The front door clattered, jolting Aureus awake where he'd been sleeping in Iliam's common room.

"Good morning," Iliam said.

Bleary-eyed, Aureus sat up in the cot, careful not to overexert his stiff back. He breathed deep, inhaling the earthy scent of something cooking in the open hearth. Pale morning light shone through the small gaps in the wooden door, partially silhouetting Iliam as he wiped dirt from his hands with a sodden rag.

"Care for some pottage?"

"Sure," Aureus replied, wincing as he rubbed his neck. I'm not sleeping on this thing again...

Iliam picked up a pair of onions from the table beside the door and sat on the stool across from him. He pulled a small wooden board from where it leaned against the stool and withdrew a knife from the leather sheath on his belt.

"I thought you'd given up... So why eat?" Aureus asked.

"I've accepted my fate," Iliam replied, peeling the first onion. "There's a difference. And the stomach doesn't care what you choose—it'll grumble at you anyway. I'd rather keep it full until the end. Besides, I'd be a poor host not to feed a guest."

Aureus grunted in agreement. When it was clear Iliam intended to let the conversation die, he said, "Last night, you mentioned the Arcanarium kept an arcane reactor buried underneath Alatyr. If it was built to endlessly generate magic, why did magic stop working altogether? Surely, I couldn't have..."

Slipping a chunk of onion into his mouth, Iliam kept chopping.

"I mean, I understand why I saw magically powered tech failing around me in Alatyr, but it seems more widespread than it should be. Airships and ether cars were falling from the sky. And from what I've heard, it seems like I might've even started draining magic miles outside the city before I even left."

Iliam leaned over and dumped what he'd cut into the pot, then proceeded to peel the second onion.

Continuing, Aureus said, "That means I would have to have absorbed magic faster than the reactor could generate it—and then some, to account for stealing from natural sources. So, what happened to the reactor? Did I absorb it? My ability can't be that powerful, can it?"

"It seems to me," Iliam drawled, "you already know the answer. The real question is, what will happen to your body when you stop expending magical energy after absorbing a terminal sum."

"How did you know I've been expending it?"

"The most logical way for the Arcanarium to track you would be to follow a trail most devoid of magic. You've made it this far without their notice, though I doubt such a method with prove beneficial much longer." Iliam popped another piece into his mouth as he finished chopping the rest.

If he figured it out, the Arcanarium probably has, too, and might be using a different method to track me. He thought of Cahira. I guess I'm not as clever as I thought...

Finished—and miraculously clear-eyed—Iliam dumped in the remaining bits of onion.

"What's your theory?" Aureus asked. His stomach growled as he watched Iliam stir the pot with a ladle. "What do you think will happen if I stop expending magic and absorb it all—including what I've drained from the reactor? Is there a limit to what I can absorb? Is that what you meant by a 'terminal sum'?"

"I would hesitate to say you 'drained' the reactor."

"What would you say then?"

Smacking his lips, Iliam taste-tested his concoction. "Hmm. Needs more salt..." He set the ladle in the pot and shuffled his way to a cabinet in the kitchen. When he returned, he offered Aureus a clay bowl and a wooden spoon.

"I thought you said it needed more salt..."

"It does—I don't have any," Iliam replied, easing himself onto the stool.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"In a bit—after the onions cook. And don't ask me if you can have some, just eat. I see the hunger in your eyes. Please, go ahead—by all means."

Not wanting to appear ungrateful, Aureus waited to press his question until after he took a few bites of what he'd ladled into his bowl. The pottage was bland, a lesser version of a recipe Madrona might've cooked, but he resisted the urge to shovel it into his mouth all the same—his cramped stomach yelling at him for more.

Both men watched the fire in the hearth, wool-gathering as Aureus ate.

"Iliam, if I didn't drain the reactor, what happened to it?"

Stirred from whatever reverie he'd lost himself in, Iliam said, "My boy... If what you are saying is true, and Alatyr has truly lost its primary power source, then all evidence suggests you are the reactor now. Why else would the Enclave have you interrogated and tortured? In their eyes, you stole the very thing that won them a war against a god."

"But that's impossible. How could I generate an infinite abundance of magic and absorb it all at the same time? That would be the equivalent of dispelling it altogether. Besides, I've had more than enough moments where I could use magic."

"Yes, but think on what you've just told me—ether cars and airships falling from the sky... Arcanarium technology is not designed to spontaneously draw from another source when the first is removed. The reactor is gone, or at least no longer exists in the same state, and as long as the sigils below Alatyr remain intact, it will continue to exist. You will continue to carry it with you and siphon magic from your surroundings. Whether there is an infinite amount of magic in the world could be debated, but it's ultimately irrelevant in the grand scheme of things."

"Irrelevant? Irrelevant how? What aren't you telling me?"

Iliam sighed. "What I'm saying is that I don't think your body was designed to contain all the world's magic and the reactor. Perhaps one or the other, but certainly not both. Like an overcharged battery, you will die."

Crestfallen, Aureus shook his head.

"The human body has its limits," Iliam said, grimacing. "Of all the mysteries I've explored, human fragility has remained a constant and irrevocable fact. I am very sorry to tell you, my boy, but it's only a matter of time. Even if you somehow destroyed the sigils powering the reactor, you would still have the full power of the planet's magic to contend with. Destroying the reactor's sigils could buy you some time, but eventually, your ability will kill you."

Aureus set his bowl on the ground, feeling as if it suddenly weighed more than it should.

I killed myself and the world when I tried to build that reactor...

He'd always known death was an eventuality, and he'd accepted it. If he hadn't, Xiomara would have never taken an interest in him. But he'd imagined he'd die from old age or—more recently—from exposure, hunger, dehydration, or a Deathless attack. Never from absorbing magic.

"How long do I have?"

"It is difficult to say. The good news is that you will likely die in your sleep—when you are unable to expend the terminal sum—as I said."

Laughing cheerlessly, Aureus leaned against the wall, cot creaking under his bulk. I'm going to die... "So... What? Am I going to explode or something?"

"Not likely."

He hesitated to ask if it would be painful and closed his eyes, deciding he didn't want to know the answer.

"I'll give you some time," Iliam said, patting Aureus on the shoulder as he waddled out of the room.

Maybe I should just stay here, he thought. Maybe I should let the Deathless kill me before my ability can...

He opened his eyes.

Xiomara sat on the stool across from him.

Face creased with worry, she did what she had done so many times during his journey and offered her hand, palm up.

He reached out to take it.

And she vanished.

A shock traveled the length of his spine, raising every hair on his body—strong enough to force him upright.

He sensed something nearby. A source of magic more potent than any he'd felt before—moving fast and getting closer—a source resistant to his siphoning ability.

Someone knocked on the door.

Iliam walked in. "What's this then? Expecting company, are you?"

Aureus shook his head absentmindedly, trying to understand what was happening, the world suddenly feeling surreal and indistinct—like he'd just woken from a dream. Numbly, he watched Iliam open the door, realizing too late what might be on the other side.

"Don't!"

He caught a brief glimpse of a man standing outside before the room exploded into a maelstrom of stone and timber that sent him sprawling into the wall behind him.

Light from the morning sun shone through a ragged hole in the ceiling through swirling dust clouds. A shadow in the shape of a man strode closer, walking toward Iliam, who lay prone and motionless—his body twisted at unnatural angles next to the hearth.

"It appears time hasn't been kind to you," the man said. His voice, though accented like Iliam's, sounded vaguely familiar.

Cold rivulets of blood streamed across Aureus's face to his collarbone, obscuring his vision and soaking his shirt as he struggled to remain conscious.

A support beam collapsed near the entrance, inviting more light into the newly made ruins.

"Why am I not surprised?" the man chided. "You always did have a soft spot for broken things."

A stab of pain wracked Aureus's right shoulder when he attempted to sit up.

Azure flames bloomed in the haze, hovering above the man's upturned palm.

"Iliam, get up..." Aureus rasped. He tried to stand. Agony and dizziness held him back.

The debris settled, and Iliam remained motionless, wheezing while blood pooled beneath his broken body. The man held out the flame in his hand, taking aim. "Farewell, old friend."

"No!" Aureus cried.

A stream of fire swathed over Iliam.

The man stood above Iliam's body, watching as it burned. Aureus tried to sit up but again failed in the effort. Injured and outmatched by an experienced battlemage, he needed to run.

"You've caused quite a bit of trouble of late," the man called.

Aureus choked on the acrid smoke and managed to scoot only a few inches along the wall by the time the man stopped at his feet and knelt, dark robes brushing against the floor.

"All that power... Squandered on a lesser."

The man grabbed him by the hair and twisted.

And the face that came into view was his own.

A middle-aged version of himself gazed back at Aureus—disgust twisting greyed features.

Before Aureus could react, the man stood and yanked his neck to the side by his hair—dragging him across the room. He clawed, pried, and kicked uselessly as he was hauled outside.

Xiomara stood in the ruined doorway, watching.

"Stand up," the man said.

Aureus made the attempt and collapsed—another stab of pain in his shoulder eliciting an agonized cry. Nausea clouded his senses, heartbeat thundering in his ears as panic set in.

"Pathetic."

An unseen force hoisted him into the air and brought him face-to-face with the older man, and a chill of recognition swept through him—finally realizing where he'd heard the name Valerius before meeting Iliam...

From the Deathless in Nysara.

And now, he knew why.

"Channel your magic to me," Valerius demanded. "I know you can." He grabbed Aureus by the throat and squeezed. "Give it to me. Now."

"Fuck...you," Aureus managed, half-regretting it when Valerius's grip tightened. The edges of his vision darkened, and his face grew hot from the mounting pressure in his skull.

His weight fell, and Valerius plunged him to the ground, nearly folding him in half at the waist. Something popped and tore near his hip and lower spine, but for all the pain, he couldn't cry out while being strangled.

"Give. Me. Your. Magic," Valerius demanded, releasing his grip.

Aureus crumpled in a heap, dry-heaving—eyes feeling as if they were on the verge of popping from their sockets while he desperately tried to breathe.

Xiomara stood nearby, watching.

In the back of his mind, he knew what Valerius was doing: keeping him off-balance and occupied with pain to keep him from concentrating long enough to retaliate by casting. It was an archaic and cruel tactic frowned upon in mage duels. But it also meant—for some reason—Valerius saw him as a threat despite having the advantage.

He rolled over on his back, chest pumping at irregular intervals as he took one ragged breath after another. Gray clouds drifted overhead, veiling the rising sun.

A slight tremor rippled through the ground. At first, Aureus mistook it for thunder, but it persisted and intensified. Earthquake? he wondered. The thought gave him an idea.

Valerius didn't seem to notice. "This is your only chance. If you don't give up your magic willingly, I'll spend the rest of the day siphoning it from your corpse."

Placing his palm on the ground, Aureus funneled raw magic into it—hardly needing to concentrate as he simply allowed it to flow freely. With the tendrils of magic still attached to his hand, the act connected his senses to the environment, allowing him to feel the earth shift beneath the weight of something colossal headed their way from the north.

The tendrils flowed out, weaving their way beneath Valerius's feet.

Aureus recalled them with a snap, and the ground erupted in a shower of mud, clay, and rock—swallowing them both. He held on, digging his fingers into the muck to keep himself from sliding.

Xiomara stood above him at the crater's edge, watching.

The constant tremor transitioned to a rumble, shaking his grip loose.

Something screeched in the distance.

He tumbled down into the belly of the shallow sinkhole, colliding with something soft. Valerius reached to grab him, but Aureus didn't give him a chance. He discharged a torrent of magic directly into the other man's chest, forcibly driving Valerius deeper into the sinkhole and launching himself into the sky.

Aureus landed on his injured shoulder with a crack as the force of the explosion propelled him into the side of a nearby shed—the awning pelted by clumps of soil and rock.

He tried to stand, but between the slick mud and his injuries, he couldn't get his bearings. Gasping, he leaned against the outer wall of the shed, trying not to think about how many ribs he'd broken. Get up, he told himself. Come on, you can do it... Get the fuck up!

Breathless from the effort, he tried to put weight on his left leg, but it set his nerves on fire, and he fell back. Shingles tumbled from the roof, loosened by the intensifying quakes.

In the distance, down the hill and across the clearing, trees from the surrounding forest quivered.

A shriek filled the air. Followed by another.

And another.

Deathless, Aureus realized.

The screeching chorus rose to a crescendo, uniting into a baleful warning.

Another detonation rocked the sinkhole, scattering debris in every direction, and a dark form rose from its center.

Valerius, unscathed and caked in mud with visible currents of light blue magic flowing from his body, levitated over the depression. He glanced at the oncoming horde of Deathless as it broke from the tree line—monstrosities of every imaginable shape and size barreling forward.

What remained of Iliam's home collapsed in on itself, unable to withstand the constant vibration.

Valerius turned. "You had your chance, replicant." Crimson flames ignited in a palm aimed at Aureus.

I can't shield yet, he despaired—his mind turning over one useless solution after another. Diverting the current wasn't impossible, but he knew he wouldn't be able to react in time. He simply hadn't practiced enough, much less trained in war magic.

But there was one thing he knew how to do.

Fuck it.

A column of roaring fire streaked toward him, and he raised his good arm to greet it.

The fire funneled into a concentrated beam of yellow light, coalescing into tendrils of raw magic as Aureus gathered it to him—just as he had with the gunship in Alatyr.

Instead of cutting off the stream, Valerius pressed the attack and added another torrent of fire with his other hand. Drawn by the pull of Aureus's siphon, the stream veered into the first and merged, enveloping the length of his forearm in light. His shirt sleeve withered and curled away from the influx of concentrated magic.

Godsdamnit!

Glowing, multicolored cracks formed in his skin, traveling slowly up from his bicep and neck.

My body's falling apart... I won't last like this!

The wood at his back buckled.

A wall of shadows surged uphill, less than a hundred yards out.

Aureus screamed—every nerve in his body aflame, shattering every last sane thought as his mind raced for a means to escape.

Valerius bellowed in frustration, pouring every ounce of effort into his attack.

The Deathless roared, deafening in their reply.

Spellsmoke roiled around Aureus as the world around him phased in and out of existence, overlayed by flashing images of a black, desiccated woodland—blinking faster and faster until both worlds existed simultaneously as his body glowed blue.

In one instant, Xiomara was there beside him and gone the next, only to reappear somewhere else—watching.

Magic thrummed, contrasting the reverberating groan of the earth as the first of the Deathless leaped for Valerius. The streams of fire ceased.

Light around and within Aureus brightened as he absorbed the last bits of magic. The last thing he saw was Valerius fighting on the ground, holding his own against sea of nightmares.

And Xiomara, offering her hand.

A flash blinded him.

Then, Aureus was in the woods, leaning against a blackened tree.

He remained there, unable to move—his body wracked with pain so great he could do nothing but rest with it.

No birds sang from withered branches. No squirrels or chipmunks scurried about the ashen earth.

Gone were the Deathless and Valerius. And Xiomara, too.

He was utterly alone.

Stars winked overhead, visible in the cloudless morning sky.

His lungs started to seize, and wheezing breaths turned into gurgling, wracking coughs—frothy flecks of blood spraying from his split lips.

It felt as if someone were driving a dull hook into his heart and pulling on it. His vision blurred and came into focus, only to blur again.

I'm going to die...

The realization struck like a ram, and the onset of panic accompanied an adrenaline rush—his body's last-ditch effort to keep him alive, to keep him moving. But he couldn't. Not while he was rooted to the base of the dead tree by the very fear that made him want to scream and claw his way to the nearest inhabited settlement.

I'm going to die alone...

All the while, the world turned, indifferent.

He would never get to tell Madrona how much she meant to him. How thankful he was for being her son. He would never get to hear Ilias laugh again or tell a dirty joke. He would never get to waste his days studying in the archives, dreaming of bright futures. He would never grow old. He would never get to enjoy the smell of an autumn breeze or the cool waters of the ocean in high summer. He would never get to tell Iliam how angry he was for leaving or how grateful he was for pulling him from the trash. He would never love or hate or laugh or cry or...

Another bout of pain struck. Aureus grasped at his chest, battered fist clenched over his heart, hardly noticing the pain in his shoulder. His palm brushed over a small lump in his breast pocket.

Xiomara's letter.

A new terror set it.

His body betrayed him while he fumbled to retrieve the letter—too weak and uncoordinated to pull it free—and he started to sob.

If he gave up, he would never get to read it, even if he knew what the letter would say. He'd known since Cahira had shown it to him in Nysara.

But he'd been too scared, too frightened by the idea that Xiomara could still love him after everything he'd done. To his colleagues in the Arcanarium. To Killian. To Alatyr. To the world and everyone in it.

To her.

But love is what he needed most in his final moments.

If he gave up, he would never get to face his guilt and anger over Xiomara's death.

Worst of all, he would die without knowing the extent of her love for him. Why she had chosen to save him instead of trying to save herself. Why she'd been willing to put him through the horror of seeing her lifeless body and leave him alone to realize he'd killed her, or if she expected him to forgive her for it. Why she'd sacrificed everything to get him to Iliam. Why she had made the ultimate sacrifice for a foolish man with a foolish dream to create a better world using magic.

The thought of not knowing why frightened him more than dying.

So, he kept trying.

Through every ache and every agony, he kept trying to pull the envelope from his pocket. Eventually, he prevailed.

With his other arm withered, burned, and unresponsive, it took even longer to open the letter.

But when he did, he spread it out over his lap, lamenting the smears of blood and grime over Xiomara's exquisite handwriting.

Then, he began to read.

To be continued in Echoes Fading...

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