"The northern basin stretches from Alaton to the mountains before the Glacial Sea—"
The carriage lurched violently.
My humble possessions - maps, parchments, brushes, ink - went flying across the floor. Even my fellow traveler, the obnoxious Mr. Torban, was not spared, pitching forward and landing face-first against the wooden planks with a dull thud.
I, fortunately, had been gripping the window panel at that fateful moment and reacted fast enough to avoid total humiliation.
"By the Endless!" Mr. Torban bellowed. "What sort of dullard is driving this carriage? How could you be so careless? Do you have any idea who you are transporting?"
Despite his position as my advisor, and his insistence on refined speech, his voice came out sharp and shrill. It was a barrage of exquisitely polite insults, all perfectly chosen - and utterly unbearable.
I felt the urge to repay him with a reprimand or two of my own, but managed to keep my mouth shut. I already knew what his response would be.
This is beneath your station, sir.
The carriage came to a stop.
I moved to help the middle-aged, egg-shaped man to his feet, only to be halted by a single glare - wordless, polite, professional. A glare that, according to Mr. Torban himself, was permitted when directed at me.
Not one to contradict a struggling nagger, I froze and prepared myself to comfortably watch the spectacle. Small revenges would have to be my only source of amusement during this accursed journey.
Sadly, the expected display of belly-balancing never came.
Our terrified young valet, Igio, rushed forward and helped Mr. Torban up before gravity could finish its work.
"How could you be… so careless… Mr. Igio?" my advisor panted, smoothing his clothes. "You must… remember… the weight of duty… involved in transporting our Lord Initiate."
He sacrificed what little breath he had left in favor of scolding the pale-faced valet.
As insufferable as Mr. Torban could be, I had to agree with him. If little Igio - Mr. Igio - couldn't guide us safely along the main northern road, what would happen once we passed the Ice Bridge and entered the wild paths beyond?
A shiver ran down my spine at the thought.
The Ice Bridge marked the boundary between habitable lands and the frozen wastes beyond. I couldn't understand why the Tower wanted to push deeper into that dead, cold territory - much less why they had chosen me to lead the effort.
They promised the basin was surrounded by mountains, with a far milder climate than the rest of the North. But how mild could it really be?
There was no acceptable reason for a central plainer like myself to spearhead this advance - other than being easily bullied.
What else could I do without backing or coin?
Two weeks of training. That was all.
The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that I was being used as a sacrifice for whatever game the Archmagi were playing. At least my family had been spared - under the guise of "proper training."
Mr. Torban insisted that this was only appropriate.
Mrs. Helen, our elderly healer, had been less kind. She told me my family was a backup plan, in the unlikely event that I survived.
I still didn't understand how they could be used if they were meant to join the settlement in a year.
I hated politics.
I was raised a commoner - a farmer. For the love of the Endless, I couldn't appreciate intrigues, veiled threats, or false connections. Yet I had been informed - repeatedly - that I would have to cultivate my own if I wished to thrive.
So how did I, Killian - former farmer - end up here, bound for the North as a would-be Lord of a settlement?
The story was surprisingly simple.
At the budding age of seventeen, I awakened as a Mage.
And once that happens, your fate is sealed. You either lead a settlement or serve at the Great Tower. There was no suspense in my case - most positions at the Seat of Magic were reserved for the descendants of Tower Mages.
What was unusual was how quickly I had been assigned land and dispatched.
As my more friendly peers at the Tower told me, Adepts were usually sent - not Initiates like myself. Advancement alone could take anywhere from one to five years.
That meant I was at least a year too early.
The situation grew even stranger when I considered our convoy: ten carts and five carriages, without a single noble or merchant leader among us.
Such expeditions normally required political influence or deep pockets - often both. Noble families and merchant groups usually accompanied a Mage to secure their interests in a newborn settlement.
If they expected me to fail, it made sense that they hadn't come.
But then why invest at all?
The ways of the privileged were a mystery to me.
My magic, they said, justified sending me so early. I was "unique."
Magic, in simple terms, is the power to control the world's energy to affect reality. Mages are those who can wield it, each bound to a specific domain.
Elementalists command nature itself. Binders manipulate fundamental forces - kinetics, gravity, speed. Witches invoke concepts such as night, dreams, fear, or poison. Wizards wield scholarly magic, while Sorcerers rely on rituals.
Then there were the Uniques.
So rare, so strange, that they couldn't be grouped at all.
My magic was so difficult to explain that even I struggled - though thankfully, a Mage instinctively understands their own power.
I call mine Hypothetical Magic.
It allows me to control the potential development or reaction of something.
Abstract, yes - but clearer with examples.
My first spell came easily. I call it Spark.
To use it, I focus on an object capable of catching fire - through heat or friction. In my mind, a translucent membrane of energy envelops it, visible only to me. Then I imagine a hypothetical reaction: a spark, or flame, shaped by the object's size and material.
The reaction itself is all I truly control.
Once released, the energy vanishes, leaving the object unchanged - unless I allow the fire to exist by placing it anywhere within my reach.
Simple enough.
Other applications were far less intuitive. My limits, for now, were imagination and endurance - both of which improved slowly through use and training.
Watching Mr. Igio and Mr. Torban gather the scattered items made my hands itch to help. I resisted.
Mr. Torban had been very clear: menial work was beneath a Mage. If I helped, it should be with magic - and I wasn't confident enough to use it impulsively.
When I protested that I couldn't possibly occupy all my time with magic, he had laughed.
I still couldn't imagine my abilities being that useful.
I was wrong.
By the second week of travel, it became clear just how dependent the settlers were on me.
The main road ended, settlements grew scarce, and nightfall overtook us before shelter. Only a dozen of us could squeeze into the carriages. The rest - guards, crafters, laborers - camped in the open.
At first, I felt proud lighting fires with ease. A flick of the hand to set any kindling on fire.
Then came the cooking.
I offered to heat water. It sounded simple.
I imagined the pots boiling and released the reaction.
Steam burst forth - dramatic, impressive… and useless.
The result of my hypothesis was the steam itself. Hot, yes - but negligible compared to the volume of cold water beneath it.
Embarrassed, I tried again.
And again.
Only on the fourth attempt did I understand: I had to control the imagined heat, then transfer it properly.
Even then, it took minutes to boil.
Cheers followed - quickly silenced by Mr. Torban's lethal glare.
For once, I didn't mind him.
I was far more embarrassed by the undeserved praise.
What a powerful Mage I was.
I could start fires.
And slightly speed up boiling.
To their credit, no one seemed to judge me.
Unfortunately, my own self-criticism was more than enough.
I retreated to a corner of the camp, trying to become invisible - well, as invisible as the only Mage in the party could possibly be.
The warmth of the fire was pleasant, a perfect contrast to the cool night air. This late in spring, it should have been warmer, already hinting at summer's arrival. At least, that was how it worked back in the Central Plains. Here, thousands of miles north, the chill lingered stubbornly.
Maybe we wouldn't even get to experience summer at all.
It might seem foolish to dwell on the weather, but it wasn't something we learned growing up. Back home, we knew when to sow and harvest, when to prepare for rain, and how to read the land. We didn't learn that other places lived by different rules. Only after reaching the Great Tower - after enduring endless lectures on geography - did I begin to understand climate beyond my own fields.
Soon enough, dinner was served.
My bowl was handed to me first, as etiquette demanded.
Potato… again, I sighed before I could stop myself.
As a commoner, I was used to bland meals and little variety. Still, two weeks of being pampered at the Seat of Magic had clearly spoiled me. Welcoming the privileges of a Mage was easy enough. Going back to frugality was not.
The camp ate quickly. The clacking of bowls faded into the sounds of movement and work. Once again, I found myself standing uselessly to the side.
I wasn't allowed to help - not without magic. And though ideas came to mind, I was slow to act, hesitant to test them. Better not to embarrass myself again.
So I walked around, trying to look busy.
The attempt was… unsuccessful.
I only ended up looking like a stupid kid wandering aimlessly. Swallowing my frustration, I muttered a silent prayer to the Endless.
Can't I skip straight to the part where I become a powerful and respectable Mage?
Apparently not.
If I wanted a task, I was going to get one - just not the kind I wanted.
Just as the last traces of light vanished beyond the horizon, and the guards finished reinforcing the makeshift camp, my dearest advisor appeared at my tent entrance. Or rather, he blocked it.
"Sir," Mr. Torban said, voice formal as always, "a Mage is our strongest shield against the dangers of the wilderness. The servants and workhands can only rest properly, knowing that you are standing guard."
He paused, then added, "Of course, the guards will assist you, as is their duty."
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he concluded, "As long as you remain in place to respond to emergencies, you may take a few short naps, sir."
A complaint rose to my lips, but I swallowed it. My face betrayed me anyway.
"This is how it is done, sir," Mr. Torban said apologetically - though I could swear there was a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "The duty of a Mage."
Payback, no doubt, for my lack of diligence during our study sessions.
If he thought this would make me more dedicated, he was sorely mistaken. A sleepless night would only produce a miserable Mage come morning.
I wanted to argue. Truly, I did. But I couldn't let the others think I was unworthy of my position - even if I felt that way myself.
I had never imagined becoming a Mage. Still, I would be lying if I said I didn't want it. Mages stood at the top of society, above even the nobility. In this world, you either served or were served.
And I would always choose the latter.
Thankfully, Mr. Torban was professional enough to spare me complete humiliation. He assigned a young guard to accompany me - assist me, officially. In reality, to keep me awake.
Besides us, three other guards circled the camp, occasionally tossing fresh twigs onto the dying fires.
At first, I sat near the flames and resumed my magical training.
Honestly, the techniques taught at the Tower were… underwhelming. Both in difficulty and in results. Maintaining a meditative state was already painfully boring, and the gains felt insignificant.
When I complained to my instructor, she told me that magical growth was gradual, built over years of careful training.
Years.
Who had years to spare when power was needed now?
"Sir!"
I was shaken - politely - out of an unplanned nap.
"Hm?" I mumbled something unintelligible, quickly wiping the sleep from my face and willing my expression into something dignified.
It happened several more times.
Then something truly wrong snapped me fully awake.
"An attack, sir! Monsters - surrounding the camp!"