-Two months after Fabio's death-

Raff wandered down the street, hands in his pockets, relishing the odd sensation of freedom. For so long he'd been a student, beholden to the Schola and its rigors; up at the crack of dawn, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, practice, dinner. If he was lucky, he'd be able to grab a few drinks with Sab and Giada at the Dancing Lights, or wander off on a small adventure on the town. There was never any time for himself.

Now that he'd found himself with an excess of it, he was rapidly discovering he had no idea how to spend it.

Everyone had been offered a stay of appointment if they wanted to stay and watch the trials. The fire mages in particular, since this was their High Priest, and this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the next one appointed. The top fire mages were encouraged to apply to join the trials to become next High Priest.

Raff had high enough scores in the practical courses that he was sent the letter alongside his more bookish compatriots, not that he'd needed the encouragement. He'd signed up long before he'd received the letter. Before his hands had healed, even; his signature had been a mess. The warmth of the Godstone... he'd had dreams about it. About owning that power, feeling it course through his veins. He hungered for it like he'd never hungered for anything before.

Once his hands had healed, he'd spent most of his time training, practicing his magic as much as his combat technique, but there was only so much training a man could do, and so much time in a day. A few bad hangovers had turned him off of spending every afternoon at the Dancing Lights. He'd tried hanging out with Sab, only to find that he was more than happy to spend all day playing a mind-numbing game of shesko with the old men, moving tiny pieces across a board, or hanging out at a smithy, or fishing. Old man things. Giada had her family. Milo liked to paint, or write poetry, or something boring and noble like that. He'd gone and read some of the old epics over again, the record of the Tenebraean war and the Lost Godstone, or the story of Andrea the Dragonslayer, but as short as they were, they didn't take two months to read.

In the end, he'd gotten himself a job at the Shrine. It wasn't a real appointment. He swept the floors, cared for the albero d'ambra, filled in whenever anyone couldn't make it to their guard shift, but it kept him occupied during the morning, and he didn't mind the coin, either. He trained in the afternoons. The evenings were open, but he could handle that much free time.

Now, at last, the trials were finally looming. Entrants had gathered from all over Bosco, filtering in over the weeks. Pale-haired and -skinned mages from the northern regions, mages with skin darker than Giada's from the southwest, mages from the center, near the capitol, draped in the lavish coats and robes of what he presumed must be the cutting edge of fashion, mages with the sunbleached light-dark hair of the eastern coasts, and everything in between.

Tonight was the final night before the trials began. Not only that, but also the Return. Everyone was out tonight, the streets busy as they waited for the ritual to begin. All around him, people babbled in dialects he could just barely understand, unfamiliar styles of clothing from the far corners of Bosco all on bold display. Buskers haunted every corner, looking for handouts from the newcomers. Some played music, while others just sat and looked pitiful, even as they pocketed coin after coin. The street vendors, too, were out in force, hawking anything they could think to hawk, from ribbons to cheap food and drink to soulstones, tiny ones full of just enough power to last a night's worth of light. Raff couldn't keep his hand from drifting to the sword on his hip, and he found himself grinning. He had a real soulstone now. A real weapon. Those stones were trinkets in comparison. Child's play.

"What're you grinning about?" Sab asked suspiciously.

Raff spun and found the man standing just to his left, an eyebrow cocked. "Your grandpa outfit," he shot back, nodding at Sab's attire. Sab wore a flat cap, a loose white shirt under a loose tweed vest, and baggy trousers paired with worn brown boots. Even his war hammer was tucked under his arm like a cane. Raff himself wore a peacock blue shirt that fit tight around the chest and loose around the sleeves, mahogany trousers that bloomed above the knee and tightened with buttons below, and polished black boots with white spats, those borrowed from his usual uniform since he hadn't the coin to buy more than one pair of good boots. He blended in with the majority of the crowd, most of the Castelfiamman youth decked in bright colors and clothing that billowed only where it needed to.

Sab snorted. "One day, you'll value comfort above fashion, too."

"I'm perfectly comfortable," Raff replied, rolling his eyes. "And I don't look ridiculous, either."

"Oh, I look ridiculous," Sab muttered, but he was grinning when he reached up to adjust the cap.

The sun was starting to set. The ritual would begin soon. Raff inclined his head. Sab nodded, and they followed the flow of people towards the city gates.

Castelfiamma was always a beautiful place in Raff's eyes. The little gardens that lined the cobblestone streets, the narrow wooden houses and the sumptuous brick manors with their extensive grounds. Tonight, though, the city glowed, more beautiful than he'd ever seen it. Every lantern was ablaze, every house scrubbed clean. Banners hung everywhere, reds and yellows and oranges, the occasional gold, all flapping and snapping in the wind almost like flames. They hung from the lanterns, from windows, from clotheslines between the houses. The city had dressed up for the trials a day early, accommodating the earlier, annual ritual.

Be nice if it looked like this all the time, Raff thought, watching a banner catch the wind. It was certainly nicer than the white the city had draped itself in for Fabio's funeral. White was the custom, to honor the Most High God Lux to whom all souls returned, but... it hadn't felt right to him. Watching the banners flicker now, Raff felt as though these reds and golds did more to honor the late High Priest than white ever would. He'd been one with fire, not light, after all.

"Nervous for the trials?" Sab asked, glancing at Raff. He hadn't signed up for the trials, just stuck around to watch them. All part of his 'enough excitement,' Raff supposed.

He shook his head. "Not at all," he said with confidence. It didn't feel real, yet. Hadn't sunk in that he was really doing this. And it was hard to be scared when it didn't feel like something real.

The city gates loomed, and Raff and Sab passed through them. The thick walls took a full three seconds to pass under, the passageway loud with reflected conversation. On the other side, Raff glanced back, only to find the ancient stone walls hung with banners too. From a distance, it would look like the city was on fire, all the banners flickering away, flapping with the breeze. Beyond it, Mt. Racando stood, tall, proud, and silent as usual, lesser mountains clustering around its height like baby chicks to a mother hen.

"Whoa," Sab said, nudging Raff.

He turned back around to find what Sab was staring at, and stared himself—though this time in horror.

A wooden cage, just tall enough to fit a man and wide enough to fit a hundred, stood before them. And it was packed with people, one end to another, so tight they could barely move. Or rather, what had been people. Dry maws gaped, white-marble eyes stared, gray skin pulled tight over desiccated limbs. They reached toward the crowd with broken arms, clawing weakly towards whatever they could see. Ghouls. The very sight sent a chill of revulsion up Raff's spine. Lesser undead. The least of the undead. Bodies improperly put to rest, bodies of those who had died without an ambra around their necks. Foreigners or fools, most of them. A few carried grudges that prevented their soul from entering the ambra, and for those he felt compassion. They staggered and lurched against one another as if they felt nothing—because they didn't. Dead. Unfeeling. Unnatural. Raff shook himself and fiddled with the end of his ponytail. He'd be happy to see them go up in ash.

That was what the Return was all about, after all. The ghouls that accumulated over the summer and fall were gathered together when they froze in the winter's chill, then sent back to the soulstream all at once on the vernal equinox, blessed by the High Priest so that this time they would find their way into the cycle of reincarnation rather than be locked in such piteous forms on this earth. This time they would be blessed by an ordinary priest instead of a High Priest. Raff found himself wondering if they'd be fine on a lesser blessing, or if only the High Priest's would do. Either way, fire cleanses ghouls, he figured. Nothing would remain but ash once they went up in flames, and the souls, freed of their earthy forms, would have nowhere to go but the soulstream.

"There's a lot of them this year," Sab commented.

Raff shrugged. "Not much more than usual. Last year's cage was nearly as large."

"No, I mean..." Sab furrowed his brows, then rubbed out the creases as if to undo what he'd done. "Sorry. My previous life, there were... fewer ghouls in a year. I forgot that it's been a few centuries."

"Don't just forget a few centuries, old man!" Raff jibed, nudging Sab in the ribs.

"Yeah, yeah, happens to everyone," Sab muttered, and they shared a smile at the old joke.

The crowds thickened as the sun set. Raff found a perch away from the crowds up on a boulder half-tucked into the woods that surrounded Castelfiamma. He settled on the top, legs dangling over the edge. Sab sat below him with a grateful sigh. The moon climbed higher in the sky, and the sun vanished beneath the horizon. The faint greenish light of the soulstream was beginning to shine high in the sky when a priest mounted a raised platform set slightly behind and a little above the cage. Light shone from above him, and the crowd hushed on cue.

Raff sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Finally," he muttered. He'd been about to doze off there.

"Tonight we gather to return the souls of our unfortunate countrymen to the soulstream. Though these souls may be grudge-bearers or non-Lucists, tonight, they are as one with us. They could be you, without the grace of the gods or the knowledge of the ambra's blessing."

A yawn escaped Raff's throat, and he sagged back against the rock. Dammit. Couldn't they just get on with it?

The priest prattled on for a while. Raff tuned him out, scanning the crowds instead. From up here, he had a good view of the crowd. Rather than the number of ghouls, it was the crowds that were larger than usual this year. On top of the distant Boscans who'd gathered for the trials, many had brought family, or at least an entourage. He spotted Giada standing near the front with her family, though it seemed her family had grown in size since the last time he'd seen them—and I'd thought that was her extended family. Distant relatives in for the trials? His gaze passed over the rest of the crowd. A few other guards from his year were standing about, watching the priest babble. Milo stood near the opposite edge of the cage, all alone. He raised an eyebrow at that. Far-flung members of Giada's family had come to watch the trials, but Milo's noble family couldn't be bothered to send anyone? Odd.

The priest finished. As he backed away, a group of four dancers stepped forward. Raff sat up, interested again. The dancers' faces were hidden behind large masks. Two wore hideous pale masks with dark eyes and exaggerated frowns, meant to represent the ghouls, and were dressed in gray rags. Scraps of black fabric hid their hair. The other two wore gold masks with stern faces, streaked with red paint around the eyes and lips. What might have been fur or hair sprouted from the edges of the mask out around their face in a mane and down their neck, reddish gold like fire. Both wore stiff white ceremonial robes. One of the robes hung open around the chest to reveal a large red gem, about as big as Raff's palm, meant to represent Ignis' Godstone; that dancer represented the first High Priest to hold the Return. The other dancer in the gold mask wore a facsimile of armor, painted in garish golds and silvers with the crossed-circle of the Shrine's emblem in red center front, meant to represent the Shrineguards who'd fought to collect the ghouls.

The four clashed atop the platform. The ghouls snarled and snapped, one leaping over the other to launch a surprise attack on the High Priest, while the second kicked the legs out from under the Shrineguard. With a great thud and a clatter of armor, the Shrineguard fell, and the High Priest staggered back, mock-wounded. The children in the crowd booed, and a smile passed over Raff's face. He remembered being one of them, on the edge of his seat, whole body tense as he willed for the Shrine to win with all his might. Now, older, he recognized every step of the dance, every stage of the battle. As expected, the Shrineguard was the first to his feet, leaping out to protect the High Priest. He battled back the ghouls with a flashy scimitar, red tassels dancing from the butt of the hilt. The High Priest struck an exaggerated pose of concentration, hands held a few inches apart. The children cheered as one of the ghouls was cut down, dancer falling from the platform to the haycart below.

But no! The second ghoul was lunging at the High Priest! Despite himself, Raff felt his heart lurch, caught up in the same storyline that played out every year. "No!" a little kid shouted, but the High Priest didn't seem to notice, holding his concentration even as the ghoul leaped into the air.

At the very last second, the High Priest opened his eyes and thrust out his hands. The ghoul-dancer artfully fell backwards as, from below the platform, a gout of flame enveloped the cage of real ghouls. Even from the boulder, Raff could feel the heat of the blast. Flames raced through the long-dead bodies like they were crisp autumn leaves. The nearest ones vaporized nearly instantly. The further ones continued reaching as they lit up in flames, unable to feel the heat as the flames consumed them. The children cheered and the adults applauded, and Raff jumped to his feet and applauded as well. Was it just him, or did it get better every year?

Something slammed into his hip. Raff stumbled. "What, Sab?" he asked, and glanced down in time to watch his sword fly into the air as wind roared past his side.

"What the—?" Raff snapped, staggering back. His foot slipped, nearly sending him backwards off the boulder. He pitched forward, caught himself, then leaped after his sword, but by then it was too late. With a gust of wind, the sword flew out of his reach.

"What?" Sab asked, glancing up, and then they both were staring after Raff's sword as it danced away, reflecting the light of the bonfire as it went. It dipped and spun, like a leaf on the wind, then landed heavily in the hand of the one person Raff hadn't wanted to see.

Pasquale grinned, slowly turning Raff's sword over in his hands. He sighted down the blade, pursed his lips and nodded, then smirked at Raff. "It's a nice sword, but cheap. Serviceable, I suppose, if you can't afford anything better than standard Shrine make."

Behind him, the hulking forms of Alessi and Alessa chuckled. Alessa lowered her hand, sliding her mace back into its loop. Raff's eyes narrowed. So she'd been the one to steal it away.

"Give. It. Back," Raff hissed through clenched teeth. Behind him, Sab climbed to his feet and gripped his hammer tighter, though whether to use it against the trio or keep them from stealing it, Raff couldn't tell.

A raised eyebrow was all the more answer Pasquale gave, eyes still tracing the shape of Raff's sword. "It's a crime to lose track of one's soulstone," he murmured, voice silky like velvet, the voice he used when he knew he was going to get his way. "Oh dear. One of our own, arrested for heresy. But we simply couldn't let some horrible, stupid peasant use a real soulstone by accident, now, could we?"

Raff clenched his fists. The weight missing from his hip was echoed deep in his gut, the hunger-ache of losing his magic biting into him. "Give it back," he repeated, hating how childish he sounded.

"Oh wait, I forgot." Pasquale chuckled lightly, tipping the sword over in his hands. He looked up suddenly and met Raff's eyes, his own gaze tightly wound daggers of hate. "We already do."

A snarl tore its way out of Raff's throat. He would have thrown himself off the boulder at Pasquale, but Sab caught him mid-leap and held him down. "He wants a fight!" Sab hissed in his ear. His arms bit into Raff's stomach, stronger than he remembered. "Calm down! You can't beat all three on your own!"

"Isn't it so nice to see solidarity amongst the poor? Like helping like, it warms the heart. If only they could excite that same solidarity among the peasants who're sowing our fields and bringing in half the crop they should." Pasquale sighed dramatically. "Such a pity you're going to die for losing your soulstone."

Raff stopped fighting and stared at his sword, as if he could will it back to him. Sab didn't let go. "Stealing a soulstone is heresy, too," he reminded Pasquale.

"And this time it's your word against mine. Some no-names, or a highborn? Who will they listen to?" A grin flitted through his mock-serious expression. Pasquale tutted, shaking his head. "Oh dear, that doesn't look quite so good, does it?"

Raff leaped at him again, but Sab, used to his old tricks, kept ahold of him. "Pasquale," he growled, but before he could speak, Pasquale turned and lobbed the sword into the woods. The sword spun, glittering in the air with all the lights of the fire one moment, dark as the woods the next. Raff watched it, tracing its line with his eyes. It wasn't that far of a toss. He could go get it.

Before it hit the ground, Alessa swung her mace. A gust of wind propelled the sword deep into the forest, rattling leaves and bending branches as it pushed the sword on. It vanished, swallowed by the night and the forest. Raff's heart dropped. No. He'd never find it now.

"Good luck, peasants. I'll be sure to arrive early for a front row seat at your execution," Pasquale said, giving Raff a short bow and a mocking salute. Raff lunged at him one last time, but half-heartedly. He couldn't win. Not without his sword. Not while all three of them had their weapons.

He glared at Pasquale until the man disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd, then slumped against Sab. "Shit," he breathed. They were going to leave him behind. He was useless without his soulstone. Ice closed in around him, chilling his spine. How was he supposed to find his sword? The forest was huge, and who knew how far Alessa had sent it flying? Maybe it was still flying. He hadn't heard it fall yet.

Sab let out a deep sigh. The movement of his body against Raff's dispelled the ice. He felt the fire again, bathing them on one side, heat and light, while the darkness of the forest tinged their far side in tones of blue, cold and unwelcoming.

"Suppose we should start looking," Sab grumbled.

"Why does Pasquale have to be such a bastard?" Raff snapped at no one in particular. He pushed away from Sab and jumped carelessly from the rock. His ankles rang with pain as they jarred against the earth, but he ignored it. "Damn it all!"

There was a gentle thump as Sab followed him down from the rock. "He's a brat, but he's noble. There's nothing we can do but ignore him."

Raff turned on Sab, rising to his full height to stand an inch over the other man. "Ignore him! How am I supposed to ignore him when—" he fell silent, then whipped around and stomped into the forest. No point arguing with Sab over this. He knew that. He knew it. And yet. And yet.

Sab sighed, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

They stomped through the trees, or at least, Raff stomped, while Sab followed him in the weary way he usually did when he was being all sage-like and mature. Sometimes it pissed Raff off. Couldn't he just be angry, for once? Did he always have to be the better one? The moral one? He untied his hair, shook it out, and tied it again. Sab wasn't doing this to annoy him, he knew it. And he was right, as usual. It was just—did that mean his anger was wrong? But then, if they didn't fight back, Pasquale would just keep getting away with it, over and over and over again. Someone had to stand up to him, and damn it, that someone was Raff.

Raff stopped abruptly and glanced back. From here, the bonfire was just a little pinprick of light, barely visible through the cracks where there were no trees. This felt like deep enough.

"Let's split up, we'll cover more ground," Sab suggested, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll take the left, you take the right? We'll search for half an hour, then meet back up."

Raff nodded wordlessly and stomped off into the forest, while Sab retreated in the opposite direction. As he walked, he scanned the earth for a tiny glint of metal, kicking aside leaves and pine needles underfoot. It was a needle in a proverbial haystack. They'd never find his sword. Pasquale had made sure of it.

"If he gets me killed for this, I'm coming back as a ghoul and eating him," Raff swore aloud.

In the distance, Sab let out a snort.

*

As someone who'd never cared much for the Shrine and its practices (aside from wearing the ambra, but that was only practical), Cecile nonetheless found herself enraptured by the dancers. Hugo had never let her go to a Return before. "A bunch of propaganda and nonsense," he'd grumbled, which was what he generally did when he spoke about the Shrine. She, personally, had seen no purpose in worshipping some gods when her element came to her so naturally. If there were gods, then she was blessed. If there were not, she was still blessed. It made no difference to her. Worshipping made no discernable difference in her ability to wield fire, so she did without. All the Shrine had ever seemed to her was a waste of time and money, an excuse to continue their expensive 'holy wars' with the northern continent.

Still, she had to admit that the little performance was highly entertaining, if she took it as a comedy performance, anyways. The exaggerated reactions, the ritualized motions, the overblown poses—it was more hilarious than a night at the theater, for all their bawdy jokes. By the time the fire rolled over the caged ghouls, her cheeks were wet with tears of laughter. Did anyone take this stuff seriously? She glanced around her, but all the faces she saw were rapt with attention, eyes dazzled by the light of the flames.

A sparkle in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned in time to watch a sword fly through the air, flip around, and land hilt-first in someone's hand. Pompous git, she thought to herself, taking in his expensive clothes, perfectly oiled hair, and particularly his holier-than-thou expression. What was he doing, showing off? Ooh, watch me flip this sword, isn't that neat? It made her want to puke. Shrineguards could be such show-offs. As if they were the only ones who could use magic. They weren't even good at it, most of them.

To her surprise, he turned and hurled the sword into the woods.

Cecile frowned. What? Why would he do that? Her eyes flicked to the other two, one struggling against the other towards the sword-thrower. Oh. The prick was being a prick. Big surprise.

She climbed to her feet and headed towards the two, even as the prick and his friends walked away. "Hey, wait!" she called, but they didn't seem to hear her over the festival. She shrugged. It didn't matter. She'd help them search for it anyways. Picking her pace up to a jog, she followed them into the woods.

*

Edith stomped through the woods, obstinately ignoring the stupid heathen festival going on in the near distance. She hadn't been able to find a way into the Schola or the Shrine. Too many locked doors in the Schola, and though she'd been able to get to the grand hall by pretending to be a worshipper, the priests at the Shrine hadn't left her alone for a moment. So nosy, nosy, nosy. That was what she hated about Boscans. They were so—everywhere.

The magic was weaker out here. Whatever it was she was sensing, it wasn't outside Castelfiamma. No, what she was looking for was a secret entrance. A slit in the ground that led to a cave, or a secret trapdoor to the underbelly of the city.

She had absolutely no reason to think there was such a thing. There was no proof, no indication that it might exist. But she couldn't pick locks or vanish into the shadows and out of sight anymore, so this was her only recourse. There were always secret doors in the myths. Second ways in that no one else had ever found or thought about. The trickster god Akjos always found another way in, even when there was no other way in. Akjos was aligned with shadows, and she was aligned with shadows, so therefore she should be able to find another way in.

It was completely illogical and she knew it, but she had nothing else to go on. She was on thin ice with the only man who could get her magic back. She'd called him here to this city and had nothing to show. She had to find it. Had to prove her worth. If he left now, she didn't know that she'd ever be able to call on him again. And that would be it: her magic, gone forever.

The festival had seemed like the perfect chance to infiltrate the Schola or Shrine while everyone was out... but that was until she'd remembered, coming up hard against bright light pouring from the windows of both, that this was a religious festival. There was a long line of worshippers coming in and out of the Shrine, and, behind well-attended, locked, and suspiciously magic-feeling gates, the Schola was alive with students showing their parents around. So instead, she'd taken to the forests for the night.

A spark of magic shot through the air, a shooting star of ache passing in the near distance. Edith's head whipped around to watch as it shot by. What was that? Maybe it was a key. A sign to point out the secret door. She raced off after it, following the spark as it flew through the forest.

*

A root caught Raff's toe and sent him stumbling into a patch of briars for what felt like the thousandth time in the minute he'd been searching for his sword. Muttering a stream of curses under his breath, he picked the thorns out of his arm and shirt by touch. Sharp pain bit into his thumb. He yanked his hand away and shook it. Damn briars! he thought, sticking his thumb in his mouth. The bonfire had him dazzled. He couldn't see anything in the darkness of the forest.

What if I can't find it? There'd be no becoming the High Priest. No crusades. No future. For a second, he saw himself hanging by his neck, skin dull and gray like the ghouls', empty eyes staring at the sky. If they found out he'd lost his soulstone, he could hang for it. A chill ran down his spine. He wouldn't. He would find it. He had to.

If only he had a little light. He hadn't thought about that when Sab had suggested they split, because he had a soulstone now. Except that Pasquale had thrown his soulstone into the distance, and he didn't carry smaller stones or matches anymore. Why would he need to? He had his sword. His face twisted with disgust. Pasquale. The next time he met the man in a dark alley, he'd make him regret it. Should've gone full blast on the fire when I had the chance.

But first he had to find his soulstone, and to do that, he had to yank the briars out of his arm.

He managed to extract another two before he stuck himself again. Hissing, he shook his free hand. This was too hard in the dark. If he had a light, it would be so much easier. If I had a light... He glanced around. He was alone. Everyone was watching the festival. Sab could lecture him for it later, but he needed a light. It'd be for just a second, anyways.

Raff closed his eyes and drew on the magic deep inside himself. A flame flickered to life at chest level. It wasn't much more than a match's worth, but it was enough. The vine that had stuck itself to him was clearly visible. Carefully, he wrapped his fingertips around the vine where there were no spines and plucked it away from his skin. The last of it came free, and he sighed with relief. Still clutching the vine, he stepped carefully away from the briars.

"Oh, did you find it?" a woman asked from just behind him.

Raff jumped and spun, accidentally kicking the thorns into his pants. His tiny flame extinguished in the same thought, a thin line of smoke wafting away. Behind him, a red-headed woman was standing, looking up at him. Her eyes flicked over his hands, his hip, and her brows furrowed.

"Uh, thank goodness I brought those matches," Raff said with a nervous chuckle. He yanked his leg free of the vine and backed away from it and the woman.

She glanced at his hands. He hid them behind his back on instinct. "Those scars," she started. "You're a fire mage, right?"

"Shrineguard. Technically. I—do you need something?" he asked.

"That fire," she said, and his heart dropped. "You don't have matches. That was magic, wasn't it?"

He shook his head. "Nope, just ordinary matches," he lied.

She rolled her eyes. One hand reached to her wrist. She undid a tie there, then held up a leather strap by its ties. A soulstone was knitted into the leather, threaded through on a string. Raff's eyes followed it as it caught the light, bright gold threaded with the refracted bonfire. She stretched out her hand. Raff frowned, peered at it. It was empty. What was she trying to show him?

A flame snapped to life in her palm, big enough to be mistaken for a torch.

Raff stumbled back, startled. "You—"

She grinned at him and closed her hand around the flame, extinguishing it. "I'm not trying to catch you," she said. "You're not the only one." Businesslike, she tied the strap back on.

"You can do it too?" Raff asked. He stepped closer. He'd never met anyone else who could cast without a soulstone. Hadn't known there was anyone else out there like him. Emotions swirled in his chest. He wasn't unique. He wasn't unique. There was someone else. Someone else who was wrong like him.

She nodded. "Cecile, by the way," she said, offering her hand.

"Raff. I've never seen you around before. Are you... an acolyte?" She wasn't a Shrineguard. He would've noticed someone like her if she was in the Shrineguard barracks, even if she was in another year. Besides, she had no weapon.

Cecile laughed. "No, I'm here for the trials. I am—was—a Magi's apprentice," she said.

A Magi's apprentice. Raff raised his eyebrows. If it was true, that was impressive.

There were only a few Magi in all of Bosco. A dozen, at most. The Shrine created all the mage-grade soulstones, so everyone who could use magic was a member of the Shrine. The Magi were the only exception, the only civilians allowed to own mage-grade soulstones.

Historically, they were the strongest mages in the land. The story went that, back when the Shrine was still young, it had forced all the existing mages in Bosco to become priests or guards. Most complied, but some disagreed. Those mages who had disagreed bound together and fought the Shrineguards and priests to a standstill. The battle raged for weeks, both sides suffering heavy casualties. In the end, the last dozen mages had been so strong that, even with reinforcements, the Shrine had been unable to conquer them. To prevent further loss of life, the Shrine compromised, and let them remain independent. The king recognized them as Bosco's Magi, and so they became their own entity, each Magi picking a single apprentice and passing their title down to them. The kings and queens provided them a stipend and a supply of soulstones granted through the Shrines, and in return, the Magi provided them with council on magic and magical situations when it was required. Even now, the Magi had the reputation of being Bosco's strongest mages, bar its High Priests. And Cecile was the apprentice of one of them. Raff nodded, slowly. Then... maybe that was why she could use magic without a soulstone, if she was that powerful. Maybe I'm that powerful, as well.

And she was his competition. He snorted. He'd already known becoming High Priest would be no walk in the park, but her presence just confirmed it.

A Magi's apprentice becoming a High Priest, though? He frowned. The Magi had been founded to be separate from the Shrine. Why had she decided to give that up? Then again, he supposed, High Priest ranked above Magi when it came to power. Besides, the Magi simply had license to use magic freely. The High Priest was in control of all the Shrines of a whole region. If she was looking to move up in the world, in both magical and political strength, it made sense.

She gestured at the woods. "That was your sword, I presume? I came to help you look for it."

"I'd appreciate the light," he said, gesturing for her to take the lead.

With a flourish of fingers, three balls of fire appeared above her hand, each one about as large as a cue ball. She clenched her fist, then flicked her fingers open. The balls shot into the forest, snaking past trees and lighting the forest all around them. Raff's eyebrows lifted again. That was complex magic, maintaining and moving three fireballs at once, but it didn't even look like she was concentrating.

Cecile glanced at him. "What happened with that man? Why'd he throw your sword into the forest?"

Raff pulled a face. "Pasquale's a prick," he spat.

Cecile laughed.

*

Sab used the hammer to push aside undergrowth as he moved through the forest. The head caught in a particularly gnarly bush, leaves twining around the claw end, and he had to stop and yank it free. It was times like these that made him wish he'd learned a bladed weapon. It was just that the hammer felt so right in his hands. Made him almost feel like he was back in his smithy, pounding away at the metal, shaping it into tools, and later weapons. He'd considered dropping out of the Schola to pursue his art a second time, but he'd already done that. Already been a smith. It was time for him to try something new.

And if I fail as a guard, well, he thought, a half-grin touching his lips. He hadn't had magic the first time around, so he'd had no idea if he'd be good at it. In the early days, and even now, sometimes, he always figured he could turn to smithing as a fallback. Raff would hate him for it, but a man had to eat.

Raff was nothing like him. It was what had attracted him to the boy in the first place. Impetuous. Reckless. Always rushing into trouble. It kept things interesting. Made him keep moving, keep changing. Pushed him into becoming someone new, learning new things, instead of resting on the laurels of his first life.

Though he did push a little too hard sometimes. He loved Raff like a brother, but damn if he didn't hate the guy every now and again. Pasquale was an ass, but if Raff could just ignore him, he'd leave them all alone. It was different when they were younger. Back then, Pasquale had just been a brat. Now he was older, he was looking for a fight. Gods only knew why, but it was the truth. If they refused to give him a fight, he'd get bored and move on. But Raff would never let that pass so easily, because for whatever damn reason, he was usually looking for a fight, too.

Hopefully this wasn't the time it bit him. Pasquale might be an ass, but losing a soulstone was no joke. It wasn't a bar brawl to be overlooked, it was the kind of crime where imprisonment was the easy way out. If they didn't get lucky, it'd go exactly the way Pasquale wanted.

The further he got from the bonfire, the dimmer the light became. Eventually, he had no choice but to light a small flame above the head of his hammer, fingers firmly over the soulstone that peeked out from the leather grip. Though the forest came alight, at the same time, the shadows grew deeper, wilder. He transferred the flame to his free hand and held it aloft, scanning the ground around him for the tell-tale glint of metal. Nothing yet. But there was plenty of forest, and Pasquale certainly hadn't held back. It could be miles away. It could be lost forever.

Sab clenched the grip of his hammer tighter. I am not going to lose another friend over something so stupid, dammit!

"Hello?"

Sab jumped, startled, and tightened his grip on his hammer. The voice was soft and thickly accented, and most definitely not Raff's voice. Who was back this deep in the forest besides him and Raff?

A slight girl stepped out from behind the shadow of a tree. She looked half-starved and dirty, a street urchin if he'd ever seen one, though he certainly had no idea what a street urchin was doing in the forest in the dead of night. She had the high brow and pale coloring of a foreigner, her cheeks still rounded with youth but already showing signs of hollowing out to make her cheekbones more pronounced than the average Boscan's. Pale skin and hair served to make her dark blue eyes appear even darker, nearly-white lashes like fresh-fallen snow on the bank of a deep blue river. Her trousers were worn and stained, her shirt loose enough she might've been trying to pass for a man if she'd had a bodice to hide, and her hair knitted into a dingy blonde braid that hung out of the back of her cap.

What attracted his attention was in her hands. Tightly clasped in both hands, point-down, with the awkward, over-cautious grip of someone unused to handling a blade, was Raff's sword.

"Where'd you find that?" Sab asked, suspicious. How on earth had a random street—forest urchin managed to find Raff's sword before he or Raff could find it?

She glanced at the sword, then back at him. "In the woods. Um, I was wondering i-if, if you could take me to the Schola so I could hand it back over to, to the, um, Shrine." One hand slid over the soulstone set into the center of the crossguard. "It's a magic sword, right?"

"I can do you one better than that," Sab said, offering a reassuring smile. He extended his hand for the sword. "I'm friends with the sword's owner. Hand it over. I'll take it back to him."

The girl hesitated, an uncertain expression on her face. Sab groaned inwardly. Street urchins. Just because they were untrustworthy sorts, didn't mean everyone else was, too. "Or you can come with me, and we can hand it back to the man himself," he offered, retracting his hand.

She hesitated a few moments more, then gave him a short nod. He tried to pat her on the back, but she shied away from his touch. What, did she think he was going to stab her in the back with an open palm? So distrustful. With a shake of his head, he set off back through the woods. He didn't know where Raff had gotten to, but figured he'd be able to see the light. The little rascal couldn't help but show off his stupid talent every time he had the chance, and no amount of lecturing could get him to change his mind. The muscles in Sab's jaw clenched. Of all the stupid things Raff did, that had to be the stupidest. What would it cost him to rely on his soulstone like everyone else? One day, he was going to get himself killed. That, or be the death of Sab.

He smirked grimly. Maybe both.

*

"When did you find out?" Raff asked, kicking a sapling out of the way. No sword under that, either. He was starting to suspect they'd be out here all night.

Cecile gave him a confused look. He lowered his voice and glanced around before continuing. "That you could use magic without a soulstone."

"Oh! I always could, I was surprised when I found out most people can't," she said with a laugh. She sobered and let out a sigh, staring away from Raff into the distance. "I could for as long as I can remember, and I guess I could as a baby, too, because my parents abandoned me at Hugo—the Magi's house when I was an infant." She frowned, the memory not a pleasant one.

Raff put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand," he started, but she spoke before he could continue.

"They were trying to protect me from the Shrine, I think. You know, since I was committing heresy, using magic without a soulstone. And it's not like you can reason with an infant. Hugo always used to say that they did as well by me as they could think to do, that they left me with him out of love for me." There was a heavy pause. The fireballs flickered and dimmed in the distance. "I didn't believe him when I was younger, but now... now I think he's right."

Out of love. A bitter expression crossed Raff's face for a moment. For a second, his feet felt icy cold, and then it passed. His expression returned to neutral. "Do you ever want to meet them?" Raff asked, as casually as he could.

Cecile shrugged. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Hugo's more my father than they were ever my parents, though. It doesn't bother me, not knowing them."

Even in the flickering light of the fire, Raff could see the stiffness, the careful nonchalance in her expression. He glanced down, affording her a moment of privacy. It had been rude to ask.

"What about you?" she asked lightly, voice just as bright as it had ever been. "When did you find out?"

Raff laughed and scratched the back of his head. "I was five," he said.

Snow up to his knees. He couldn't feel his fingers, his toes. His feet felt numb, except where snow had slid down the gap between boots and pants. There, it was frozen with pain Every step was effort. He hauled his leg up, punched it down through the snow. Lift, repeat. Lift, repeat. Some of the snow had frozen over, almost stiff enough for him to walk on, but not quite. Every time it almost held his weight, then gave, was another disappointment, another effort he shouldn't have had to spend. His breath came in little gasped clouds, thick enough to see. His cheeks smarted. The snow stretched on forever, on to the horizon, up to the mountaintop.

Every other step, he could step in his father's footprints. He looked up. A distant back, dark against the snow. He tripped and fell, sagging against the snow. He couldn't. How far were they going? How much further? He was cold. So cold.

If only he could have a little heat.

A noise in the distance startled him from his thoughts. A rustling in the woods. Raff stepped forward, reaching for his sword. Wolves? There shouldn't be ghouls, not with the recent roundup for the festival.

A faint glow emanated from behind the tree. He tensed. Drakes?

His hand closed on thin air. Raff jolted. Right, no sword.

Cecile gestured. The fireballs moved in concert towards the source of the noise, snaking around trees and over underbrush. A girl screeched, startled. With a flick of her wrist, the fireballs turned a sharp corner and dashed towards the sound. They settled around Sab—and a girl Raff had never seen before.

A girl who was holding his sword.

His heart leapt. He wasn't going to get thrown out! Everything was fine after all. "You found it?" Raff asked, unable to stop himself from running to his sword. The girl flinched back, holding tight to the sword. Raff slowed, confused.

Sab patted the girl on the back. She flinched away, and he sighed deeply. "Go on, there you go. He's the one who lost his sword."

She glanced at Sab, then at Raff. "Um," she started, stepping forward. She had a thick accent, one he couldn't quite place. Silvestran? Ardean? "Could you, um," and Raff braced himself. What did she want?

"I don't have much coin," he warned her.

"No, I—could you take me into the Schola? I've always wanted to see inside," she said. Sab gave her an odd look, eyebrows furrowed.

"Why not?" Raff said. She'd found his sword. Saved his life and his career. Might as well reward her a little. And it wasn't as though the Schola was a secret or anything. A little tour wouldn't hurt. Even if she was the thief or pickpocket she looked like, she wouldn't be able to do anything as long as they kept their eyes on her.

"Promise?" she asked, dark eyes like the night staring up at him.

"Sure thing," Raff said. He held out his hand for the sword. She glanced at him, then down, as if weighing her options. Then she held it out towards him, hilt first.

The weight felt perfect in his hand. Raff sighed out and closed his eyes. His fingers ran over the soulstone, and the magic leaped out to him, warming him from the inside out. He slid it into the sheath and settled it in firmly, then opened his eyes, a determined light in them. Pasquale had better watch his back.

"I see you found someone to help you search," Sab said, half a question in his voice. Raff caught his eye and found his friend giving him a mischievous grin, eyebrows waggling suggestively. He rolled his eyes in return. Sab turned towards Cecile with a much more charming smile and an offered hand. "Saberio, by the way."

"Cecile," she introduced herself, stepping forward to shake his hand.

"She offered to light up the forest for me," Raff said pointedly, returning Sab's look with a glare. He was looking too, not—messing around with Cecile or anything. He'd only just met her! Though she was... he risked a glance from the corner of his eyes. Very lovely.

He cleared his throat, forcing his own thoughts back on track. "What about your new friend?"

Sab inclined his head. "Meet Edith," he said.

"Thanks for finding my sword. Name's Raff," he said, offering her his hand. Her grip was weak and limp in his, a dead fish. It felt like he was crushing her hand without even trying.

Silently, she nodded and retracted her hand. She kneaded her hands together, nervous and pale. Raff frowned suddenly. Where was her family? What was she doing out in the middle of this forest? "Let's get you back to your parents, then," he said, starting back towards the bonfire.

She flinched to a stop. Sab grimaced and shook his head a little, pushing her forward to keep moving with the group. "At least back to town, then," Raff continued, trying to salvage the situation. "It's not safe in the forest at night."

Edith hesitated, then nodded. "You can find me by the Shrine," Edith said. "For tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow. The trials start tomorrow," Cecile said.

Raff looked at her, startled. How did she know he was taking part in the trials?

She nodded at seeing his surprised face. "I assume you want to watch?"

Sab snorted, looking away. Raff shot him an angry look.

"No, I'm—I'm competing, too," Raff said. He drew himself up to his full height. "I am a fire mage, after all. How could I turn that down?"

"Well, then, I suppose I'll see you on the battlefield," Cecile said with a wink.

They had reached the edge of the forest. The bonfire was bright before them, nearly too bright after the dark of the forest. As Raff blinked, adjusting his eyes, the trio of fireballs went dark, one by one. By now, the ghouls were no longer recognizable through the flames. The whole cage was a shapeless pile. From the edges, some lower-level priests were throwing wood on the flames. The crowds had thinned, people wandering off now that the majority of the entertainment was over.

Cecile departed with a wave. Sab put his hands behind his head and settled back, ready to watch the fire burn out.

"The day after," he promised Edith.

She nodded, wide-eyed.