Cypur stared into the mirror. Raven black was the color much to Wescherlie's approval. But he couldn't get over not just the hair but the green eyes. He didn't think changing eye-color was necessary. Blue eyes weren't unusual, but Daero insisted to go all the way.

"Someone could still recognize you."

I'm a stranger to myself. Cypur touched his hair and combed his fingers through all the way down to his waist. It was the length his brother had it at and what most Sorcerers did. Feeling fake hair, an illusion so real that loose strands came when he yanked snarls.

"Falling in love with yourself?" the raven on his shoulder said.

"I've wished to fit in but now that I do, I don't like it." He turned away and head out the door. Cypur never hated the way he looked, but he wasn't particularly fond of himself either. Still, seeing himself with black hair was like his identify had been stripped away. Made him look sickly pale.

"Got everything?" Wescherlie shuffled her raven feet about.

"Except my dagger. I think I dropped it somewhere." He had searched all over for it but couldn't find it and neither Daero nor Kirlan had seen it. It had been infused with his magick by Arius. A treasure he didn't want to lose, but maybe it had fallen somewhere in Berlennia and was unretrievable. Anyone could find and use it, canceling out his magick and putting in their own.

At last, they came to a tunnel at the bottom of the hill. If he turned back around, there was Kirlan still standing there, seeing them off. Kathula in the villages nearby were glancing over their shoulders as if curious but didn't even smile. It was understandable they would be weary. It had barely been two years since discriminatory fear filled their lives.

"Ready?" Daero said and turned to the tunnel. The stone walls glowed blue—his primary choice of color magick. Wescherlie flew in after him and Cypur was about to follow when he heard his name.

"Wait!"

Down the hill a Kathula came stumbling. Her bushy azure tail fanned out behind. Puffy blue bangs bounced when she ran up to him. Her tongue hung out as she panted. In one paw she held his dagger.

Cypur furrowed his brows. What was she doing with his dagger? He approached her and she took a step forward, holding it out to him.

"Take better care of your weapons, Sorcerer," she said. Her Universal was almost as good as Daero's. "It was the dullest, sorriest dagger I had ever seen in my life."

He took the dagger from her, hand grazing against soft fur unlike Daero's coarse fur. The blade was sharpened and shined. The handle was polished with oil, slick as if brand new. The carving of his name, where he remembered the gold had chipped off leaving it dull, had all been meticulously repainted in true craftsmanship.

Did she do this? Those big hands? Or paws? Cypur traced his name and it glowed, answering to his touch.

"Thank you," he said and glanced up. She gave a small smile and turned away.

"Well, look what you have there!" Daero said with a grin when he returned to the tunnel. Cypur had a feeling Daero had a hand, or paw in it. Whoever that master craftsman was, Cypur hadn't even gotten her name.

When they emerged from the tunnel, it was late evening in the Fourth Ring. They were in an alley, darkened in building shadows, obscured in cold fog. Wintertine was nearly upon them. Cypur hugged himself in the chill as Wescherlie fluffed her feathers.

"Didn't tell me it would be Wintertine when he got out," she hissed in his ear.

Daero rested a paw on his shoulder. "Be careful," he whispered. "And remember, I'm here when it's time."

"Time?" Cypur glanced at Wescherlie who shrugged her raven shoulders, "You mean, when I need you?" he asked, but Daero just shook his head giving no explanation whatsoever. Hiding something. He wanted Cypur to figure it out for himself, probably, whatever it was.

Some helpful Kathula Sorcerer. Cypur gave a halfhearted smile. Maybe it's his aesthetics to not give everything away. Which is weird.

When Cypur stepped away from the tunnel, Daero lifted his paw in a wave and the tunnel entrance covered in fog. A soft azure light glowed faint and faded. Soon, there was only curdling white fog and a stone wall gently reflective from some earlier rain. As she promised she would be, Wescherlie was silent as Cypur head out to the main streets. Through the thick fog, he glimpsed the shadows of citizens standing about.

Still Carnival, right? He frowned because despite all the negativities surrounding his life, Carnival was the one bright spot. It was exciting, something new, and it lasted an entire week. He loved the color clothes citizens wore, the stalls selling rare knick-knacks or texts, and the food, but most of all of the dance. Not just steppenchellia, although that was a big part of Carnival dance, but fleure-fleurai, goxim, or perriswisher, he loved them all.

As the fog began to thin, he straightened his back, held his head high like any Narsy Sorcerer, and tried to calm his beating heart. Disguised as he was, he couldn't help but worry someone might recognize him. Poppintum might be a small town, but he was sure word about him traveled to every nook and cranny by now.

"Keep ravening," he whispered to Wescherlie. She cawed softly in his ear.

I can do this. He assured himself. I have a Faud, too.

He let his boots stomp hard on the stone, letting the sound echo off the walls. But as he neared the end, the shapes that he thought were citizens revealed to be broken statues. His foot kicked a chunk of stone that went clattering away. When he burst out into the open, he gasped at the sight.

Crumbled, once grand mansions standing with their walls cracked and roofs caved, stood sentinel around a square with a broken fountain long dried. It reminded him of Vrebrinfeld Lowlands and those village ruins. But unlike there, magick was fresh here, traveling up and down his arms and back, making his hairs stand on end.

The scent of ashes made him sneeze. Rubbing his nose, he found the source. A pile of freshly burnt wood giving off smoke. When he approached, the heat from a recent fire grazed his cheek.

Cypur straightened at the sound of footfalls. He turned, but there was no one, only a broken statue of a winged figure atop a white stone fountain.

"That wasn't there before," he whispered. Magick tingled around him, tickling and enticing him toward the statue. Suddenly, Wescherlie cawed and flew to the base of the fountain. She turned into her Human form and frantically began to brush leaves and ashes away from the base.

"Get back here," Cypur hissed, surveying the area, but he didn't feel any presence nearby. Just magick. Stale and new at the same time.

"I know this." She brushed away the leaves from the rest of the base. He caught sight of runic inscriptions. Runic language was ancient and nowadays one could only learn it on their own. No teacher at Academy taught it anymore. Cypur recognized the symbol combinations for 'forbid'.

"Wes," he called in a quiet voice, taking hesitant steps toward her as she scratched away the dirt with her fingernails, "I don't think—"

"Yirengili, eftren berivilan orda rauven."

There was a heavy pause after she spoke. Then a whoosh of magick swept over their heads in a faint purple glow. It pushed him backwards, and he stumbled. The base of the fountain shifted. The hollow sound of crumbling rocks echoed below as a hole appeared. Wescherlie peered into the hole. Cypur reached for her, but she turned into a raven and flew in.

"Wes!" He pushed through the resisting magick as if it didn't want him there. Magick didn't act like this. Not Sorcerery. This was something out.

Ancient, not stale, he realized, pushing against it. It was as if someone were holding him back with their hand. Let me through, I'm her friend.

The pressure against his chest loosened and he almost fell forward. Shocked, he righted himself and turned back to the ruined stone mansions and the ever-burning wood. Fog hung in the alleys and shadows crept along the stone like water leaking into the cracks, but it all stayed away from him.

"Thank you," he whispered, although he didn't know who he was saying it to. He had a feeling this magick was more like a shield or it only let through certain citizens. If Wescherlie was allowed through, perhaps it was Rauvuren magick? Cypur remembered her using runic magick only once when she was singing that song of love to him. She had tried to hide it away, but he saw the runic symbols dancing among her fingers as she hummed.

At the sound of her scream, he hurried after her calling out light magick as he descended the stone steps into the musky darkness.

"Wes!" he called, not caring if any Sorcerer heard him. If she was in danger, he had to protect her. Cypur hurried down the spiral staircase, deeper into the ground. His magick light flickered, but magick could happen anywhere. Didn't matter, surface or underground.

"Come on," he said, and called upon light magick again, but it flickered and went out, leaving him in darkness. "Damn!" He groaned and felt for the wall when a ball of light appeared near his fingertips, then another a little further away along the wall. Then on the opposite side. Soon, it was bright enough to see that he didn't have that much further to go. The staircase ended in a landing that led the way into a narrow passage. Continuing on through the tunnel, he could just make out some older female talking. Could that be the Sorcerer female that they were looking for? Marlevianne Trufflesome?

Like troublesome. He snickered. What a name.

The passage gradually opened up, but then narrowed again. When it opened up the second time, he had arrived at a giant chamber lit in the same balls of yellow-orange light. They illuminated many holes like a honeybee's nest carved into the walls on either side and as high as the cavernous ceiling went. Each hole was flat on the bottom and arched on the top. He peered into the nearest and called a light to ward the shadows away.

"Starlights," he breathed out in astonishment at the avian skull that sat in its lonesome staring out at him with hollow eyes. But on close inspection, he noticed the head was more Human-shaped. This was the head of an Asaves, the bird type Halfhuman.

"A welcoming open. Into the abode of Rauvuren."

He turned at her voice. Wescherlie in her Human form was standing in the middle of the circular chamber, gazing up at two holes in the walls where purple light pooled out. They were the only ones glowing in purple.

"It's what the runic inscription said. These are Rauvuren. All of them. The last of them." Her voice thickened. "Of mine."

Cypur grabbed her wrist and turned her around. Wescherlie sobbed and fell into his arms. He held her, but his mind was whirring with questions.

All of these are hers? What did that mean? The dread that fell through him like a stone chucked into his chest left him stunned as he realized what she meant. Wescherlie, the flying Rauvuren, the last of them. He hoped they would find only good things. Was he too optimistic?

A throat cleared and Cypur pulled Wescherlie behind him, snatching out his dagger. Wescherlie gripped his arm, pulling at him. "Cypur, wait—"

"Shush, we have company," he hissed.

At the entrance to the chamber stood a small old woman with white hair, lion-like ears, and a yellow-orange tail, Leovra type. She moved in front of the wall, and he could see through her.

"Half death," he said, lowering his dagger. The Leovra gave a sad smile and nodded.

"I am Marlevianne Trufflesome."

This was the one they had come to meet? Not a live Sorcerer, but one half dead? Wescherlie took a step forward. Her hands trembled and there were tears thick in her voice.

"Leovra, I know you were there. I remember. What happened to my parents? To Korva?"

When Marlevianne shook her head, Wescherlie shouted, "Don't shield me like they always did! I came this far." She stomped her foot. "You said you know what happened, well damn wench, tell me or I'll kill you all the way, fu-shit!" She spat.

Cypur sucked in his breath at her anger. Marlevianne's eyes filled with tears, and he could almost feel the gut-wrenching pain as her hand flung to her mouth. A sob escaped her, and her body shook. With a few deep breaths, she calmed, but Wescherlie had her knees bent as if readying for attack. Fists clenched by her side, feet pressing into the ground, scraping the hard dirt floor. Purple lightning zipped across her black wings making a few lose feathers fall.

"Please," she said in a hoarse voice that gripped his heart. He knew that cry for he had been there. He had been in a moment so vulnerable he thought he might break, filled with anger and sadness. When he reached for Wescherlie's hand, she slapped him away.

"Leave me with this," she hissed. "It's a Rauvuren thing. You don't have to know this."

"We're frie—"

Wescherlie groaned. "Don't shield me like the rest of them. I have to hear this," she argued.

That's not what I was going to say. We're friends. Friends stick together. If not, what's the point of it all, huh? Cypur bit back his argument and said instead, "I know, but I was just—"

"It's nothing to do with you. Just leave me alone. Go back to the surface."

The rejection stung him, but he had promised. She could scratch his eyes out, he didn't care. Besides, she might be shoving him away, but all he heard were cries of help.

"I'm not leaving you alone with this," Cypur said through his teeth. Then he snatched her wrist up. In surprise she turned, and her eyes were glowing in fiery purple with red sparks skipping across the surface of her pupils. He squeezed her wrist as hard as he could until she was forced to loosen her fist. He shoved his hand into her, lacing his fingers in between and held tight even when she tried to free herself.

"Let me go! This isn't even your probl—"

"You don't have to bear this alone," he whispered to her, hoping to get through. She had been his emotional support. Now it was his turn to be there for her. "You're stuck with me, Wes. To whatever end."

She stopped resisting and let her hand rest in his. Her fiery eyes dulled, and she cracked a lopsided smile. "I'm always so weak." She shook her head and sighed.

Cypur arched a brow in surprise. Why would she say that about herself? She was the strongest citizen he had ever met. Wasn't her motto about never giving a damn? How was that weak?

"You're strong, Wes," he assured her with a smile. Then he faced Marlevianne who was now standing before them, hands behind her back, and with her head lowered as if in submission. "Missus," he addressed her formally and she lifted her head, "tell her what you know."

"Tell her everything," he added and squeezed Wescherlie's hand. She squeezed back as Marlevianne began her story.