Chapter 15 shoplifting
"I heard about it, but I think it's nonsense, and I don't know why ye keep harping on it, but yer not going to scare me," the stall owner said dismissively. The man's voice was rough, hoarse even, like someone who had spent years retching or coughing violently—each word, especially "you" and "your," carrying a rasp that made his speech feel deliberate, almost like he was trying not to gag mid-sentence. "It's just an urban legend, made up to scare people."
"But I swear, Morris. I saw it with my own eyes!" the young customer insisted. "I was at the General hospital when the ice monster attacked. It was pure terror. I... I can't even describe it!"
Morris's thick eyebrows lowered, his dark eyes narrowing as he leaned slightly forward. "Fallen… look at me. Seriously, look at me. Do I look like Rin?"
Fallen stared at the large man before him, the bald head gleaming under the shop's bright light, the sleeveless white top stretched snugly over rippling muscles that looked forged by labor rather than the gym. His expression was blank, his sarcasm sharp. "Oh, absolutely," he said slowly. "You totally look like my eight-year-old son."
Morris ignored the jab. "Stop speaking like a child, and stop speaking to me like I'm one," he growled, a disapproving scowl deepening the lines of his face. "The days of magic are over; it's dead. Even those rumors about wizards working for the government secretly are probably just that—rumors. And a 'Magic Council'? Quit kidding me. I'm fifty-three years old for Valmnar's sake." He tucked the last of the purchase into a malleable wooden basket: a small, clear plastic crate filled with pale white eggs, a bundle of long, red leafy vegetables, and a tin of BOLT sweetened milk.
Fallen scoffed, tossing three dense gold coins onto the counter as he received the basket. "You know I used to be like you once. Ignorant. Foolish. Many of us down here in the west were, until we got out. Was acting like an idiot myself the first time I left this city. Axille is a bubble, Morris. Heissis is. Nothing ever gets out down here. Maybe you should leave for once. See the world outside this little stall. I'd wager my head that you'd die of surprise."
Morris picked up the gold coins and slid them into a compartment beneath the counter, the faint clink echoing softly in the quiet stall as they hit other coins. From there, he fished out a nearly folded yellowed cloth and wiped the metal surface. Once the counter gleamed to his satisfaction, he produced five thick coins, each forged from a dull blue-green metal. Engravings adorned their faces—three perfectly straight lines, etched with delicate contours at each end, and along the rims, a peculiar plant with spiky, double-tipped leaves curled gracefully around the edges. "Take yer change and go Fallen," he said flatly. "Don't want to listen to yer crap no longer." Then he added, half-amusedly. "You're holding up the line."
Fallen—youthful, dark-skinned, cleanshaven, sharp-eyed, with hair cropped short and a black cap pulled low—tilted his head back and squinted with exaggerated curiosity at the non-existent line. After a moment, he spun back toward the large man, lips pursed and puffed in mock exasperation, letting his gaze drift down to the coins on the counter. "Ey... you said I could get the achasera for four Bens."
Morris exhaled sharply—part sigh, part growl—and reached under the counter again, pulling out another green coin with his massive, calloused fingers. He dropped it onto the counter with a thud. "Next time, it's six," he said, voice gravelly but firm. "Now, go. Go spread yer heresy to whoever's left in town."
Fallen gathered the coins with one sweep of his hand, smirking. "If my mother weren't here I'd say you're the only one left, Morris. And don't count me; I only came back to see her."
"Go, kid," Morris grumbled.
"Hey, I'm over thirty, you can't call me kid."
"Only kids talk about magic."
Fallen leaned forward, eyes narrowing, his tone sharp. "Says the guy who's never set foot outside Axille, even after everyone else left. What do you know? You've been here all your life, Morris. What could you possibly know about anything?"
Morris merely let out a low groan, the kind that could have been mistaken for a cough or the beginning of a muttered curse.
"I'm telling you," Fallen pressed on, "wizards are still out there. Wills is lying to us. You've seen those people in black uniforms, right? The ones Wills calls 'vigilantes'—they're not just vigilantes. They're enforcers. Magic enforcers." He pocketed the coins absentmindedly. "I've seen them use magic with my own eyes!"
Morris's face seemed to lighten for a moment, almost curious. "Magic enforcers, you say? Ha! Then why do they carry firearms?"
"It's a facade," Fallen's voice rose with fervor. "They're tricking us! Wills wants us to believe they're nothing more than normal guys with guns from some international organization, but some of us are not so easily fooled. I'm telling you, those guys are definitely Magic enforcers!"
Morris exhaled a long, weary groan, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "Alright, if what yer say is true, why hasn't anyone come across any real-life recordings or pictures of wizards using magic? Everyone's got a phone. I have a phone, yer have one too, and we all have access to the interlink, yet there's no shred of proof."
"Ah, the age-old demand for visible proof." Fallen met his skepticism with unwavering conviction. "A camera can't capture the essence of magic, Morris. You gotta see it with your own eyes!"
The store owner wore a look that totally expressed his preference for watching the static on an old television than listen to this man in his mid-thirties that looked like a twenty-year-old kid drone on about magic.
But Fallen did not relent. "The light produced by magic particles gets registered by a camera as plain white light. I've witnessed it firsthand. Remember when I left for Tittenese?"
"No."
"No? Morris, I haven't even repaid the two gold you lent me for transportation."
Morris's gaze sharpened. "Ahh..."
"Anyway, I told you, I met Anka Brightbaby, you remember her, right? She used to own that cafe in Binge street... Big Kakes? She was showing me around the city when we ran into one of them, a Wind wizard, trying to fend off a pack of dogs attacking a cat by using blasts of air from his bare hands! His bare hands, Morris! I tried to record it, even though Anka said it was a waste of time, and really, it was. All I got was plain white light flooding my screen, no magic."
Morris's face softened for a fleeting moment, as if Fallen's words had almost reached him—but then he let out a long, weary sigh, his exasperation audible. "Listen, Fallen," he said, his rough voice firm, carrying a weight that brooked no argument, "I've got a business to run. If yer want to keep chasing fairy tales, be my guest. Knock yerself out. I'm sure O'shanks is down at Nolly's pub reeking of alcohol already. Go on... he'll humor you there."
"O'shanks doesn't know anything..."
Neither man noticed the swirling sands and the ice flecks that skimmed soundlessly across the tiled floor, whipped past their feet, around the base counter, and into the stall.
Inside, the stall stretched in two orderly rows of wide, enclosed glass shelves framed in dark metal — seven columns deep, each shelf seven feet tall. Every shelf was meticulously stocked. Small tags hung from the edges to mark the category of their contents; Soda, Fruits and Veggies, Pastries, Beverages, Bread, Ready-made Meat...
The air carried the faint scent of sweet icing and the chill of refrigeration.
The sand grains and ice flakes drifted through the aisle with eerie curiosity, swirling past shelf after shelf, lingering briefly with each pass as though inspecting them. Finally the elements coalesced into two boys between a shelf stacked with nearly arranged pastries and another that radiated a steady warmth.
The warm shelf was crammed with small brown plastic buckets, each with a transparent slip across its middle, revealing all sorts of prepared meats—deep brown cuts, pale strips of seasoned fat, charred edges stacked tightly together. Printed labels sat crisp and precise against the plastic, naming each variety in bold lettering. The shelf across the aisle contained glistening cans of fizzy drinks and beer.
"What do you think, Oliver?" Robert whispered, eyeing the pastry shelf. He wiped his damp hands on his trousers nervously. "Should we get cake slices or cupcakes, oo! Look at those pies."
"Calm yourself, Robert. And look to your left," Oliver drawled, voice low and unimpressed. He stood with effortless composure, hands loosely at his sides, as though they were merely customers browsing after school. The contrast was sharp—Robert practically vibrating with excitement, fingers twitching as they pressed against the glass, a grin threatening to split his face in two. "Greasy and savory—that's what should be on your mind right now. See that bucket there? Roast glop belly. I can't think of anything that says greasy and savory more than that."
"I hear you on the greasy, savory thing—go on, grab one of those," Robert whispered as his gaze almost immediately flicked back the pastry shelf. "But... I've developed a serious sweet tooth—blame Dora for that by the way... Oh my goodness!"
Robert's jaw nearly dropped as his eyes fell to the lowest rack of the pastry display. He crouched instinctively, breath hitching, as though he'd just uncovered a treasure that buried itself. Lined in neat, irresistible stacks were chocolate bars in wrappers of diverse colours.
Without hesitation, Robert dropped to his knees and slid the lower glass panel aside with trembling care.
"Mettles chocolate…" he breathed, voice low and taut, strung tight with barely restrained delight. "My favorite."
His hands moved quickly now, almost reverently, scooping up the bars in silver wrapping. He gathered as many as his fingers could manage—three in total—clutching them to his chest like precious contraband.
He glanced up and caught Oliver giving him the looks.
"What?" He whispered, cheeks flushing. "I like chocolate. These one's got sour nuts..."
"Grab a pie," Oliver cut him off, turning away to circle the meat shelf. "I'll get a bucket."
The boys each reached for their chosen treats and, from who-knows-where, Oliver produced a white plastic bag into which they placed them.
The two men ceased arguing just as Fallen abruptly pointed out to Morris that he thought he had just seen a kid walking by one of the shelves. The store owner swerved around. A scowl squeezed his forehead as he spotted two teens through the glass, one black-haired and white-tipped at the front and the other silver-haired. The silver-haired one carried a loaded plastic bag, the rigid curve of a small bucket clearly pressing against the thin material.
"What in the world...?!" Morris exclaimed, voice rising to a frantic shout. "Eyy! Yer can't just take what yer want! Make purchases at the counter or get out immediately!"
But the boys merely exchanged knowing smiles, turned, and fled deeper into the store. Morris barreled from behind the counter, each step thudding heavily against the floor as he gave chase. They weaved through the aisles, circling shelves and nearly knocking one over, yet the boys were far too swift for the large man.
"There's no running away from this!" Morris roared, as he watched the boys open a door at the far end of the store and run inside. The shop owner grinned—he knew that beyond that door lay only a narrow corridor and the small bathroom, a dead end. They'd be trapped.
The boys skidded around the corner and reached a door, which they shoved open, revealing the cramped toilet beyond. They glanced back the way they'd come, eyes sparkling, and saw Morris's advancing figure rounding the corner. He stopped short as he laid eyes on them, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both walls of the narrow passageway. A menacing scowl darkened his face, and his biceps bulged as he flexed his arms.
"Oh, what I'm gonna do to the two of ya!" He bellowed, voice shaking with fury.
A sly grin appeared on Robert's face. "Oliver, you thinking what I'm thinking?" He thought, turning his head just enough to catch the other boy in his peripheral vision.
Oliver didn't bother to return the glance. His gaze remained fixed on the store owner, calm and unreadable, as though this were all beneath his concern. A heartbeat later, his reply brushed against Robert's mind—cool, effortless. "After you."
Across from them, the store owner scowled at the teens as though they were lunatics. Weren't they supposed to be on their knees trembling and begging? Instead one was smiling and the other was staring at him as though he wasn't even there. Well, it didn't matter. He would fix that soon enough. Nobody robs Morris Houndcaster and walks out with their spines still straight!
He advanced toward them, heavy boots striking the floor with dull, echoing thuds, each step carrying the promise of pain. His broad shoulders rolled forward as he prepared to lunge—but then he froze.
His anger faltered, confusion taking its place as he noticed the boys' outlines were blurring. The air around them seemed to distort.
Morris blinked.
He could see through their bodies!
"What the..." he breathed, the words tumbling out in a hoarse whisper as he staggered back two steps. Then slowly, right before his disbelieving eyes, the first boy unravelled, disintegrating into a loose cascade of fine brown sand. The second boy dissolved a heartbeat later, the plastic bag and its stolen goods along with his body burst into a storm of glittering snowflakes. Frosty fragments scattered outward, then gathered themselves into a swirling flurry.
The sand and frost particles swirled around each other intimidatingly, then, as though guided by some silent command, they glided into the bathroom.
With every ounce of his courage, Morris edged toward the bathroom door. His palm hovered at the frame for a moment before he finally leaned in and peered inside. There, the cluster of ice and sand hovered and swirled patiently, as though waiting. The store owner's body tensed in panic as a cold ripple crept down his spine. His breath shortened into shallow pulls as instinct screamed at him to run, yet his legs refused to obey.
But instead of the assault he had braced himself for, the two clusters streamed toward the half-open window in eerie unison and slipped quietly through the gap. A faint hiss of wind, and they were gone.
Morris was overcome with a sudden weakness and sank to his knees, gripping the toilet for support. His gaze darted wildly—from the empty space where the boys had stood, to the open window, and back again—searching for some trace of logic.
Nothing.
They had broken apart... disintegrated... and then they had become...
His mind couldn't even begin to process what he had just seen.
But how was that possible? Was his store haunted? Had those boys been ghosts? No, ghosts don't rob stores and carry things. No... no... this had to be magic.
But that would mean Fallen was right. Wizards actually still existed? But how? Everyone knew—or at least everyone he knew knew—magic had faded out centuries ago. It was history!
So what in all the realms had he just witnessed?
Two boys had used magic right in his stall, right front of his eyes!
Morris felt his temples throb as disbelief and awe battled inside him. For a moment he wondered if he was unwell—if age had finally begun to play tricks on his mind. But no hallucination could have felt so vivid. Even Fallen saw the boys too.
Finally, the store owner forced himself upright, breath ragged, body trembling—not from fear, but from the staggering realization that his world had just shifted.
Fifty-three years he'd lived in Axille. Fifty-three years he had laughed at stories like this. Dismissed people like Fallen. Mocked them.
Now it was his turn to explain something incredible. Fallen was likely waiting out there, expecting him to return triumphant, dragging two petty thieves by their collars. Instead, Morris Houndcaster would have to explain how those thieves had dissolved into sand and snow and slipped through a window like smoke.
The certainty he wore like armor felt thin. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like an absolute fool.
— — — — —
"That was amazing!" Robert exclaimed as he and Oliver solidified from the elemental clusters.
They stood in an open field on the eastern outskirts of Axille, far from the quiet market. Robert recognized the crops in the field immediately. Wheat swayed in dense separate rectangular spaces, their long stalks brushing against one another with a dry, whispering sound. Interspersed among them were rectangles of tripets — a plant with three sturdy stalks rising from a single root, each tip bowed under the weight of tightly packed brown seeds. The heavy clusters gave the plants a permanent, humbled posture, as though they were nodding toward the soil that birthed them. Those seeds, once harvested and treated, were used to make quaffies — a common airy, milky white snack sold in paper cones.
The land stretched wide in every direction. No farmers were in sight and no fences were close enough to matter. Just a vast sweep of crops trembling under the evening breeze. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting a molten gold over the field, painting the wheat in shimmering amber and catching along the curved backs of the tripet heads. Long shadows stretched between the rows, weaving dark lines through the glowing grain.
Oliver carefully set the plastic bag down on the dusty sand. "Excited about your first crime?" he asked casually. From the bag, he produced the spoils of their escapade and, spreading the bag on the soil, he began to lay them out: three chocolate bars, a mangled slice of cake streaked with pink icing, and the small brown bucket of meat. He chuckled quietly. "Soon you'll get to kill people," he added, almost as an afterthought, without meeting Robert's gaze.
But when he noticed the silence beside him—heavy, unmoving—he glanced up. Robert had stopped walking. He stood rigid, staring at Oliver as though he'd just uttered something unforgivable.
"What?" Oliver asked, lowering himself to the ground with unbothered ease.
Robert's throat worked before any sound came out. "What… what do you mean, kill people?" His voice was tight now, wary. "Why would I—why would anyone—do that?"
Oliver did not answer immediately. Instead, he gestured for Robert to sit.
Slowly, reluctantly, Robert lowered himself onto the ground. Oliver popped open the plastic lid of the meat bucket, the faint snap of it loud in the quiet field. He reached in, retrieved two thin, soft, circular slices of browned meat, and dropped them into his mouth in one smooth motion.
"What do you mean kill people?" Robert pressed again, absentmindedly unwrapping a chocolate bar.
"I'm sure the other guy can explain," Oliver said around his mouthful, then carefully handed Robert five equally thin slices.
Robert accepted the meat and stared at it for a second before biting into one. Its flavor exploded in his mouth—smoky, salty, rich with spice—and nearly made him moan with pleasure. But the words echoing in his mind smothered the enjoyment before it could bloom. 'Kill people.'
"Excuse me, Poison," he muttered under his breath. "What does he mean kill people? I don't wanna kill anyone."
Poison's reply drifted through his mind, lazy and unhurried. "You would have to, eventually. There's always some idiot whose existence would become a threat to yours."
Robert swallowed hard, confusion tightening his features. "What…?" he thought, chewing slowly now. He lifted the slice of cake toward Oliver in silent offer. Oliver shook his head. Robert stuffed the entire thing into his mouth instead, barely tasting it.
"Why would I kill anyone?" he argued inwardly. "No matter what happens — no matter what someone does — I'd never think of killing anyone!"
Poison sighed. "It's a crooked path were on, kid, you and I. It's not going to be all twindles and dollies. Experience would teach you that soon enough."
Robert's face scrunched up even more. "What does that even mean?" He cast a sideways glance at Oliver, who seemed perfectly at ease, chewing with quiet satisfaction.
"You're young," Poison responded. "Inexperienced. You know bafflingly little about how the world truly works. I can't expect your imagination to stretch far enough to comprehend any explanation I might give you now. And frankly, explaining things is exhausting." A pause. "Just consider it part of what's ahead."
"How about you simply tell me what the heck is ahead?!" Robert snapped, his irritation flaring. He glanced at Oliver and muttered an apology for the outburst, shoving two slices of the meat into his mouth and chewing furiously.
"M' not telling you anything else, kid. Let's just enjoy this food."
Robert said nothing more. For a few moments, he sat there chewing, staring at nothing in particular. Eventually he swallowed, reached for a second chocolate bar, and tore it open.
The two boys ate in silence for a while. The word kill loosened its grip on Robert's thoughts, drifting to the back of his mind like a cloud pushed aside by wind. The quiet of the countryside settled over him instead. The field stretched wide and simple around them — expansive and orderly, divided into uneven rectangles of wheat and tripet that quilted the land in soft gold and muted green and brown. A weathered wooden farmhouse stood a short distance away, its roof glowing amber under the descending sun. Haystacks were piled neatly beside it, and heavy farm machines rested in still rows near the fences. The entire place felt untouched, suspended in calm. The only thing striking was the abnormally large scarecrow in the middle of the field, its outstretched arms casting long, skeletal shadows across the crops.
Robert's gaze drifted toward a combine parked at the farthest edge of the fence. His thoughts, uninvited, circled back.
Kill people.
Was Oliver talking about Doom — Poison's so called brother? But he hadn't said a person. He'd said people. Plural. Many. Why would he ever need to kill anyone? Had Oliver done so?
His mind wandered further, fleeing the discomfort. He pictured Solar Springs High School. By now, siesta had long been over and everyone was milling about. He remembered Jackson devouring noodles in the dining hall and wondered if he had won the contest. Then, he thought of Dora. He imagined her scanning the boys' dorms... the entire school, in search of him. He found his thoughts returning to her again and again.
When he swallowed the last of his meat and chocolate, a satisfied burp escaped him — almost perfectly synchronized with Oliver's. Robert grinned instinctively. Oliver responded with an amused shrug. But then Robert noticed the sun dipping lower, its golden arc nearly brushing the horizon. The light had deepened, shadows lengthening across the crops like dark fingers.
His expression sharpened.
"We should head back," he said, brushing his hands together as he rose. "It won't look good if they realize we're missing."
Oliver scoffed lightly as he stood. "Normally, I wouldn't care about being found out," he said, stretching his shoulders. "But I remember what it's like the first time." He gave Robert a sideways glance. "So for your sake, let's move."
Oliver began tidying up, stuffing wrappers and the empty bucket into one of the wheat sections, burying the evidence of their petty theft beneath the tall stalks. Robert, meanwhile, watched the sun.
But in the very next breath, both boys stiffened. A voice drifted from behind them—smooth, composed, and edged with quiet authority.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Robert and Oliver whipped around at once to face the speaker, their eyes wide with surprise. Standing a few paces away was a tall, solemn figure draped in a dark red robe that fell in heavy folds to his boots. Beneath the robe, a neatly fitted dark sleeveless cardigan lay over a deep black shirt. His posture was straight, almost ceremonial, and his presence carried an eerie stillness, as though the space around his body was a vacuum.
"How did you...?" Oliver's astonishment bled quickly into alarm as his gaze locked onto the stranger.
The man appeared to be in his early forties, clean-shaven, his expression so remarkably calm that Robert almost thought he was angry—though no such emotion showed itself. The man regarded them with steady, assessing eyes, as though measuring more than just their height and build.
What unsettled the two boys most was not the man's sudden appearance—but the impossibility of it.
Through their bond with the ancestor-souls, Robert and Oliver possessed heightened perception. Even when idle, they sensed the subtle disturbances others made in the world: the faint pressure in the air when someone stood nearby, the whisper of heat, the minute shifts in magnetic and electrical currents that living bodies inevitably produced. It was never loud, never conscious—but it was always there.
And yet—
They had felt nothing. No ripple. No presence. No warning. Even now, standing mere steps away, the man emitted none of that familiar atmospheric tension—the subtle compression that usually pressed against their awareness like warm air. This was no technological trickery. Even subconsciously, they could detect circuitry, residual charge, and small electromagnetic tremor.
But this man registered as… absence. A blank space in the fabric of sensation. That was something beyond their understanding.
Robert felt a chill glide down his spine.
"Who are you?" Oliver asked carefully.
"You do not need to know who I am," the man replied evenly. "It will suffice to say that I am a wizard, and I am here on behalf of the Black Fraggers. You two will be coming with me."
Robert took a step back.
The faintest smile touched the man's lips. "To avoid unnecessary conflict, I'm going to need you both to put your hands behind your back."
As he spoke, he lifted one hand and made a small, fluid gesture. Robert and Oliver watched in amazement as the dead leaves around them rustled violently. Wheat stalks bent inward. Strands of dried tripet stems tore free from the soil and rose into the air, twisting together in tight spirals. The dry plant matter intertwined, braiding itself into a thick, fibrous rope that slithered through the air before settling neatly into the wizard's outstretched hand.
Robert's pulse thundered in his ears. He felt as though blood had rushed straight to his head.
That was magic. Real magic. And the man standing before them—He was a real life wizard!
"And why should we do that?" Oliver asked, taking one step forward. For some reason, he thought the man housed the Plant ancestor-soul.
"Because I ordered you to," the man replied smoothly. "And if you don't, I will be forced to employ more… persuasive methods." His eyes cooled slightly. "I assure you, you will not enjoy them."
"If we refuse?" Oliver blurted confidently. As he spoke, a low wind began to coil around them, subtle at first—just enough to stir loose soil and tug at the hems of clothing. Then it deepened, whistling through the crops in restless waves. The temperature dipped sharply.
The wizard gave a soft, disdainful chuckle. "Young man," he drawled, glancing around at the stirring wind as though it were a child's tantrum, "your display is… spirited. But insignificant." His gaze returned to Oliver, unimpressed. "Do not waste my time. Place your hands behind your back. Or I will escalate this situation."
"I ask again, what if we refuse?"
A flicker of irritation passed across the man's otherwise composed features. "Don't be foolish, young man," he said. "You two are only just as powerful as Common wizards. You can barely even control spells. You only know basic and raw moves." He adjusted his grip on the woven rope, which coiled obediently in his hand. "I, on the other hand, am a Mystic. I can control external elements already. The only reason you appear formidable at all is because of your ancestor-souls; parasitic relics that grant you the ability to transform into elementals and power equivalent to a—at best—recently advanced Mystic wizard." His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Hardly remarkable."
The wind snapped harder at that.
"I am a peak Mystic wizard," he continued evenly. "A handful of meditations away from the Legendary level. You would do well to consider the scale of that gap before attempting something stupid. The consequences for defiance could be… severe."
The last word had barely left his mouth when the air cracked sharply. A dense sphere of ice condensed midair—formed in an instant with compressed fury—and hurled itself toward the wizard's face.
But it never reached him.
With explosive force, a thick root tore upward from the ground in front of him, splitting soil and snapping smaller plants aside. The gnarled mass swung like a battering ram and smashed the ice sphere apart. Frozen shards burst outward in glittering fragments and scattered at his feet.
Silence fell—save for the restless wind.
The wizard lowered his hand slowly. "Confidence," he said mildly, brushing a fleck of frost from his sleeve, "The weak man's illusion of power." His eyes hardened now, no longer amused. "You are still at the Common level, boy. Beyond that lies Mystic… then Legendary… then Formidable... then Supreme. Levels of power your mind cannot yet comprehend."
His gaze sharpened, pinning Oliver where he stood.
"You were inhabited by a spirit and granted control over magic energy, and now you mistake that privilege for greatness?" His voice dropped. "Control is power. Mastery is power. You possess neither."
The braided rope in his hand tightened slightly, the woven leaves creaking as if alive. "And you dare test me?"
Then he sensed it.
A magic wave radiated outward from Oliver, sharp and gathering, like pressure building before a storm breaks. The boy was drawing on his magic energy; he was preparing to cast another spell.
A slow, almost indulgent smile spread across the wizard's face. There was pride in it—anticipation even. "I will say this one last time," he called evenly, eyes gleaming. "Reconsider before you do something catastrophically foolish."
"Oliver, wait!" Robert blurted, stepping forward and raising a hand. "Let's just talk to him. We don't have to fight."
Oliver's jaw tightened, his shoulders rigid with contained fury. "Talk?" he echoed, incredulous. "You want to talk with someone who intends to tie us up and drag us away?" His eyes never left the robed man. "No. I'm going to show him exactly why that was the worst idea his idiotic brain has ever produced."
"I get it. But I really think we should try to talk our way out of this," Robert pressed. "There might still be a chance to de-escalate things before..."
Oliver did not let him finish.
He lifted his hand, cutting Robert off as a powerful tornado burst forth from the ground beneath the man with a violent roar. Dust, stalks, and fragments of soil spiraled upward in a savage column of wind, swallowing the man whole. The vortex howled as it tightened, then launched the man skyward. Higher and higher he rose—ten feet, twenty, thirty—until he hovered nearly fifty feet above the field. As the man reached the peak of his ascent, the tornado dissipated, and for a heartbeat, he was suspended in mid-air. Then he began to fall.
Oliver stood below, chin lifted, eyes bright with fierce anticipation.
But the falling man was not screaming.
"That's the best you can manage?!" he boomed, voice cutting cleanly through the fading wind. He pointed a finger toward a rectangular patch of tripet below. Instantly, the stalks began to grow rapidly. They surged upward at unnatural speed, thickening, twisting, and knotting themselves together in a dense lattice. By the time the wizard was fifteen feet from the ground, the woven mass had risen to meet him. He landed upon it as though stepping onto a cushioned platform. The tangled growth absorbed the impact and gently lowered him back to the ground. He stepped off the vegetation smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his dark red robe as the tangled stalks settled.
Robert stared, breath caught in his throat. He wasn't sure he had ever witnessed anyone do anything so cool. "Oliver," he whispered urgently, grabbing a fistful of Oliver's shirt. "We're outmatched. We need to leave. Now."
"Stand aside, Manwell!" Oliver snapped, shoving Robert away without taking his eyes off their opponent. Rage pulsed through him openly now.
A white mist burst from his hand. A long, gleaming icicle formed within his grip, its surface catching the amber light of the sinking sun. Frost curled along his sleeve as he prepared to strike. But before he could move, stems burst upward around his sandals. Roots cracked through the soil with violent speed. Tendrils lashed around his legs, his torso, his arms. In seconds they had coiled tight and bound him firmly. The more he strained, the more the vegetation constricted.
Oliver struggled against the restraints, teeth clenched, ice splintering from his hand as the wizard watched with cool, measuring eyes.
But then Oliver's body disintegrated into a shimmering cloud of ice dust and escaped the binding. He reformed a few feet away.
"Ah, must be another of your ancestor-soul abilities, elemental-morphing, right?!" the man said, stepping forward until he was only nineteen feet away, his gaze sharp and calculating.
Oliver spat blood onto the ground, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "And what about yours?" he asked, his tone teasing but edged with challenge. "What's your ancestor-soul's passive ability?" The plants had nearly wrapped him completely, and the memory of that tight, suffocating grip made his jaw tense.
Robert's face twisted at Oliver's question. Why the heck would he ask that?
"I do not have an ancestor-soul," the man said, his voice dropping to a low, serious rumble as he watched Oliver's gaze lower in confused thought. "That is precisely why I was sent to find you two. My organization has been tracking you and your partner — especially your partner — for a long time." He paused, shaking his head slowly. "I will say no more. The Aetherius would have no objection if I returned you to him with broken bones."
Without warning, the Plant wizard gestured with his hands, and the thick, tangled stalks surrounding him surged towards Oliver like a whip. The air was filled with the sound of shredding leaves, and the ground shook under the force of the spell.