stopped working. "I don't understand what you mean." My hands fidgeted and tapped the tip of the chalk against the board. 

"I've not had an apprentice of my own, but I have been around a number of my colleagues'. In my experience, I have come to know it's one thing to be eager to learn, another to be desperate to know." Cage's frown intensified, though the myriad of his thoughts remained unknowable. He was similar to Darius in that regard. I never knew what Cage was really thinking, and that was often unnerving. "What drives you, student?"

I lifted my hand to halt the incessant rap of the chalk. Was there truly a difference between an eagerness to learn and a desperation to know? If such a difference existed, what was it? What did Cage see in me that he hadn't seen in the apprentices of his fellow mages?

The mage waited with quiet expectance as I fiddled with the chalk, then with the beginner's text laying at my feet. Cage had always refrained from asking personal questions during our lessons, so his sudden curiosity had caught me unaware.

"I...." My voice wavered as I shut the book. I took a breath and forced nonchalance into my words, as if they meant nothing to me. "I'm going to die soon. There's something I want to do, something I want to ensure—someone I...I want to protect before it's my time. I can no longer default my ignorance to my upbringing within human society. I must rise above that, must strive to come to a level of understanding that will allow me to persevere and survive long enough to achieve my goal."

I sneezed on the chalk dust and rubbed at my nose, trying to dispel the sudden moisture in my eyes. I hadn't told anyone else what I had just told Cage. Perhaps I had only done so because I knew my words literally couldn't leave that cell. Even so, the ponderous shift of my mood was uncomfortable, so I lightened my words and lifted my chin. "Aside from that, this is all I've ever been good at—studying, that is. Reading. If there's one thing I can do, it's study."

Cage laughed, though the action felt flat and lacked his usual warmth. Though he was leaning against the cell wall, his posture was stiff. "It is strange, however. You've never questioned what I've taught you, never second guessed the nature of the assignments you've completed. Don't you worry I may teach you nefarious things? That I may instruct you in black magic and you may be ostracized from your blood kin as a result?" His fingers tightened on the bars as he spoke, his knuckles white against the dark metal. "Though, it's my understanding that Valians and their ilk are far more forgiving of such things than Terrestrians."

I shook my head as I lifted the book from the floor and set it atop my blackboard. With unsteady balance, I rose to my feet and winced at the numbness in my legs.

"I don't worry because it doesn't matter to me if you are teaching me black magic. You've told me numerous times that magic is about intent. If my intent is to save someone—to protect someone—do my methods truly matter? Do we question the innocence of the man who cuts down a maniac attempting to kill the man's loved one? His actions were grim and deadly. His intent was pure. The maniac also wielded a blade, but his actions and his intent were both 'dark.'"

"Ah, but where does the line get drawn?" Cage asked, holding up a finger. The brand on his palm caught the light and the scarred flesh glistened. "You've heard the expression that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. At what point does the malevolence of your actions outweigh the benevolence of your intent? At what point is innocence lost? When does the magic stain your soul black and when do your actions irrevocably pervert the nature of your intent?"

I pursed my lips and dropped my gaze. "I don't know."

Cage nodded and leaned off the bars. "Because it is unknowable, my apprentice. There isn't a line separating good and bad. That line doesn't suddenly appear in magic, either. It is a slippery slope you must prepare yourself to traverse. No amount of studying can prepare you for the sudden, irreversible plunge into darkness—because if you are willing to commit terrible actions, willing to use black magic to meet your goals, then you will undoubtedly do so, and you will be a black magic user regardless of your intent. It is simply a label you must be prepared to bear. Do you understand, Sara?"

I did understand. I had been willing to kill for Tara's vengeance and was willing to do so again in order to secure safety for Darius at our contract's end. I knew my limits. I knew what I was and wasn't willing to do. Using magic others may frown upon didn't matter to me. Not at all.

I nodded.

"Good, then." Cage straightened his coat and readjusted the silver ribbon about his throat. I wanted to ask him why he wore the ridiculous thing, but I kept my mouth shut. "Are you about to leave?"

"Yes. I'm, ah, not supposed to be down here. I have to get going or I'll be missed."

"Wait just a moment, if you will?"

I did so, shifting my weight from foot to foot as the pins and needles sensation faded. Cage went into the cell somewhere beyond my sight. He returned soon enough and stuck two books through the bars with his good hand. One was an older, worn volume with a strange, archaic binding and the other was a modern composition notebook. "Take these."

I did as I was bid, shifting the blackboard and beginner's text under one arm so I could accept the new books. Curious, I flipped to an errant page within the first and knew it was another book of construct magic, though written in a language I'd never laid eyes on before. The words were comprised of square letters marred with various ticks and lines. There was something inherently primitive about the language, as if it had first been created eons ago—and yet I sensed a sophisticated depth within it that was atypical to such old languages.

There were constructs neatly drawn inside the pages accompanied with their instructions. I, obviously, couldn't read a word of it.

"It took me a while to translate," the mage grumbled, as if he were irked by this fact. "I would normally hand you a translation rune and you'd be able to read the book without a problem. Alas—." Cage flicked one of the bars, the hollow thunk echoing into the dark of the dungeons. "Not even a benign trinket like that can pass through this barrier."

I opened the notebook and found Cage's immaculate handwriting filling the inner pages, coupled with page numbers and references. It must have taken him weeks to translate the entirety of the text.

"Thank you," I told him, feeling as if my gratitude was a weak reward for such diligent work.

The constructs inside the book were different than those found in the mage text. Mage constructs required nothing more than the proper design, procedure, and energy to fuel their animation. Some of the constructs detailed within this tome required miscellaneous items, preparation, and ceremony. One construct for the sealing of a "heartwood box" required over a thousand ingredients and took nearly a year to prepare. Another meant for plant revival could only be used after the summer solstice.

As I turned pages, I realized the constructs contained within this book were not as...clean as the ones printed within the beginner's text. The vague, gray area between good and evil within this magic was wider. Some required animal sacrifice. One construct near the back was designed to create a rune capable of stripping mana from a soul. It required a death to activate. The page was dappled with old, black blood.

I swallowed when my heart leapt into my throat and slowly shut the book.

"Sara."

I looked at Cage though I knew my face was pale with unease. The mage had his hand through the bars again, this time with a closed switchblade loosely clasped between his fingers. Confused, I extended my arm and he dropped the blade into my sweaty palm.

"What...what is this for?"

Cage simpered, the corners of his lips tugging at his gaunt cheeks. "If you find yourself in danger, you can use your own blood as the medium with which you create your constructs. Your blood carries your will, your mana, and bits of who you are. It makes your magic much stronger—and much more dangerous. It foregoes the limitations worked into a construct's designs, but in doing so it also links your very soul to your creation. I don't tell you this lightly. More than one mage has met his end melding blood with his magic. If something goes awry, your construct could literally bleed your soul of every drop of mana and you will die an agonizing death."

The mage withdrew, standing on his side of the bars with a firm expression fixed upon his face. "It is also the very definition of black magic."

I swallowed again, but doubled my grip upon the bone handle of the slender knife until my fist quivered. "Thank you—for this, and for the warning."

Cage dipped into an abbreviated bow. "Naturally. And, Sara? I've a final bit of advice for today."

"Yes?"

"Seek out a woman named the Cassandra. She lives within Crow's End. She may be able to help you...realize your wishes."

"Okay." Had I heard him correctly? The Cassandra? I hadn't heard her name before, and it was odd to add The before it. Who exactly was Cage sending me out to look for?

The mage shifted as one of his silver instruments began to chirp and smoke once more billowed upward from his table. "Until later, then?"

He went to shut his door, sealing out the rank and unsightly grime of the dungeon's passageway, but I called out to the mage, pausing his motion.

"Cage?"

"Yes, my apprentice?"

I held up the old text with the withered, woven binding as I slid the switchblade into the pocket of my pants. "What language is this written in?"

The mage blinked with one hand resting upon the iron ring of the door's handle. "Vytian, of course."

My eyes danced from the book in my grip to the mage and back again. The skin at the nape of my neck prickled as an ominous sensation raked its nails down my spine. "Why are you giving me this?"

Cage winked as he flashed me a toothy grin. "Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

The door shut, leaving me alone with my arms burdened with dangerous, bloody magic and my mind filled with grim realizations.