Dunce scratched his head, the word "pirate" a vague, indistinct blip in his memory. Faced with this new puzzle, he decided his best resource was his mentor, Gorith, waiting back in their cabin. For Dunce, the world was a kaleidoscope of the new and unfamiliar, and he wanted to understand everything, even if it slipped his mind moments later.
"Master! Master! A big ship is coming! People are shouting 'pirates, pirates!' What are pirates?" Dunce burst into the cabin, barely stopping before the words tumbled out in his excitement.
Gorith jolted upright on his narrow bunk. "What? Pirates? Here?" His voice was sharp with alarm.
"A black ship," Dunce confirmed, eyes wide. "Their sails had a skull and crossbones painted on them! People on our ship were yelling about pirates. Is it true?"
Gorith frowned deeply. While pirates held no personal terror for him, facing them while severely debilitated by relentless seasickness was decidedly *not* on his itinerary. He silently cursed his luck, hoping the merchant ship's hired blades could handle it themselves.
Dunce persisted. "Master, what *is* a pirate?"
Gorith, distracted and tense, answered automatically. "Pirates are thieves on the high seas. They take what they want, and sometimes…" he trailed off grimly, "…sometimes they spill blood."
Relief washed over Dunce's face. He flashed a lopsided grin. "Then there's nothing to worry about! They won't want anything from *me*. Oh! Master, *you* have to be careful! Those gold coins, those purple-metal ones – they'd surely steal those! We should hide them. Where?" He began frantically scanning the small cabin for hiding spots.
Gorith froze at the boy's naive outburst. An unfamiliar warmth flickered in his chest. *Is he… concerned for me?* The thought, alien and unsettling, crossed his mind. How long had it been since anyone expressed care for him? A wave of irritation drowned the flicker. He grabbed Dunce roughly by the collar and tossed him onto the lower bunk. "Shut up and stay still!" he snapped.
Confused and stung, Dunce sat bolt upright on the mattress, wide-eyed and silent.
*Clang! Clang! Clang!* The sharp, metallic impacts came rapid-fire, followed by a heavy *thud* that rocked the entire ship. Gorith, caught off-guard while standing, lurched and braced himself against the cabin wall. *Grappling hooks*. It was happening. The cacophony outside escalated – shouts, boot stomps, and the clash of steel confirmed it. Gorith's nausea flared, bitter bile rising in his throat. Motion sickness was a cruel master.
"Attention, merchant rats!" a gravelly voice boomed unnaturally across the deck, amplified by some crude mechanism. "This is a hostile boarding! Your valuables belong to us now! Cooperate, and maybe you keep breathing. Test us… and our blades get thirsty!" The brazen announcement signaled the pirates' commencement of their dirty work. Gorith knew their kind; paying tribute was no guarantee of survival. Dead men tell no tales, and scuttled ships leave no witnesses. Swimming wasn't exactly a strong point of his either. Reluctantly, he saw his hand was forced. He needed to act.
Pushing the cabin door open, Gorith stepped onto the narrow outer deck. Sunlight, blindingly reflected off the churning water, intensified his vertigo. He clung to the railing, retching violently.
A small hand tentatively patted his back. Gorith flinched, then… felt marginally better. He spat the last sour remnants and turned. Dunce stood there, his small face etched with anxiety.
"Get back inside. Now!" Gorith barked the command.
Dunce hesitated. The words were harsh, but the icy edge Gorith usually wielded like a knife was absent. Was that a sliver of… concern? Dunce didn't move, locking eyes with his master. Old man and boy stood locked in a silent, strangely charged standoff. A moment stretched, broken only by the chaos below. Finally, Gorith seemed to catch himself. He seized Dunce and practically threw him back through the cabin door. "Stay!" he growled, striding purposefully towards the lower deck and the tumult.
The pirates were professionals, seasoned raiders with ruthless efficiency. They'd hauled the merchant vessel alongside their own dark-hulled brig, and dozens already swarmed its decks, waving cutlasses and boarding axes, their war cries filling the air. The ship's captain and his knot of sailors were clustered near the foredeck rail, most radiating barely suppressed panic.
A bald man with a black leather patch over one eye, clearly the pirate captain ("Cyclops" seemed fitting), stood at their head with a dozen of his toughest crew, negotiating – or rather, dictating terms – to the terrified shipmaster. Gorith, using a subtle gust of manipulated air to focus the sound, caught the exchange.
"S-see here," the shipmaster stammered, voice trembling. "We… we offer the profits from this run. Take it! Just… just let us go. I swear, no reports… please?"
Cyclops roared with laughter, a sound devoid of humor. "Profits? What scraps do you merchant lice call profits? Cut the crap! Stand down, stay out of our way. Do that, maybe we feel generous. Cross us… you'll feed the fish!" To punctuate his threat, he whipped his heavy cutlass towards the ship's rail. With a flash of shimmering energy that surprised Gorith – *Battle Energy*? – the blade cracked the thick wood a foot from its target, splitting the rail cleanly. *Impressive control*, Gorith noted grimly.
Soldier Captain and crew visibly shrank back, silenced by the terrifying display of power. One-Eye turned to his men. "Alright, ya bilge rats! Shake a leg! Get this cargo off and we're headed for grog and glory!" His crew cheered, descending like a ravenous pack into the passenger cabins below deck. Passengers were dragged roughly onto the deck. Resistance earned savage kicks and blows. Fear hung thick in the air; some already offered trinkets and coin, hoping for mercy.
*Time to stop this charade,* Gorith decided. These pirates weren't much of a threat to him *if* he could avoid the inevitable scuttling. The gentle wind carried his voice, amplified unnaturally to cut through the din, echoing over both ships. "**HALT!**"
The resonant command froze the pirates in their tracks. Cyclops's remaining eye narrowed sharply. He scanned the decks, his gaze locking onto Gorith descending the stairs. *Damn. A Mage?* The suspicion tightened his gut. "Hold!" he barked. His crew instantly fell silent, gathering around him. A hundred hostile eyes fixed on the frail-looking figure.
Gorith cleared his throat, fighting a fresh wave of nausea. His focus was entirely on the pirate captain. "Leave. This. Ship." Each word was a hammer blow.
Pirates exchanged uneasy glances, waiting for One-Eye. The captain scrutinized Gorith, weighing risk against greed. This haul was too rich to abandon lightly, but confronting a skilled Mage was suicidal. "Sir," he began carefully, "Are you… one of the Art's practitioners?"
Gorith ignored the question. Cold eyes bored into One-Eye. "I will not repeat myself."
Before One-Eye could respond, a massive, bull-necked pirate shoved forward, swinging a hefty boarding axe spiked like a club. "Girl worm-eaten relic! I'll shut yer trap fer ya!" He bellowed, lifting the heavy weapon high to bring it crashing down on Gorith's head.
Gorith had anticipated trouble. Faint eddies of air swirled around him as he nimbly glided aside. The pirate's blow smashed deep into the wooden deck with a splintering *crack*.
Gorith's right hand darted forward, fingers flicking a pinch of fine, shimmering grey powder onto the pirate's axe head.
*Ssssss… Pop! Pop!* The pirate yelped, recoiling in shock as his axe head suddenly glowed white-hot. He dropped it. Before their stunned eyes, the sturdy iron began to melt, bubbling and fuming, running like hot wax onto the deck. A foul, metallic stench filled the air. The big pirate stumbled back, pointing a shaking finger. "B-by th' Abyss… Wha' are ya?"
*Molten Metal Powder,* Gorith thought with grim satisfaction, *works on anything.* One-Eye grabbed his stunned crewman and hauled him back. His respect had become wariness. "Master Artificer?" he ventured cautiously. "Forgive our… lack of courtesy."
Gorith's hand rose again. He murmured ancient syllables, guttural and sharp. Black fire, stark and unnerving against the bright sunlight, flickered then bloomed fiercely in his palm, radiating a palpable chill. One-Eye paled under his tan.
Gorith's voice was glacial steel. "Shall I pronounce your demise a third time?"
Just as One-Eye teetered on the edge of retreat, a new voice echoed from the pirate brig, deep and strangely distorted, seeming to emanate from everywhere. "Ah. I thought I recognized disrupting our little venture. None other than the illustrious Pyromancer… Gorith!"
Gorith stiffened. That voice… he couldn't pin its source. *Deadly for an Artificer.* Alarm spiked through him. He spat a rapid-fire stream of syllables. Black, choking vapors instantly billowed around him, cloaking his form entirely in a protective sphere.
"Calm yourself, Master Gorith," the distorted voice continued, now tinged with mockery. "Even a shadowy scorpion like myself knows better than to sting the venomous viper directly. Play nice, now." A figure dropped lightly from the larger pirate ship onto the merchant's deck. He wore a black cloak, its cowl drawn low, obscuring his features, but the build beneath spoke of formidable physical strength. Gorith probed through his dark shield. No tell-tale aura of Mystical energy… Not a traditional Mage. Just pure, unadulterated threat.
"Boss!" All pirates instantly snapped to attention, the deference far deeper than for One-Eye.
The cloaked figure raised a gloved hand. Utter silence fell. He addressed the swirling black fog. "Master Gorith. Your shadows, our dark tides… We sail different seas. Why trouble ours? Wait below. Let us finish… scuttling work. We offer passage. Any port. Guaranteed." The voice was smooth, reasonable. An offer you could refuse only once.
Gorith's mind raced. *Trust pirates? A likely story.* Boarding their ship would seal their fate as easily as sinking. "My terms remain," came the tight reply from within the dark fog.
The Black Cloak took a step closer. "Master Gorith remains… stubborn. Then leave us no choice but to demand… *satisfaction*." Before the last word faded, he exploded into motion. A blur of black fabric, he closed the distance impossibly fast. His cloak flared as wicked, chrome-bladed claws snapped forward from sleeves, aimed to eviscerate the fog-shrouded Artificer. *Enhanced human. Synthetic lethality.* The fog slowed him not at all; the blades plunged unerringly toward Gorith's hidden core.
Panic surged through Gorith. His strength lay in preparation, not reflexes. Against this assault, precious time for potent Mystical responses vanished. Instinct took over. His hand jerked inside his robe, fingers finding a smooth, brittle rod. He snapped it towards the attacker.
The claws ripped through the space Gorith had occupied – but tore only empty air. A phantom image, perfect but insubstantial, dissipated where the Artificer had stood moments before.
"A Mirror Image scroll!" the Cloaked Figure snarled, a hint of genuine surprise breaking his cool. "Good!" Gorith had already used the instant the scroll bought him to teleport several yards away, heart hammering. *Too close.* Fury ignited beneath his terror. *Who dares threaten Gorith?*
His hand slashed through the air. A tiny, dark rift tore open. With practiced ease, Gorith drew out a foot-long scepter. It was impossibly dark wood or obsidian, unadorned except for a single, perfect crimson gem the size of a marble set at its tip. His grip tightened. Deep, guttural incantations flowed from him, charging the air.
The Cloaked One knew the stakes. Let the Artificer unleash a charged ritualistic working unchecked? Suicide. As the scepter touched Gorith's hand, the enhanced human pounced. The cowl gaped; a lethal barrage of chrome blades, dozens of them, fanned out from his sleeves, forming a lethal, inescapable net designed to shred Gorith where he stood. A killing storm.
Gorith didn't waver. Channeling power into the scepter, his free hand dove into the closing rift, grabbing a fistful of silvery-grey dust. He flung it at his attacker. The air around the charging Cloak shimmered violently. A swarm of insubstantial Gorith images filled the space before him. The net of blades tore through illusions by the score, slicing nothing but mist. The real Gorith remained untouched, shielded by shifting illusions.
"**GO! Pyre of the Damned!**" Gorith snarled, channeling the collected power through the scepter. A river of pure black flame, cold yet incinerating, vomited forth from the crimson gem, engulfing the cluster of pirates behind their leader. It screamed with unnatural hunger.
*Shit!* The thought was primal. The Boss recognized the fusion of Shadow and Infernal magics instantly. He couldn't shield *everyone*. Even a splatter would dissolve his crew like candle wax. Contingencies dissolved. Survival took precedence. "Abyssal Surge!" he bellowed, pouring power into his augmentations. Blurring speed became impossible. His entire upper body seemed to expand within the cloak as he braced. Dozens, hundreds of blades snapped from hidden ports across his forearms, shoulders, even beneath the cape – becoming a whirling, protective shield covering him from waist to head. But this wasn't defense; raw power pulsed from the shield, a focused kinetic wave amplified by hidden generators. The swirling blades moved with terrifying speed, generating a roaring wind as they met the tide of black fire in a shattering collision.
*CRACK-WHAM!* The deck between them vanished in an explosion of superheated splinters. The ship lurched violently. Both figures stumbled back.
Gorith swayed slightly. *Enhanced. Augmented. Beyond peak human. Likely… Gen-Tek Prototype? Rogue?* Recognition dawned with icy clarity. The Boss's unique augmentation signatures, capable of absorbing and partially nullifying Shadow energies, explained the muted effect of the Pyre and the effectiveness of the kinetic shield against his dark flames. But to reveal that knowledge aloud? To speak the terms 'Gen-Tek' or 'Prototype' here? It would trigger scorched earth – total annihilation to cover their tracks. Neither ship would survive. Fighting seasickness, his reserves depleted, Gorith knew taking on a fully empowered Prototype now meant mutual destruction. The tactical calculation was instant: hold. Threaten. Negotiate if possible.
A small sphere of orange fire burst into existence above them. It arced down smoothly, almost mockingly, straight towards the Cloaked Figure, still gathering himself after the concussive blast. Instinctively, one blade shot upwards from his gauntlet.
*Pffft.* The fireball popped harmlessly against the metal. But several bright embers landed on the cloak's shoulder and edge. Instantly, small holes appeared, burning cleanly. For a fraction of a second, under the bright noon sun, a flash of iridescent *green* metal gleamed through the frayed holes before the cloak shifted.
*Holy Fire? Sentinels?!* Terror, cold and absolute, sliced through the Boss. A Pyromancer was bad enough. An Artificer worse. But a Sentinel? Light's judgement, here? *Run. NOW.* He didn't hesitate. "WEIGH ANCHOR! NOW!" he roared, diving backwards without another word, clearing the rail in a single bound back to his own dark ship. He didn't stop to see if his crew followed. His gamble was over. The cost? Better paid elsewhere.
Gorith didn't watch the scramble. His head snapped towards the top deck of the passenger ship. To the row of cabins. Specifically… to his own. That fireball… *I know that signature.*
"Oh, Great Artificer! Oh, savior! Blessings upon you! You saved us all!" The merchant captain was groveling at his feet.
Gorith eyed him with distaste. "See that I remain undisturbed." The command left no room for argument. He turned and walked away, heading straight back to the top deck cabins. That insignificant little fireball had held his attention entirely.
***
The battered merchant ship finally limped into the bustling harbor of Fishton, Port City of the Shire Territories, late that night. The journey from Fishton to Gorith's domain in neighboring Valyan Province was a three-day trip overland.
Soldier Captain himself escorted Gorith and a drowsy Dunce down the gangway, profusely grateful, even returning their passage fare. Gorith didn't argue, tucking the coins away. They entered Fishton proper. The air, while cooler than daytime, was noticeably warmer than frigid Neero.
Dunce stretched, exhaustion from the day's psychic battering still clinging. No matter how many times he chanted the flame spell taught on the carriage ride, only weak sparks flickered. "Master, where to now?"
Gorith answered almost automatically before catching himself. "An inn. Rest. Tomorrow we find transport to my Sanctuary. What did I say about unnecessary questions?"
Dunce blinked. His head felt… clearer? Sharper? He remembered everything about the fight vividly. Gorith had been… different after he woke. Less frost, a flicker of warmth? He felt less afraid.
The night was beautiful, stars sharp against a moonlit sky. Walking the cobbled streets, Gorith suddenly asked, "Dunce. Why did you throw that flame… at the Boss?"
Dunce answered readily. "He was a bad man. A bad man fighting you. I had to help. You said fire could hurt?"
Gorith snorted coldly. "Foolhardy bravery. Do you think your little candle scorch could aid *me*? If that augmented engine of destruction had been running at full power when he blocked it… the backlash would have shredded your consciousness. Turned you into a vegetable. A breathing husk. When your foe towers over you, child, striking prematurely is simply choosing a faster demise."
Dunce absorbed this slowly. "So… magic has limits?"
Thinking about the Cloaked One, Gorith spoke, half to himself. "That one… built differently. Enhanced. Augmented. Gen-Tek prototype, I'd wager. Their innate adaptation absorbs shadow energies, weakening my Artifice. Makes direct confrontation… costly. Remember this: see shiny green metal skin, claws like razors… *run*. Understand? Why am I telling *you* this?" He shook his head, the unfamiliar urge to explain puzzling him.
Dunce, however, beamed with the undeserved praise of instruction. "Thank you, Master! Shiny green skin, claws… I run!"
Gorith grunted noncommittally, gesturing towards a respectable-looking inn. "We lodge here."
As they approached the inn entrance, Dunce suddenly pointed. "Master! Look! That man… what strange clothes?"
Gorith followed the gesture. A tall man approached the same inn, dressed in a clean white robe. Emblazoned over his heart was a simple golden hexagram. Blond hair flowed over his shoulders. An aura of unsettling peace and calm radiated from him. Gorith tensed, suppressing a grimace. *A Sentinel. Of the Radiant Order.* Sentinels and their purified energy fields fueled by the Order's High Seers were anathema to his Artifice, grounded in shadow and controlled chaos. A persistent thorn.
The Sentinel passed close. He glanced down at Dunce, then up at Gorith, offering a benign, gentle smile. He nodded once before entering the inn.
"Master, he smiled at us!" Dunce whispered. "So kind. Why smile?"
Even the proximity made Gorith's skin crawl. "A Sentinel," he muttered. "A low-level Acolyte. Pester no one. Move." He steered Dunce firmly towards the door, eager to put distance between them and that radiating calm.
"Hungry! I'm so hungry! Master, what's for dinner?"
"What's for dinner? Let me think…" The sea journey's toll on appetite was real. He needed sustenance. He didn't notice Dunce's questions were becoming less hesitant, nor that he, unconsciously, tolerated them. A shift had begun.
After a meal restoring some lost vigor, both retired to their room, sinking into blissful, undisturbed sleep.
***
Early the next morning, Gorith felt significantly restored. Dunce, miraculously resilient, also seemed back to his baseline self. Childlike recovery.
Gorith opened their door and summoned an inn servant. Tossing the young man a silver coin, he commanded, "Secure transport. A carriage."
"Master, are we truly going by carriage?" Dunce piped up.
Gorith frowned. "Must you question everything? Silence. Rehearse your spell."
"Oh." Dunce sat on the edge of a sturdy oak chair, recalling the *Ignite* spell Gorith had taught him during the carriage ride. Similar to his *Ember*, but less concentrated impact, longer incantation… greater area effect.
"Ignitus Arcani, source of conflagration," Dunce intoned softly, focusing. "Answer my plea, fuel my desire. By the pact spoken… **KINDLE!**" A small, persistent flame, about the size of a candle's, burst alight above his palm, throwing dancing shadows and warmth into the cool room.
"Master! Master! It worked!" Dunce exclaimed, eyes shining.
Gorith barely glanced over. "Hardly cause for celebration. Rudimentary pyrokinesis. Replicate it without the words. Master control. And spare yourself; channeling takes a toll you can ill afford repeatedly." His tone was dismissive, but the criticism lacked its usual bite.
"Okay. Got it." Unfazed, Dunce continued practicing the chant, varying the pauses, learning the rhythm. Soon after, the servant returned. A carriage waited.
***
Settled into the surprisingly comfortable carriage hours later, soft cushions beneath him, Dunce still marveled. He was *riding*! He peered excitedly through the window. The landscape shifted, triggering memories of Girl. Was she safe? Was the stern-looking woman caring for her?
After three days of dusty roads and changing scenery, they crossed into the borders of Valyan Province. Dunce had witnessed marvels: towering windmill farms, strange horseless carriages puffing steam on distant rails, sprawling fields unlike Neero's dense forest. Gorith, though grumbling, had answered each query. A journey ended, another beginning. The dynamic between Master and Apprentice was changing, quietly, irrevocably, mile by dusty mile.