2412, Iclis 07, Daleth

His eyes opened to the pounding footsteps resounding outside his room. His roommates, Pilqen and Rathas, groaned and rolled over their cots, pressing their pillows to their ears. These two acted so alike they could have swapped faces and no one would notice. The only thing Rathas did differently was choosing to join the cleaning department and was thus tapped to work faster than any of them. Ymbril's cleaning moods really came at the most random of times.

"Turn it off," Rathas groaned into his pillow. "I wanna sleep."

Malin blinked once. Twice. Rubbed his eyes off the tricky heaviness. Within seconds, he's folding his blanket and fluffing his single pillow. "If you want to have an easier time waking up," he said to the two sleepyheads writhing under their blankets. "Get up as soon as you get your wits back."

It helped him a lot when he worked as a messenger in the textile factory. While his father weaved yards upon yards of fabric and tapestries, he and his sister spent that time traversing the hazy alleys of the Commons. And they often had to do it as soon as the correspondences arrived, no matter what time of the day it was. There were also times when the volume of letters surpassed their capacity, so waking up and starting early was a must most of the time.

Those were the times Malin wished to not go through again, but at the same time wanted to relive every now and then. Even though his sister left him now, she didn't step a foot away from him in every street they found themselves in.

"I told you to stop lecturing me," Pilqen muttered and shifted to his stomach, pointing his back to the ceiling. His blanket twisted around his legs, and he made no move to cover himself with it. Too much effort, it seemed. "Must you do it so early?"

Malin decided to go for it. "It is the fifth hour of the third quarter."

Pilqen's gray-white hair snapped up. "What? Why did you not wake me?!" he dragged himself off the cot and pushed Malin out of the way in a rush. "I am going to be late. I do not want to be hit with rolled prints—"

He froze, noticing how Rathas had curled into himself. The greenish-blond mop of hair blended with the cot's woven threads as their friend tried hiding the faint quivers of his shoulders. "Wait a minute," he whirled to Malin and jabbed an accusatory finger into his face. "There is no fifth hour!"

Malin cracked a sly grin. "Got you out of bed, though."

"Oh, Rudik's asscheeks," Pilqen stomped to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Rathas straightened his sleep-rumpled tunic as he shot up. "That went well," he commented. His wavy hair stood up to their ends, giving him a look of a startled komodec.

Malin shrugged. "He will get over it," he said. Besides, it's the least of his worries. The footsteps coming alive in the corridors beyond their room turned more and more frantic with every minute. Was there a mass exodus somewhere? Where were they going, though? The Temple was the safest place in the Nobility region.

He burst out of their room and joined the current heading towards the Temple's front gates. Temple workers, dressed in their normal clothes, marched on, their faces arranged into calm but determined looks. Were they going to protest for something? The Temple of Magic must remain neutral in all political matters, though. Was Ymbril making a move against the King?

"What is going on?" he sidled next to a priestess with a rigid bun and pointy ears. She didn't look like she's human or a half-blood. Was she a fairy, then? What's she doing in Cardina, of all places? "Why is everyone marching?"

The fairy gave him a flat stare. "Civil Guards have surrounded the Temple," she said. "We will stand with the High Priestess in resistance."

Malin frowned. Civil Guards? Was it by the order of the King or by Synketros? "What do they want?" he asked further.

"Surrender," was the only word the fairy uttered. She quickened her steps and was swallowed by the sea of robes and thundering footsteps faster than he could call out.

He scanned the crowd. Most, if not all, joined this mad resistance. Familiar faces melded with those he hadn't met before. Ymbril. He had to find her. What was she going to do with her resistance? What would the Civil Guards, the unpredictable loonies they were, decide to do if they saw what the Temple stood for?

He stood on his tiptoes and tried to see the end of the crowd. People devoured the horizon, up to the last line. A curse flew out of his mouth. He wouldn't be able to reach Ymbril like this. He had to find a quicker way...

His legs skittered to a stop. Of course. He could just bend the shadows and use it to pop out of thin air next to the High Priestess. It's not a hidden art, but it's not popular either. Most people would have forgotten it existed if not for the ancient tomes found in the Temple. Had the Heiress read it too to be able to teach her soldiers, at least those who attacked the Royalty region and colluded with the Civil Knights?

Pilqen and Rathas caught up to him, looking more bedraggled than when they first got up. The former didn't look like he even remembered the harmless joke Malin played on him a few minutes ago. "What in the Holy Rudik?" Rathas whirled around in confusion. Then, he turned to Malin. "Have you seen Ela?"

Malin frowned. Elazie? She wasn't in the Temple? "I did not see her in the crowd," he said. "Maybe she was already in the front."

Pilqen scratched the back of his head in frustration. "That girl better be here," he said. Malin didn't dare pry, but something's got to be happening to these two. "Let us go to the front."

Malin reached out and gripped his friends' arms. "Got you covered on that one," he grinned. "Hang on tight. Do not scream."

Before Pilqen could verbalize his protest, Malin summoned his magic to the surface, touched the shadows around them, and melted towards their embrace. The world blurred and plunged in ink, smothering and blaring. Howling and snapping into silence. Malin gritted his teeth and asserted his control over the angry wisps of black. Go to Ymbril, he ordered.

Light zipped through the darkness, and with one last flip, the world righted itself. Malin stepped out of a swirl of shadows, his hands still gripping his friends' forearms. Then, Pilqen's scream peeled throughout the entire assembly.

His friend stumbled away from him as if he had seen a goddess come to life. "D-do not do that to me again," he shoved his fingers into his gray-white hair and staggered up. He then noticed the number of eyes trained on him, Malin, and Rathas. He raised a hand in a small wave. "Greetings, fellows."

Rathas inclined his head to one side and massaged the back of his neck. "For once, I agree with that peahead," he said. "Do not make me go through that again."

"Malin!" Ymbril's voice tore from the rim of the crowd. "What in Emeria's name have you done?"

Well, at least he was able to find the High Priestess. Mission accomplished. "What are you going to do with the Civil Guards?" he asked instead, knowing full well he just blended into the shadows and performed a semi-advanced rysteme spell more than three quarters of the temple people hadn't even heard of. That's the least of his concern now. Because standing at the lip of the stairs leading down into the street stood a barricade of blue coats. Every once in a while, a flash of black weaved from the gaps, bearing flintlocks and weapons Malin hasn't seen before.

He's not an idiot. Those would be filled, coated, and casted with Dwarven metal. Every last bit. Up to the last inch. If those men attacked, the Temple of Magic would see its greatest carnage yet. And he's not up for another battle. He couldn't handle another war arriving at his doorstep. Not when he has just learned to love the place.

Whose life would he stand to lose this time around?

"I will seal the Temple so that no one may enter or leave," Ymbril replied. The acid in her tone told Malin she didn't want it either.

Pilqen shouldered his way past the temple workers who started circling Malin and their High Priestess. To them, Malin probably looked like a spoiled brat who demanded too much of Ymbril's time. "Ela is not here," Pilqen reported. "Rathas and I looked everywhere. They have not seen her since morning. Nor her entire supply unit."

It confirmed Malin's greatest fear. "They are out there," he voiced aloud, finally driving the truth towards reality. He turned to Ymbril. "Let me bring them back. Then, seal the Temple."

Ymbril's eyes flashed with a dark glint. "I am afraid they did not give us that long," she said. "I must seal the Temple now."

Malin stepped towards her, getting closer than any priest or priestess under her authority ever dared. Shocked murmurs and horrified gasps rang in his ears. "Let me find them," he said again. "We leave no one behind."

The High Priestess' answer was to spread her hands and a thin veil of greenish light started creeping up from the ground and formed from a dome in the highest spire in the Temple's roof. It's going to seal near the top of the stairs, right where the spell's caster was. Malin whirled to Ymbril. "What about the others?" he demanded. "Please. You cannot do this. I—"

A sharp whistle of a spell cut him off. The succeeding explosion against the darkening barrier threw him forward. He cursed—something that should not be heard from a child his age—and gritted his teeth. Melting into the crowd, Pilqen and Rathas subtly shook their heads at him. A strain of anger boiled at the base of his gut. How dare they give up on their comrades? Their friends? Malin wasn't going to do that. Not now.

Ela and her unit were somewhere out there. What if they came home only to find a war happening in it? What would happen if they get captured on their way back? The Civil Guards were some of the most twisted minds in Umazure, if not, in all of Fantasilia. Being drafted to their ranks or someplace else wouldn't be the worst fate waiting for them.

The barrier turned more concrete by the second. The spells flashing blue, gold, and orange against it didn't let up. Malin had one choice.

He turned away from the High Priestess and sprinted towards the stairs. With a scream, he threw his form forward. His shoulder slammed into the steps just as the barrier sparked one last time, shutting the Temple from the rest of the world. Even from him.

2412, Iclis 09, Kindreth

Malin crouched behind a crate, eyeing the passing merchant cart about to pass by. He clenched his jaw, waiting for the most perfect time to strike. Perhaps, if he's lucky, he'd be able to hitch a free ride to wherever the trader planned to go.

He shook his head. Of course, the thought crossed his head but it's not like he could abandon the same people he leaped out of the barrier for. But it has been two days, and he was still yet to find them. And the streets weren't forgiving of a boy like him, especially now that he's alone.

Nobility under the Cardina dynasties was bad enough. After being transferred under the military rule of Synketros, Malin discovered things could be worse. Much worse.

He hasn't gotten to the tomes about economy and trade, but he wasn't too much of an idiot to realize how chaotic the region has become. Over the past few days of wandering around in search of his friends, he was able to get a glimpse of how Synketros would have run a country, and if they're successful, Umazure as a whole.

Imposing a great fee to cross into Cardina, the merchants thought it absurd and refused to traverse the Magic Road. This led to a strain in the goods flowing to the Cardinic market, resulting in an even more problematic internal trade. The territory relied on foreign imports, often from fairies from other races, and without those, the entire society would be thrown into disarray. Now, the Nobility region, with its once-sprawling estates and sophisticated air, was reduced to a war zone where it's every person for themselves.

Crimes became rampant, starting from the newly-permitted residents holding raids on the unattended villas and estates in the forests, taking everything they could from it. The other noble families who had the money to keep unwanted pests away suffered losses themselves, as their lands, wealth, and resources were seized by the Royalty region and dispensed according to Synketros' will.

The only institution the Civil Guards acting under Synketros' thumb haven't taken yet stood in the middle of the Nobility region, hiding behind a gray-green barrier. During the day, the spells raining on it ceased. But as soon as the first moon showed up behind the brush of clouds, a chorus of explosions, screams of aggression, and metal clanging rose up to the sky. The cacophony was enough to carry fortweres beyond the grounds. If Malin was to be asked, he didn't doubt evidence of a siege happening against the Temple could be heard up to the Disfavoreds.

Now that the sun shone against his exposed skin, the whole place was quiet. Too quiet for the plan he was about to execute. Malin summoned his magic to the surface and noted how the ring around his finger pulsed every time the warmth of his spells brushed it on their way out of his form. If it was some sort of protection charm, then what was it protecting him from?

He glanced at the Temple's direction and frowned. He had seen where—or rather, who—the barrier came from. Spells that big must be tough to control, much less maintain. And Ymbril was doing all of that alone. The temple workers were no doubt preparing for the eventuality their High Priestess fell and the Civil Guards gained access inside. Hence the rain of spells. Hence doing it only at night, when the Priestess was supposed to be resting.

Malin's fists clenched. If there was someone to be blamed, it was that foolish King. How new did he have to be on the job to have his control over his territory be swindled under his royal nose? Was Synketros hoping for a change in the dynasty after all? Did its leader foresaw an opportunity, a chink in Cardina's armor, and took the chance to shoot an arrow through it?

He had to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. He couldn't lose any more lives. That's why he was out here finding Ela and her unit. But after that? Going back to the Temple would be suicide, especially when they had to trudge over a sea of Civil Guards and Synketrian soldiers armed with Dwarven metal to the teeth. Staying out here wouldn't be good either.

Malin's stomach growled. Without access to a fairy potion or anything edible for the past day, his mind had honed in on one thing—getting food. He'd figure out how to save the Temple and his friends later.

He pressed his shoulder against the crate, feeling the splinters poke through the fabric of his cloak and sleeves. The smell of dagrine crap, wet fur, and rotten produce mixed with the fading smell of incense which once have blown across the Nobility region on a good day. The merchant cart—one of the rare ones who thought it's better to pay a huge fine to cross a border than risk losing business—drew closer. A little more...

Malin lunged. Sliding between the wheels before they tread on him and flatten every bone in his form. With a grunt, he held on to the cart's floor. One of his hands felt the cart's underside until he found the trapdoor. It's for bringing down the goods faster, but for him, it's a way for entry.

He timed his punch when the wheel slammed into a bump in the road. A rock or something. Whatever. The wood popped with a crack. A grin spread across his lips as he clambered through the hole. He took care to replace the panel back. Couldn't be too conspicuous.

He scanned the crates and kegs piled inside the otherwise spacious cart. He dug around the first crate he found and scored on vials of fairy potions. This was great. It could last him a few days while he looked for Ela.

His fingers almost wrapped around the first vial when the cart lurched into a stop, throwing him forward. His heart dropped into his feet as he unwittingly reached out to steady himself. That thick thud of his weight against the wooden walls couldn't have gone unnoticed. Dear Emeria. What was he doing? He needed to get out of here!

Voices floated in muffled strings beyond the walls. Malin clicked his tongue. What were they saying? Why was one sounding so angry? Who was the merchant talking to? He didn't get an answer. The cart's door burst open, light from the outside world flooding in a rush and almost blinding him.

A Civil Guard in a blue coat popped his head into the cart. Their gazes locked. Malin couldn't do anything except throw his hands up in surrender.

Emeria's holy stockings.