Rishmond pulled the fishing net through one hand, tracing the line looking for any more tears or breaks. The sun was bright and the day warm—a perfect spring day. He shifted a bit on the small stool in the sand, trying to relieve the numbness in one cheek of his backside. Toby sat a few feet away, working on another net. The last two for the day. They were almost done.

A few yards away, closer to the water Halmond and Beritrude worked on the boats, spreading waterproofing over the upturned hulls. They'd all started early this morning, even before the sun was up enough to see well. The two small boats had been hauled up the beach, mounted on supports, cleaned, and carefully examined. Leaks had been patched, boards replaced. Toby and Rishmond were tasked with the nets and repainting the live wells and other removable parts. They’d worked steadily through the morning, stopping only for a quick, hearty breakfast.

Rishmond was excited for the work to be done. He and Toby had plans to spend the afternoon with friends from the neighborhood.

That thought pulled him backward a bit. The fact that he and Toby had friends—and more than just one or two—was something he’d never imagined three turns ago. But now, since coming to live with Hal and Berti, they’d become a family in what Rishmond felt had to be the most wonderful city in the world, in the most wonderful country in the world. There were so many things he’d never dreamed possible.

They had comfortable beds, clean new clothes, and people who genuinely cared about their well-being. The four of them had become a true family, and the love Hal and Berti had for both boys was obvious. Toby said it felt like home. Rishmond wasn’t entirely sure what home was supposed to feel like, but he knew he belonged—and he loved his new family. That was more than enough for him.

Well... almost. His lessons with Tybour, and the time spent with their gang of friends, made things even better.

Rishmond knew Toby wasn’t as happy about his friendship with Tybour. He wished he knew how to fix that. But Tybour was teaching him magic—and that was the most amazing thing Rishmond could imagine. Toby didn’t have a gift for magic at all—not even the ability to sense and use lotret, the free magic that lingered in the air like fine dust. That was rare; most people had some affinity for it. Rishmond was pretty sure Toby was jealous of the bond he shared with Tybour.

It wasn’t like Tybour disliked Toby. He was always polite. But it was obvious Tybour saw Toby as just a kid who happened to hang around Rishmond sometimes.

“Hey! Stop daydreaming, slacker!” Toby’s voice cut across the beach, breaking into Rishmond’s thoughts. “Finish up so we can go exploring with the gang!”

“Yeah? Well, you missed a whole section! So who’s the slacker now?” Rishmond shouted back.

Toby spun and examined his net, eyes scanning quickly for the tear Rishmond had pointed at. He searched. And searched. And after a few minutes, he realized—Rishmond had been lying.

The small pebble struck Rishmond harmlessly on the shoulder, and he laughed, pretending the tiny stone had knocked him clean off his stool. Toby snorted. They were both buzzing with excitement about the upcoming adventure with their group of friends.

Hal and Berti had granted them a half day free of chores, with full permission to roam. The plan was to head up the coast, about a mile north, to a secluded cove. The rocky shoreline there was riddled with tide pools, brimming with strange and unusual sea creatures. They’d bring back anything that looked odd enough — maybe even valuable. There was always a chance of finding something washed up by the sea. Once, just a few weeks ago, a boy had found a strange mechanical object made of brass gears and cloudy glass. No one knew exactly what it was, but a Wizard from the Library had come all the way out to inspect it.

The man had looked it over like he’d found a piece of a lost God. He’d paid the boy’s family handsomely, packed the contraption into a thick black box, and hauled it off to the Wizard’s Library in Retinor proper — the one nestled just below the castle.

Exploring the beaches and tide pools among the rocks would’ve been fun enough on its own, but there was another plan. A secret one.

One of the boys had hidden a small rowboat near the cove, tucked behind some brush and rocks where no adult ever went. The real adventure was to head out across the water—to the forbidden island about a mile off the end of the peninsula that curved around the northern rim of the cove like a reaching arm.

The island was off-limits to everyone but a select few Wizards, and even they rarely visited. Several people had died there over the turns—victims of traps and protections left behind by the Gods themselves before they vanished from the mortal realm.

One of those who’d died was Pilip—Halmond’s and Beritrude’s son.

That had been five turns ago. He and a group of other kids had snuck out to the island, eager and bold. They’d entered the caves below it, but Pilip had stumbled into a hidden passage and triggered something—some ancient mechanism buried in the dark. He died instantly. He was only thirteen.

Rishmond thought about that often, especially when Hal got that quiet look in his eyes—the one that drifted off to somewhere else. He didn’t want to cause Hal or Berti any grief. Not after everything they’d done for him and Toby. But the chance to stand where the Gods had once walked? To feel that kind of ancient magic beneath his skin?

That was too much to pass up.

Besides, Cantor and Drak had been to the island several times. They knew where the traps were—or at least where not to go. They weren’t dead. They hadn’t triggered anything. As long as everyone stuck to the already-explored tunnels and caves, it would be safe enough.

And if Rishmond didn’t go? Toby would. He’d go, reckless as always. And someone had to be there to watch his back.

He focused on the last section of the net he was repairing. Not much damage—this was one of the newer ones Halmond had purchased just last month. He folded it neatly, just as he’d been taught, and placed it in the big chest beside the small hut they used for gear down by the beach. Toby followed close behind with his own finished net. Together, they stacked the nets in the squat little hut, shut the door, and latched it tight.

Halmond turned from the boat he was finishing as the boys approached.
"Nice job, men," he said, his voice deep and rich.

He never had to raise it out on the water—unless a storm rolled in bad enough to swallow the sea. And he never yelled at them when they got into trouble. He didn’t need to. That low note of disappointment in his voice was always enough to make them both want to do better. Mostly. Both Toby and Rishmond had reckless streaks a mile wide.

From across the beach, Berti called out, "You boys all done and ready to fly off to some unknown adventure and leave us poor adults to finish the work you couldn’t get to?" Her voice was teasing, light. She knew they worked hard, and she knew they were grateful.

"Let’s tie the boats in and call it a day," Halmond said, glancing at the sky. "Latest reports say we’ve got a run of good weather coming, but the boats should always be secured, right, Toby?"

There was a twinkle in his eye. He was referring to an incident not long ago when Toby and Rishmond hadn’t tied the boats down properly and a strong wind had tossed them both like toys. There’d been some damage. And a lot of teasing afterward.

The four of them worked quickly to secure the boats to the maintenance supports—heavy beams dug deep into sand and rock well above the high tide line. It would take a full-blown hurricane to shift them.

When the task was done, and the day’s work finally over, Halmond brought the boys in close.

Rishmond looked up at his weathered, kind face and felt that warm, strange calm again. It was still weird, having a family. He’d never expected it. But he loved it. Every second of it.

"You gentlemen behave yourselves," Halmond said. "Don’t go looking for trouble you can’t handle. Be respectful. Be kind. You know Berti and I trust you—and we expect you to carry the honor of our family name."

His face was serious. Stern, even. But there was no hiding the glint in his eyes. He always said this—whether they were heading into town, or just around the corner to the market.

Rishmond and Toby exchanged grins.

"Yes, sir!" they said in unison. "The honor of the Bar household shall not be besmirched!"

Berti laughed and shook her head. She handed each of them a cloth-wrapped bundle—lunch and something sweet for later. The boys tucked the food into their packs, pulled on their jackets, and slung their packs over one shoulder. Then came quick hugs—tight and familiar.

"Be safe—and be home before dark," Berti called. Her voice lifted in that special tone that meant she meant it. "I mean it! Before dark!"

"The light of the Changer illume you!" she added, calling it after them as they ran, kicking up sand on their way north—toward the place the gang was meeting.

Rishmond and Toby ran along the beach, staying where the sand was compacted by the recent high tide, bare feet feeling the slight shift of the packed sand. It wasn't long before the site of their family's little patch of beach disappeared in the distance and both boys stopped to strip off their light jackets and push them haphazardly into their packs. The sun was strong and Rishmond was sweating even in the cool breeze from the ocean. They began to walk quickly along the beach, moving to the top of the low tide wall for firmer footing.

A collection of large, flat rocks near the water line came into view just past a small dune sprinkled with sea grass. Two other boys were already seated on the rocks, eating from their own little cloth wrapped lunches. Rishmond and Toby hurried over to join them.

"Rishmond! Toby!" the younger of the two boys called as they approached. "Hey!"

"Hello, Bollen! Hey, Walm! How're you doing today? Ready for some adventure?" Rishmond called out with a grin.

Bollen was small and slight for thirteen turns, with a mess of curly red hair and freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He almost always wore a grin—and was almost always the reason the group had to stop and wait during their explorations. His older brother Walm was his opposite in nearly every way: pudgy but strong, surprisingly quick on his feet, and quieter than a shadow. His long dark hair was always tied back with a scrap of bright-colored string. Walm rarely said much, especially when Bollen was around—but let anyone else tease or mistreat his little brother, and you'd find yourself on the receiving end of a punch that came out of nowhere.

Most of the gang was like that, really—endlessly teasing each other, but tight as rope when it came to outsiders. Anyone else dared mock one of their own, and they’d have the whole gang to answer to.

"Oy! Y’all a bunch of old thwippits or whut?"

The voice came from farther up the beach, in the direction of the cove. Rishmond looked up and grinned as Cantor came striding toward them, red hair bouncing wildly with every exaggerated step.

Cantor was the oldest of them—nineteen turns—but looked younger, maybe sixteen. Boyish, sharp-edged, and fearless, she'd sooner wrestle you into the sand than give you a hug, but she’d also be the first to patch up a scraped knee or help you master a tricky spell. She was the gang’s heart and fire—planner, instigator, and the real reason they were rowing out to an island forbidden by royal decree.

Cantor didn’t do fear.

"Drak's already up at the cove with the boat," she called. "We got it ready to go—now we’re just waiting on you lot! Let’s move! We don’t have much time, and we’ve got tons to see. Tide’s low too, so we’ll be able to spot stuff we’d miss otherwise!"

She practically buzzed with excitement. Drak and she had been to the island a few times alone, but something about bringing the whole gang out there had her on another level entirely.

“C’mon, Rishmond!” she said, slinging an arm over his shoulder and snatching the half sandwich he’d left on a scrap of butcher paper on the rock in front of him. She took a massive bite and grinned wide, barely holding the sandwich together as she chewed.

“You’re gonna love this! It’s so cool! The paintings on the walls look like they were done just yesterday! There’s stuff written in ancient words nobody can even begin to understand!”

She leaned her weight into Rishmond and then swung a booted foot out toward Toby, catching him lightly on the backside and knocking him off the rock he’d been sitting on.

“Toby! You ready for this?”

Toby yelped and laughed. “You know I am! I wanna find something new! Maybe a tunnel nobody’s seen since the Gods were here!”

Cantor laughed, accidentally spraying bits of sandwich into Rishmond’s hair.
“Right! Well… maybe we take it slow at first.”

Her tone changed. The grin faded. Suddenly, she was all business.

“Look. The danger out there is real. People with way more brains—and a lot more magic—have died out there. The magic on that island? It’s God magic. The kind that doesn’t care how lucky or powerful you are. Get in its way, and you’ll be dead. Or worse.”

She stepped up onto a smaller rock, then hopped onto the big central table rock that anchored their meeting spot. Her voice carried now—commanding, clear.

“You follow my lead. You go where I say. We stay together. We stick to the parts Drak and I already know. No wandering off. No getting clever. No playing the hero.”

Her eyes swept across the group, fierce and unblinking.

“Once we figure a few things out—and once everyone knows their way around—we’ll ease up. Maybe. Until then, we move slow. We move smart.”

She let that settle in the air for a breath.

“I don’t want to have to explain to your families why you came back from a beach trip all beat up. By me.”

She scowled, making sure each one of them felt it in their bones.

“Got it?!”

“Yes, Cantor!” all four boys chorused, loud and in sync.

It wasn’t an empty threat. Everyone knew Cantor could take any one of them in a fight. Maybe all of them, if she was feeling motivated.

“Alright then. Let’s move! You can eat later—we don’t waste daylight!”

They gathered their things and set off over the northern dunes, Cantor striding at the front, her long legs making an exaggerated march of it. She dragged Rishmond along beside her, still munching on the stolen half of his sandwich, her arm thrown casually around his shoulders. He lengthened his stride to keep up as best he could, though she kept bumping into him, knocking him off balance every few steps.

"So, Rishy," she said around a mouthful of bread, grinning sideways at him, "still hanging around that dreamboat First Mage, Tybour?"

She shot him a look, cheek puffed out with sandwich.

"He still teaching you magic outside of school?"

Her tone was all tease—half playful admiration for Tybour’s famously good looks, half ribbing over Rishmond’s now well-known connection to the First Mage. Word had spread through Retinor fast: Rishmond, a nobody just three turns ago, was now seen riding in the First Mage’s carriage, being summoned to the Tower, or sitting at cafes deep in conversation with Tybour himself. The rumors flew wild, and while most were absurd, a good number had been confirmed true enough—especially after a few very visible magical incidents around town.

"Yes," Rishmond said, maybe a bit too eagerly. "You know we’re friends, and yeah, he’s been teaching me some amazing stuff!"

He couldn’t help the grin that crept across his face as he started to gush. "We’ve been working on moving big things—like really big stuff, not just rocks and books. He showed me how to freeze water, heat it, and make ice turn straight into steam! Like, boom—no melting, just gone. It’s so cool."

He caught himself, glanced around, then added, lowering his voice slightly, "And we’ve been doing a lot with protection spells too. That part’s a little scary... Haningway actually fired arrows at me. Real arrows. And tossed burning torches right at my face. I panicked the first few times, but I’ve got the hang of it now. Haven’t been hurt at all."

He’d almost slipped up.

In his excitement, he’d nearly blurted out the one thing he absolutely wasn’t supposed to talk about—Tybour teaching him to portal.

That was definitely not part of any sanctioned curriculum. The Wizard’s Council had strict rules about what could be taught, and when. Portal magic was high-level, dangerous stuff. A single misstep in the spell—one wrong calculation, one lapse in concentration—could maim or kill. Not just the caster, either. Anyone nearby could get caught in the spell's wake. Opening a portal was like slicing through reality with a massive razor blade, and anything in the path of that blade... didn’t fare well.

Rishmond knew that better than most.

He’d seen it firsthand—the day he arrived in Malminar. The searing hum, the warping light, the bone-deep wrongness in the air. He hadn’t understood it at the time, not completely. But now, with Tybour teaching him the real theory behind it all, he knew exactly how lucky he’d been to survive. The opening and closing of a portal had to be precise, like threading a needle in a thunderstorm.

He stuffed the memory back down and tried to refocus. No need to scare the others. And if the Council found out what Tybour was teaching him...

He didn’t even want to think about it.

That wasn’t the only part of the lesson Tybour had warned Rishmond to keep quiet.

It had taken him several days of trying before he got any kind of result with portal magic. Tybour had said that was normal—expected, even. The spell was complex. The concept itself was hard to fully grasp for most. New Wizards typically needed months of slow, careful, supervised practice before they could generate a viable portal. And even then, it would flicker or collapse, or worse—deposit you halfway across the city from where you’d meant to go.

On Rishmond’s second try, he’d succeeded.

Just... not in the usual way.

Tybour had told him to concentrate on a place he knew well, a place he could picture clearly. He was to form a kind of connection in his mind—a thread of magic stretching between where he was and where he wanted to be. Like tying the world together with string.

The lesson was interrupted by a soldier stepping into the room—urgent business, something that pulled Tybour’s attention for only a moment.

And in that moment, Rishmond found himself somewhere else.

He stood in the small kitchen in the west wing of the Wizard’s Library. Empty, like he knew it would be this time of day. That’s why he’d chosen it. But the experience felt wrong—or at least different. There’d been no swirling light, no feeling no portal to step through.

One second he was in Tybour’s laboratory. The next, he was standing on stone tiles in front of a cluttered pantry.

The scent hit him first—grease and old food, cut strangely by the tang of sea air and the sun-warmed grass of a meadow. It was as if the spell had dragged pieces of the world with him, blending them into something uncanny. Even the magic in the air smelled different than when he’d seen other Wizards cast portals. Like something ancient had been stirred.

But his stomach grumbled, and curiosity gave way to appetite.

He raided the pantry—jerky, a few cookies, a cold glass of milk. He looked for sweet acradious brew, but it was gone. It never stayed around long.

When he’d finished, he headed up the narrow spiral stairs that led back toward Tybour’s lab. The steps were uneven, built that way on purpose—Tybour said it was a defensive tactic, meant to trip invaders. Rishmond had long since learned to climb them quickly.

He was excited. He hadn’t cast a portal the way Tybour had shown him... he hadn’t cast anything at all, really. But it had worked. It had to be some secret method Wizards used. Tybour was going to be so proud.

He pushed open the small door at the top of the hall—and stepped into chaos.

Haningway and several of the Phoenix Company Wizards were rushing through the corridor, grim-faced and focused, as if a swarm of demons were descending on the castle. Tybour stood at the far end of the hall, head bent close to Ele Walsing, the Chancellor of the Malminar Magic University, speaking quickly, urgently.

Rishmond blinked.

He turned to the nearest Wizard—Walsh, the young man he often sparred with when Tybour wasn’t around. Reaching out, he grabbed his arm.

“Walsh? What’s going on?”

Walsh spun. "Hey, Rishmo—Rishmond?! Hey! Where have you been?!"

He reached out, gripping Rishmond by both arms, as if making sure he was solid.

“Tybour said you disappeared—vanished! Wait—never mind.”

He turned and shouted up the hall: “Hey! I found him! He’s here and he’s alive!”

Everything stopped.

The whole corridor fell silent for one long, stunned beat—then erupted all at once. Dozens of voices, dozens of questions. Feet pounding toward him. Hands reaching to check him, touch him, see him. Wizards crowding around like he’d just fallen out of the sky.

Because maybe... he had.

“What the hell? Where did you go? Where have you been? Did something take you? Did you just run off and not tell anyone? The frag, man!”

The questions came in a rapid-fire storm—dozens of voices all at once, crowding in, overlapping. Rishmond couldn’t make sense of them, let alone answer. Hands on his arms, shoulders, back. A blur of motion, of worry, of—

“Hey! You’re gonna trip us both up!”

Cantor’s voice cut sharp through the memory, snapping Rishmond back to the present like a splash of cold seawater.

He blinked. They’d arrived.

The dunes had given way to the small cove—their secret launch point. Drak stood near the waterline, just beyond the reach of the waves, one hand resting on the bow of the small boat they'd be taking across. His usual serious face was fixed in a neutral mask, but his eyes tracked them steadily.

Cantor peeled her arm from around Rishmond’s shoulders and stepped away, glancing back at the boys trailing behind.

“Let’s go!” she called.

She gave Rishmond one quick, sideways glance—half smirk, half check-in—then broke into a run, closing the short stretch of beach between her and the boat in a burst of speed.

Drak greeted them all silently, jutting his chin out and tipping his head in a mute nod. No words. Not even a smirk. He was clearly taking his role as guide and protector on this trip very seriously.

Normally, Drak was hard to shut up. Once he got going, he’d ramble about anything—mostly trivia—interesting facts about birds, history, old ruins, magical theory, obscure laws, you name it. When he wasn’t talking, he was reading. Constantly. More than any Wizard Rishmond had ever met, honestly. And not just magic books, either—Drak would read anything he could get his hands on. Sometimes even things he shouldn’t have his hands on.

He was smart. Not the best caster—he could use lotrar, just not very well—but his grasp of theory was solid. He had a good heart, too. And he was a great friend.

The group didn’t waste any time. They tossed their packs into the boat and helped shove it out into the water, boots splashing through shallow surf. Then they climbed aboard and took up oars, settling into the rhythm of rowing.

The sea was calm. Glassy, almost. The strokes were smooth and even, and the boat cut through the water without resistance. The trip was quiet. Peaceful.

Too peaceful, maybe.

Rishmond found himself frowning. It struck him as odd—too easy. There were no barriers, no magical protections, no royal guards patrolling the coast to stop people from doing exactly what they were doing now.

He turned to Cantor, voice low. “Why aren’t there any wards or barriers around the island? I mean, if it’s really off-limits—by royal decree—wouldn’t the King have put some kind of spell or watch in place?”

Cantor grinned, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Oh, they tried, at first,” she said, adjusting her grip on her oar. “But you know how there’s the protection around Malminar that keeps Warlocks out? Turns out, when they put up wards to block access to the island, it messed with the border magic. Real bad.”

She leaned in a little, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Made the island into a kind of... beacon. Warlocks started showing up. Drawn in like moths to a torch. A few of them actually landed there, tried to break into the caves.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“So the Wizards decided it was better to leave the God's protections alone. Whatever magic’s down there, it’s old. Older than the Guild, older than the city. Maybe even older than magic. They figured the original protections were doing the job just fine—have been for over three hundred turns.”

She gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and grinned like she’d just solved the world from Demons.

“No one even watches the place anymore. They figure the magic will keep everyone out... or kill anyone dumb enough to go poking around. And the warning signs seem to scare most folks off.”

She tilted her head and winked.

“Well. Everyone but us, anyway.”

They reached the island just as the sun slipped behind a bank of clouds, dulling the light and giving the rocks ahead a washed-out, gray-blue cast. The shoreline here was steep and jagged, so they had to row around to the far side, where a natural jetty jutted out into the sea like a broken finger.

Drak and Cantor had prepared the landing spot ahead of time. Two steel bars had been hammered deep into the rock, anchors for mooring the boat. They worked quickly and in quiet coordination, guiding the hull gently alongside the jetty and setting thick wooden battens to keep it from scraping or cracking against the stone.

Once the boat was secured, they scrambled out one by one, boots slipping slightly on the damp stone before finding solid footing. They left the oars in the boat, grabbed their packs, and began climbing the rocky slope that led up from the jetty.

That’s when they saw the signs.

They were spaced out along the upper shore, bolted to stone or mounted on carved posts, weathered by time and sea spray but still entirely legible. Each one bore the same stark warning, printed in at least three languages:

BEWARE.
This island is under the protection of the King of Malminar.
This island contains dangerous, high-level magics and will kill you.
Do not shelter here. Do not explore here. Do not stay here.
It is forbidden by royal decree of the King of Malminar and the Malminar Wizards’ Council to step foot on this island.

Rishmond stopped walking.

The words had weight—not just the threat, but the feel of them, like the signs themselves had soaked up centuries of fear.

He glanced at the others. Bollen’s usual grin was gone. Even Toby had gone quiet, his wide eyes flicking from one sign to the next. Drak looked grim. Cantor... Cantor looked thrilled.

“Still want to turn back?” she asked, her voice low, amused. “This is your last chance.”

She was already climbing.

The island was small—less than two miles at its widest, and just under three long. Roughly shaped like a crooked teardrop, it curved gently around the little natural jetty they’d docked at, the fat end forming a sort of protective crescent. The formation helped shelter the landing spot from the bigger ocean waves—and, more importantly, hid their boat from any distant shoreline eyes.

At the island’s highest point stood a single tree.

A twisted, gnarled thing—more trunk and bare branches than leaves. It looked like it had been struck by lightning and kept growing out of sheer spite. How it survived, exposed to salt winds and storms, was beyond Rishmond. It clung to the rock like it belonged there—like it was part of the island.

That tree was their destination.

The entrance to the caves lay nestled deep in its roots.

They made their way up the slope in short order, scrambling over slick, uneven stone. The whole island seemed to be a single slab of pitted volcanic rock, cracked and split into ridges and jagged edges. It was easy to twist an ankle if you weren’t careful. Falling meant blood. You learned quickly to protect your hands, your knees, your skin.

Even Toby—who was usually the first to jump barefoot into anything—wore thick pants and heavy boots for this trip. That alone told Rishmond how serious things were.

No one spoke much as they climbed.

The only sound was the wind, sighing through the hollows in the rock, and the occasional scuff of boot on stone.

They arrived at the entrance to the caverns.

What remained of the old door lay scattered around the mouth of the tunnel—splintered, blackened chunks of wood, half-buried in dirt and moss. The pieces still looked oddly whole, as though the door were somehow resisting the years, weathering the wind and saltwater in stubborn defiance of time.

According to legend, the door had once been solid, pristine, and impossibly strong. Over two hundred turns ago, a Wizard of Malminar had discovered it—intact, untouched—and spent days trying to disarm the traps woven into the surrounding stone and roots. He’d been careful. Methodical. He’d believed he’d disabled them all.

He hadn’t.

When he opened the door, a blast of pure magic vaporized him where he stood. Two others on the island died instantly. The explosion tore the door to shreds, scorched the rock, and reshaped the landscape.

The story sounded like myth. But the evidence remained.

The stone around the doorway had been melted smooth—glass-slick and curved, as if a furnace had breathed against it. The black rock extended in a radius of several yards, framed between two massive roots of the gnarled tree above. Even the roots bore the marks of the blast—charred, fused into strange organic curves. What had once been bark was now polished wood, hard as stone.

“Don’t touch the tree,” Cantor warned, holding out an arm to slow the group as they approached the opening. “Not with your hand. Not with your pack. Not with anything.”

She spoke with the voice of hard-earned experience.

“You touch that tree, you’ll get splinters—real bad ones. They don’t go in straight. They burrow. They burn. I was sick for a week.”

She stepped toward the blackened arch, slowing just a touch as her foot hit the edge of the smoothed rock. The others followed, stepping carefully.

“Once you’re inside,” she added, “it’s fine. You can touch the roots, the walls, whatever. But out here, just stay off the wood.”

Rishmond nodded, swallowing.

This was no longer a story. No longer a daring game of explorers.

This was real.

Drak was the first to step through the entrance. He walked a few paces into the dark interior, then crouched to pick up a torch from a small pile near the wall. He murmured the words of a fire spell, and sparks flared from his fingertips, catching the oily grapest packed onto one end of the torch. The flame bloomed to life, flickering gold and orange.

The rest of the group followed in behind him, one by one, each taking a torch and lighting it from Drak’s. Cantor entered last, her face unreadable in the shifting light.

Outside, the day had been warm and muggy, the air thick with humidity and the scent of sea brine. But here, just a few steps into the chamber beneath the tree, the air was cool and dry. Pleasant, even. It smelled of old earth and aged wood, with a faint musk like acradious blossoms. The smell of the ocean was gone entirely, as if they’d passed through a door into a different world.

The chamber was small — not cramped, but just big enough to fit them all without brushing shoulders. The ceiling curved overhead in gentle stone arches, shaped long ago by some mix of time, magic, and water.

Two archways opened on the far side of the room, each leading to a staircase that vanished down into darkness.

Rishmond didn’t need to ask which one they were taking. He already knew.

Cantor and Drak had gone over the plan more than a dozen times in the past month. Down the right-hand stair to the first landing, then left through the tunnel that branched off from it. That path would lead them to the first wonder.

The Cave of Rainbows, Cantor called it.

A massive underground chamber lined with crystals — of every color, every shape, some as small as pebbles, some as tall as a man. When lit by torchlight, the crystals were said to dance and shimmer, casting prismatic light across the entire cave like a magical light show.

That’s where they’d leave their packs. No need to lug them through the entire labyrinth of tunnels.

From there, the plan was to wind through several more chambers — some marked by ancient paintings — before reaching their final destination: a cavern deep beneath the ocean floor, where one whole wall was said to be like glass. There, they could watch the fish drift past the island, their scales flickering like jewels against the coral of the shallow sea.

Rishmond's pulse picked up just thinking about it.

He tightened the straps on his pack, adjusted his grip on the torch, and stepped toward the archway.

Adventure — real, deep magic — waited below.

Cantor led the group down the spiral steps, each turn of the staircase taking them deeper into the heart of the rock. The stone was cool underfoot, and the sound of their footsteps echoed in the quiet, rhythmic as they descended. After about six meters, they reached an open landing and, without hesitation, Cantor turned left into a narrow tunnel.

The walls of the tunnel were smooth and painted. Rishmond’s torchlight flickered across vivid depictions—small boats drifting across the sea, large ships without sails cutting through the ocean’s expanse, leaving no visible wake. There were pictures of Merions, Humans, Gods, and Hippocampi all interacting near beaches, or swimming in the sea with one another. The paintings were so sharp and detailed, they could have been done yesterday—except for a few areas where growing roots had pushed through the stone, causing small chunks to crumble away.

When they finally reached the Cave of Rainbows, it was everything Cantor and Drak had promised—and more.

The light from their five torches played off the thousands of multicolored crystals covering the walls, the whole cavern alive with shifting hues, from deep indigo to sunset red. Tiny rainbows formed in the air, catching on their skin and clothes, dancing across the faces of the group like an invisible orchestra’s melody. The lights swirled in wild, unpredictable patterns, first moving one way, then spiraling back in the opposite direction. It was as if the entire cave was part of some forgotten festival, a celebration only the crystals knew.

Some of the crystals were much larger than the others—bigger than Rishmond’s head, sharp and polished to a dazzling sheen. He found one that particularly drew his gaze: a deep blue crystal, as large as his own skull, jutting from the wall low on the south side. It was multifaceted, catching the torchlight in every direction, and it seemed polished, almost unnaturally so.

He stepped closer, drawn in by its beauty, when something caught his attention. The more he stared into the depths of the crystal, the more he was certain something was trapped inside it. His heart quickened, a strange unease creeping over him.

He leaned in, holding the torch closer to the crystal to get a better look.

A shadow moved within the crystal, twisting and stretching, warping in the flickering light.

Then, without warning, a face grinned at him from the depths.

A woman’s face—twisted, distorted, with a mad, wide grin that seemed to stretch impossibly. Her eyes flashed, and for an instant, the space around her seemed to warp like the air above a fire.

Rishmond staggered back, heart pounding. A high-pitched sound—sharp and sudden—splintered his left ear, and he dropped the torch. It clattered on the stone floor, the flame flickering dangerously low.

He stumbled backward, colliding with the cave wall, breath coming in quick gasps.

And then, suddenly, the sound of a high-pitched laugh filled the air.

Cantor was on the ground, clutching her stomach and kicking her feet in absolute amusement, her face flushed with glee.

Rishmond blinked, still trying to steady himself. Slowly, he looked at her, realizing what had just happened.

“You... you—” Rishmond gasped, heart still hammering in his chest. “That was—”

Cantor was practically howling with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes as she sat up. “You should’ve seen your face! I didn’t think you’d fall for it that hard!”

Rishmond glared at her, part of him still shaken by the prank, part of him relieved that it had been a joke. His pulse was still thundering in his ears.

“Not funny, Cantor,” he muttered, trying to collect himself. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

But Cantor just grinned, unrepentant, still chuckling as she clambered back to her feet.

Rishmond realized he’d drawn in almost as much lotrar as he could hold.

Carefully, he let it go—releasing the remaining current back into Rit, letting the world absorb the magic as gently as he could.

“Oh my!” Cantor wheezed. “You should’ve seen your face! You jumped like a startled hopper!”

The others broke into renewed laughter, doubling over, swatting each other, still giggling at his expense.

Rishmond grinned, shaking his head. “Okay, okay. I deserved that,” he said, and laughed along with them.

He let the protection spell around him fade, the fine shimmer of magical defense sinking away like water into sand. Unlikely anyone else had noticed it. But the smell...

He’d always been sure others could smell when he cast magic. Tybour disagreed. He said most Wizards couldn’t actually smell spells—that there was no smell, not in the traditional sense. It was more like the magic tricked your senses, triggering the olfactory system directly.

Same with taste.

“Nothing actually smells or tastes like magic.. or more like magic doesn't really have smell or taste,” Tybour had once said. “The magic just makes you think it does.”

He hadn’t sounded especially interested in the explanation. Tybour only dug deep into things that fascinated him. As long as the odd taste and scent gave him an edge, he didn’t much care about why it worked.

The sharp scent and taste of the protection spell Rishmond had spun—iron, oil, and leather—was already fading from his tongue and nose.

The laughter died down naturally, echoing off the crystal walls. Then something changed.

The light shifted.

The rainbows—once scattered in thousands of tiny glimmers—began to converge. Slowly, as if guided by an unseen hand, the colors gathered in a dazzling arc that formed above Rishmond’s head.

He stared up at it, frozen.

The rainbow hovered there—perfect and luminous. Then a sound rang out.

A single, clear tone. Like the ringing of a bell made of glass and starlight. The sound filled the chamber, echoing gently from every surface.

Then it faded—leaving behind a silence that felt deep, like the world itself had paused.

CRACK.

A loud snapping noise shattered the stillness, like an ancient tree breaking in a gale.

Across the chamber, opposite the archway they’d entered through, the crystal wall shifted.

Stone and crystal began to move—not break, not fall—but part, like curtains pulling aside. A new opening appeared, edged in smooth angles and soft light.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The sounds echoed out in quick succession, mechanical and magical, followed by a glow that pulsed from within the new corridor.

Lights flared—not torches, not fire, but something deeper. Softer. Blue-white and ancient.

A stone staircase emerged, descending into the unknown.

"Is this normal?!" Rishmond grabbed Toby's shoulder, pulling him with him as he moved them further from the new doorway. The entire team backed away, gathering together instinctively behind Rishmond as he held both arms out as if to protect the whole group. Cantor was just behind him and Toby. "No! This has never happened before! We should leave," she said breathlessly. "We don't want to be here if a trap goes off. This is God magic and we shouldn't mess with it... "

A faint sound echoed from the new passage—a clatter, small but distinct. Like a loose stone being kicked down a rocky slope.

The group stiffened.

Then something emerged.

A squat, squarish shape climbed the last step to the landing just beyond the new opening. It was shaped like a person, or at least someone’s idea of a person—cut from crystal, no more than four feet tall, with two stubby arms and two thick, squat legs. It was faceted, geometric, and gleamed in the torchlight like quartz that had dreamed itself into life.

It paused at the threshold—then waddled forward in an odd, rolling shuffle. The motion was surprisingly smooth, like heavy stones gliding on oiled pivots. It passed beneath the arched crystal doorway and entered the Cave of Rainbows.

The group of five tightened instinctively. Rishmond felt someone grab his sleeve, another hand clenching his arm. He wanted to back away—but there was nowhere to go. The press of bodies behind him held him in place.

He raised his arms, elbows bent, palms forward, ready to cast if it made a single wrong move.

The creature stopped.

Then, it spoke.

“Hello. Welcome to Denisisie’s Hall.”

Its voice was flat, monotone, the cadence oddly clipped—like it had learned to speak by mimicking echoes. The sound reverberated softly in the crystalline chamber.

“You may call me Torg, if you wish. Or give me another name you find more comfortable.”

The face was a collection of differently-colored crystals—blue for the eyes, amber for the ridged nose, all set into the grayish quartz of its broad, squared head. Its mouth was just a shifting crack in the crystal, a fault line that opened and reformed as it spoke.

“I am a crystal construct left to guide the worthy to an audience with Denisisie,” it continued. “However, she is not here at the moment. She has left a message. You may wait in comfort in her lounge until she returns.”

It tilted its head slightly, as if that explained everything.

“I have sent notice that a worthy one has arrived. She should be here soon. I am sure.”

Rishmond watched, fascinated, as lines of magic flowed within the golem’s semi-transparent body. The flows pulsed and shifted like blood in veins, changing subtly as the construct moved. He could track the spellwork—see how energy flowed to different limbs, balancing and adjusting with each small motion.

At the center of its head was a dark, circular mass like a chunk of obsidian glass. Silver sparks bloomed and died within it, distant and flickering—like tiny fireworks against a night sky.

“Not to worry, worthy Wizard,” the construct said. “The runes and protections beyond this entry have been deactivated by me. Your way forward will not be hindered. I will lead, and no harm will come to you or your companions.”

Its voice remained flat and staccato, unbothered by the stunned silence around it.

“You have proven your worth by the might and skill with which you cast a complex and difficult spell. However, if you have any companions not in this room, you should advise them to return to the surface. The protections will reset. Remaining within the complex once they are reactivated will result in loss of access, injury, or death.”

The golem turned and waddled back through the new doorway to the landing at the top of the stairs. Its head swiveled 180 degrees, eyes locking onto Rishmond as it waited.

“What the hell is that?” Toby hissed, not even trying to hide his awe. “Rishmond, what did you do? Is it talking about you? Did we set off a trap?”

“What did you do?” Cantor said, her voice low but intense. She gripped Rishmond’s arm, tight enough to hurt. “Did you cast something?”

“I think we should just… go,” Rishmond said quietly. “It said if there were others, they should leave before the protections reset. If we don’t go now, we may not be able to.”

He leaned in, pulling Toby and Cantor closer, motioning the rest to huddle close.

“He called himself a construct,” he whispered. “I’ve read about them. No one’s seen one in centuries. They were used by the Gods—servants, messengers, guardians. This one… it thinks its master, the Goddess Denisisie, is still here. Or coming back.”

He glanced toward the construct.

“What if it doesn’t let us leave until she returns? What if that takes a year? Or never? We need to leave now.”

“You’re right,” Cantor whispered. “We’ll back out slowly. Then run.”

But then Drak, voice soft, asked: “What if… what if the message it sent is what the Gods have been waiting for? What if that’s how they come back?”

The question hit like a crack of thunder.

Everyone stared at Drak.

“What?” he said, shrugging defensively. “I’m just saying—what if no one’s ever asked a God’s servant to go get them?”

Rishmond turned to look at the construct again. It hadn’t moved.

Its sparks had slowed—just a few here and there, flickering gently. Like it was waiting. Resting. Listening. And maybe hoping.

Could this be it? Could this moment be the key to bringing the Gods back to the mortal realm?

Why now? Why here?

But then again… why not here?

Remote. Hidden. Unwatched for generations. And what had triggered the golem? Was it him?

He thought so. The magic, the spell, the golem’s words—it had all been directed at him. It had called him “worthy.”

The word golem echoed in his mind. Tybour had said something once… in a lesson. He’d have to recall it later. But it felt right.

He took a slow breath.

“Okay. Here’s what we do.”

The others leaned in.

“I think it wants to talk to me. I triggered something. It thinks I’m the one it’s waiting for. So—I’ll go. The rest of you head back to the surface. Get off the island and wait a few yards offshore. If I’m not out in an hour, head home. Tell Tybour what happened. He’ll know what to do.”

The others started to protest, but Rishmond held up his hands. “Look—this isn’t ideal. But if I stay and something goes wrong, the fewer people here, the less chance someone else gets hurt. I don’t think it wants to harm me, but I don’t think it’s very smart either. One mistake, and someone could get seriously hurt.”

Toby’s grip tightened on his arm. “No. I won’t leave you.”

He tried to joke. “If I go back without you, Halmond’ll tan my backside. I’d do a lot for you, Rish, but I ain’t takin’ a lashing and missing out on the magic.”

Cantor’s voice joined him. “You think I’m letting you wander off with some crystal guide to all the good parts of this island without me? Not a chance.”

The rest chimed in, one by one. Fear in their voices, yes—but deeper than that, loyalty. Love.

They weren’t leaving.

Rishmond opened his mouth to protest again—but there was no point. They were just as stubborn as he was. And maybe that’s why he loved them so much.

He turned back to the golem, which still stood motionless, waiting.

“Alright,” Rishmond said. “We’re coming with you. All of us. There are no others on the island or in the caverns. When we’re ready to go, will the protections be disabled so we can travel safely?”

Rishmond watched as the flow of magic within the golem’s crystal veins quickened. The glowing lines pulsed brighter now, moving with renewed purpose.

The golem spoke.

“We will provide safe passage to the surface, yes. Not to worry. We have no intention of harming you. As a worthy Wizard, you possess all the protections you require—these protections shall extend to your servants and attendants, Wizard Rishmond.”

There was a brief, awkward pause.

“Please put aside your fears—all of you. You have each been judged worthy alongside Wizard Rishmond and will be treated with respect, as friends of the Goddess Denisisie.”

It became clear the golem had heard every whispered word of their huddle.

Or at least enough.

Toby tugged at Rishmond’s sleeve. “Are we really doing this?” he whispered. “I mean—I want to. I do. I’m in. Just… making sure we all are.”

Rishmond looked around the group, meeting each of their eyes. One by one, they nodded.

Walm. Bollen. Cantor. Drak. Toby.

All of them.

He turned toward the glowing archway, the threshold that had not existed until a moment ago.

“Well then,” he said, voice steady. “Looks like we’re agreed.”

He took a breath. The moment held.

“Let’s go meet a God.”

And with that, Rishmond led the six of them into the unknown, following the squat crystal golem as it waddled ahead, its silver sparks flickering faster now, brighter with every step it took deeper into the earth.

The stairwell swallowed them one by one, their torchlight trailing behind like a ribbon of flame.

Back in the Cave of Rainbows, the space they had left behind did not remain still.

In the place where Rishmond had fallen—where Cantor’s prank had caused him to shatter stone and splinter crystal—the broken pieces began to stir.

Tiny slivers shifted. Cracks sealed.

Fragments of shattered crystal drifted gently through the air, glowing faintly, like they remembered their shape. Slowly, delicately, they pulled themselves back together, mending without sound.

The cave restored itself to wholeness.

As though the island, now awakened, had no intention of leaving anything broken behind.