There are those who say that Evil is merely the absence of Good. In the way that Shadow is merely the absence of Light. I find this ideal incredibly presumptuous. To claim that moral evil arises from the misuse of free will is to absolve yourself of accountability. After all, isn't it truly Evil to decline to exercise your will when the moment of choice arrives?

  -Memoirs of Silas Norgard, volume I

  "Aren't you giddy," Lord Domas said. His wife sat at his side in the open-topped carriage, practically vibrating in her seat like a school girl. Their retinue marched around them, raising a thin cloud of dust as they made their way back home.

  "Sorry," Sakra blushed. "I'm just excited."

  "I didn't think you liked desk work that much, but I suppose it grew on you in my absence."

  "Hardly," Sakra snorted, her expression laughing. "If I have to spend another minute behind that desk, I might just pull my tail out. No, I'm excited to show you the children. Silas in particular."

  "Well, I look forward to meeting him."

  "You'll love him," Sakra promised.

  "Ehh," Domas shrugged, smiling internally as Sakra shot him a hurt look. "He doesn't sound like much of a conversationalist. You know how much I enjoy my riveting debates."

  "Domas, he's less than a year old."

  "Am I wrong?" Domas finally let his smirk spill through, earning a huff from Sakra.

  "You'll see," she declared haughtily. "I'm sure in a few years he will be more than capable of entertaining you and your little boy's club."

  The conversation lulled into a comfortable companionship as their caravan train entered Chikarun. The small city shadowed by the imposing curtain walls of Castle Norgard was a quaint, bright place. Spring had enticed the inhabitants to fill their windowsills with flowers that filled the streets with the scent of rebirth. It was a fitting rebellion against winter given that the frozen peak of Mount Raith was faintly visible on the horizon.

  "Something's wrong..." Sakra muttered.

  "Hmm?"

  "That construction. I didn't approve that." Sakra frowned. They both turned to the cordoned off area with stacks of hardwood and masonry laying in neat piles as workers crawled like ants over the site. One of the men, bulky and tall, noticed their passing and waved down their carriage.

  "Lord Domas. Lady Sakra. A true pleasure and an honor to welcome you back home!"

  "Thank you," Domas nodded agreeably.

  "Hoarlas, my lord," the man grinned. "Foreman Hoarlas. I wanted to thank you personally, Lady Sakra for your humble and wise governance."

  Sakra blinked, but returned the foreman's deep bow with a wave. Their carriage carried them deeper into the city, leaving the confusing interaction behind them.

  "Something is very wrong," Sakra repeated. She scanned the street, tension rising as Norgard's gates opened for them. Their carriage deposited them in the castle's courtyard.

  "Is it so hard to believe that the people like you?" Domas asked.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Sakra shot him a scathing look. "They like you. Not me. Where is the third platoon? Where is captain Indulas?"

  "Perhaps he and the other captains are indisposed for lunch? We did arrive at a rather inopportune time," Domas said easily as he helped his wife out of the carriage.

  "I'm telling you, something's wrong."

  "And I believe you. Look. Here comes Milo. We can settle this once and for all. Greetings Milo. How fares the estate?"

  "Good afternoon, my lord. My lady. I believe you will both wish to come with me."

  Domas and Sakra shared a worried glance. Milo spun around, leading the way into the castle with uncharacteristically quick pace. He guided them to the map room, where the monolithic map of the surrounding mountains had been cleared of the main table to be replaced by a dozen letters.

  "What is going on, Milo?" Sakra asked.

  "There was a situation after you left to escort Lord Domas home," Milo stated stiffly, then gestured to the letters. "Please."

  Sakra stepped up to the table, eyeing the letters curiously. That idle curiosity vanished in seconds however, as she picked up first one letter, then another. Her gaze snapped to Milo.

  "I didn't write this. Or this. What are these, Milo? Why are they in my handwriting? No. Scratch that. How are they signed using my signet?"

  "That is the situation, yes," Milo said. "The morning after your night-run to Colefallow, nine letters were found in your missive tray and subsequently disseminated among the staff. Each letter was written in your handwriting and signed by your seal. Though there were a few tells of their forgery, I'm sorry to say, that neither I nor any of the other senior staff noticed the discrepancies before the messages were spread."

  Sakra felt her stomach drop. "There's more. What did you discover, Milo? Who did this?"

  "I'm afraid we didn't come up with an individual, my lady. But, ah..." Milo's eyes flicked to the letters. "We believe someone was attempting to frame young Silas."

  Sakra blinked. "You're kidding."

  "Isn't he a year old?" Domas asked.

  "Indeed, my lord. When the ink of the missives was analyzed we identified a strong touch of Silas' aura on each individual character."

  "You're kidding," Sakra repeated. If before her stomach had dropped, now it felt like her lungs had been ripped out of her.

  "Not at all, my lady."

  "Silas was spliced?" she whispered, horrified.

  "We don't—"

  "Is he okay?" Sakra snapped. Milo hesitated, which only served to spike her anxiety.

  "Well, we don't know. You see, Silas and Akira are gone."

  "Gone." Sakra's jaw worked, struggling to process what he'd just said.

  Milo nodded. "If you would, my lady. Please read letter six."

  Sakra snatched up the offending letter, eyes scanning over it in a rush. She felt her fingers tighten on the thick parchment. Her aura rippled out, strands of flame flickering out like ghostly fingers searching to strangle whoever had written these lies.

  "Sakra, dear?" Domas' fingers gripped her shoulder. "You are scaring the staff."

  Sakra's head snapped up, vaguely noticing a pair of maids through the open door frozen in terror against the wall. She reined in her will, barely. Then turned to Domas.

  "I didn't write this." Sakra insisted.

  "We know," Domas reassured her. "You wouldn't. I mean..." He picked up one of the other letters. "'Deliver please this message at your early convenience' is just horrible grammar. Honestly, I'm amazed they went with this. Without your seal I doubt anyone would have taken these seriously. What were they thinking?"

  The door slammed shut.

  "They are mocking us."

  Domas jolted, and even Sakra jumped slightly as Morag's deep timber resonated from within the room.

  "Dragon's above, man," Domas whirled, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. "Make some noise or something!"

  Morag said nothing, eyes narrowed as he stared Domas down.

  "What do you mean, Morag?" Sakra asked.

  "They are mocking us. Mocking me. They are implying that this infiltration could have been achieved by a child."

  Sakra blinked, then licked her lips. She had never seen old Morag this angry. "Are you referring to the grammar or the... Silas'... uhm."

  "Both. Each character is lovingly laced with Silas' aura. It is the most obvious case of framing I have ever seen. Especially if they know you have driders on staff. If we weren't the target, I would be insulted by how amateurish it is. It is like they want it to be found."

  "So Silas was spliced?" Sakra swallowed, glancing down at the innocuous letter in her hands.

  "Bellra was interrogated extensively. Silas only woke up once during the night, and was tired in the morning, but that is all. If he was spliced, it was done by a professional."

  A silence fell over the gathering.

  "Well, that's not good," Domas murmured, the faint, sardonic humor finally fading from his tone.

  "No, lord Domas." Morag said dryly. "It is not... 'good'."

  "No need to get snippy, old man. We are taking this seriously." Domas frowned. "Do we have any guesses as to who did it, or what their purpose is for all this?"

  "They want the kids," Sakra whispered, like it was obvious.

  Domas eyed her, then turned to Morag and continued. "Is there any chance it was... what was it? The Wainwright Guild? They benefited from this. Could it have been them?"

  "Unlikely, my lord." Milo spoke up. "The representative I met with seemed oblivious. And in the grand scheme of things, approving the loan and the land rights to a new guild house is a footnote to their organization."

  "Okay. What then was the purpose of sending Captain Indulas on a walk around?"

  No one answered for a few moments.

  "Presumably as a distraction, but that is the problem," Morag slowly said. "We don't know who did it. We don't know what they want. Their actions are bizarre, random and don't benefit any particular faction. Nor should someone with resources like this be interested in us. It doesn't make sense. Some of these letters indicate they had active surveillance on Lady Sakra's office for weeks. Perhaps even months. Some of the conversations these are based on were never put to page, or left the room with the only people present being me, Milo, Sakra, and little Silas."

  "So..." Domas rubbed his forehead. "Forgive me for asking this. But could Silas have done this?"

  "Silas has a vocabulary of five words. Three of which are mama, papa, and up." Milo provided. "Akira was just learning the alphabet."

  "Right, stupid question. Let me ask another one," Domas grinned, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Should we step aside for this mysterious shadow organization?"

  "Absolutely not," Sakra jumped up. "If they don't want us to do something, then they can come right out and say it. I won't bow down to these vague threats of disorder. I'm going to bring back Silas. Today."

  "I'd advise against it, Sakra," Morag said. "Going to collect Silas is the predictable action. They will expect you to leave the castle."

  "So?" Sakra asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

  "You risk assassination, my lady."

  "You're kidding," Sakra said. She felt like she was saying that a lot recently.

  "Deadly serious," Morag replied.

  "Hold on a moment," Domas interjected, riffling though the letters. "That seems overblown, Morag. There is nothing here that would indicate these people are bloodthirsty. At best this is a prank. A slap on the wrist to stay away from the children, if that is indeed their intention."

  "We can't stay away!" Sakra cried.

  Domas blinked at her. "Why?"

  "I—" Sakra's mouth bobbed open, then closed. Unable to verbalize her feelings into a cohesive sentence. The words clawed at her throat. Refusing to assemble as her aura swirled like a maelstrom. "I love him!" she finally blurted out, silencing the others in the room.

  "Look," she continued a moment later. Her dorsal braid burned in embarrassment, but despite that she couldn't deny the words that had slipped from her mouth. She loved Silas, and she wasn't about to let something like this get between them. "None of this changes anything. There were good reasons we collected the children in the first place, and none of those reasons aren't valid now. Especially since we weren't given any demands by whoever did this."

  "Right," Domas coughed.

  "I tend to agree with the lady on this matter," Milo spoke up. He'd been relatively quiet so far, choosing to offer information but not opinions into the conversation. "I believe attributing meaning to these letters is insanity and a fool's game. I believe we can learn much from finding Silas and observing his current state. Whether or not his core is damaged, and so forth. After that, we can reassess and reconfer. No final decision must be made right this second."

  Morag sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if it pained him. "I suppose you are correct. It would be a shame to give up on the children and an assassination is... unlikely."

  Domas shook his head. "Regardless, I would like you to accompany Lady Sakra to—"

  "Brook End, my lord," Milo whispered.

  "—Brook End. For protection but also to find out what is happening. If Silas or Akira are being watched, and so on. Give us a holistic view of what we are dealing with."

  "I was about to suggest that very thing," Morag gave a shallow bow.

  "Milo," Domas continued. "You and I will remain here. Try to get a handle on this mess. Minimize the damage, or see if we can find an advantage."

  "Of course, my lord," Milo nodded.

  "And Sakra," Domas turned to her. She swallowed as he collected her hand and gave it a formal kiss. "Go find this Silas I've been hearing so much about. After all, I was promised a sensational conversation partner."

  Sakra smiled weakly.

  Within the hour, they were gone.

  What is power?

  The simplistic view is one of physical might. A strong body capable of lifting heavy weights, or performing demanding labor. After all, isn't a powerful arm the most visceral and pure form of power there is?

  But what of combat? What of fighting? Isn't it also 'powerful' to be able to defend oneself? Fighting in all its forms requires strength, but also speed. Dexterity to dodge or block. Endurance to run and outlast. Does power also encompass these attributes then?

  But this argument is flawed as it ignores the most important aspect of all. It takes skill to fight. It takes knowledge to outwit an opponent. And yes, even physical labor must be learned. So then is power a reflection of the capacity of the mind, or does it encompass all of this and more?

  Where do we draw the line, lest we be left with a term so broad as to be unusable?

  Perhaps it would be better to interrogate this matter from another direction. The term did not mutate unrecognizably upon my reincarnation. Despite the presence of magic, spawners, and impossible weather patterns. It is fair to say that the term is immutable, and therefore comprehensible regardless of origin or proclivity.

  So then, must we say that all things have power? From the smallest ant, to the greatest kings. Power is a universal, and it is simply the degree that differentiates the extremes. Somehow, that sounds correct, and yet, I fear that in all of this, we have simply walked a grand circle, coming to find ourselves back where we started with no better definition of this elusive term.

  You must find my thoughts on this droll. A man so overwhelmed by detail that he cannot see the forest for the trees. You are right. Such ramblings are unproductive. Better to focus on the present and leave such grand philosophizing to the bored or inured.

  The first day back home was a blur. I was overjoyed to reunite with my parents, and found myself happy as the rest of the villagers came around. Faces blurred together, but somehow I recognized them all. Our village wasn't large, after all.

  There was a sense of relief pervading my mood. Of celebration as the adults smiled, and laughed and eventually took me home for a more private reunion. The following day was delightfully mundane, and I found myself giddy to sit tied to mother's chest as she worked the threads and processed the hide.

  But the mundane left much time for my thoughts to wander. And so I returned to this question of power. It was undeniable that I possessed power. Despite my childlike body. Despite my limited capacity for speech. And despite my magical training, I was still years behind the strength of even the young adults, let alone Sakra or her ilk.

  I knew in my gut what power was. I'd been chasing it all my lives. Even back on Earth, I worked with single minded intensity to consolidate power. I was—and still am—ceaseless. Even in the simplest, and most mind numbing case. I never grew tired of going to the gym, regardless of how repetitive the exercises became.

  So power described strength, and intelligence, and grit. But it also described my family—both on Earth and in this new world. That idea stuck in my craw like a burr, unable to be dislodged, but unwilling to fit in with the concise definition I'd slowly assembled in my heart of hearts.

  People could lend their power, but as I looked up at my mother's small smile, I couldn't deny that there was power in that smile as well. It was not lent, or stolen. It simply was. And it brought me to a conclusion.

  Power then possesses aspects of strength, but the causality is reversed. It wasn't that strength granted power, but the opposite. Power was the ability to enact change in the world, and is, and would always be independent of capacity.

  Why?

  Because, power is more a function of the heart than it is the body. It is not a matter of learned skills, but of will. We limit ourselves constantly in our day to day lives. We grow inured to what 'can be' and forget what 'should be'.

  When Sakra first came to take me away, I could have simply acted the babe, and allowed events to unfold. My future would have been bright, perhaps even brighter than a simple life on an odd, alien farm. A wealthy existence, in short.

  But doing so would rob me of my agency. It would be to live a half life. To be lesser despite all metrics indicating greatness.

  My way was the harder road. I couldn't deny that it resulted in more suffering. More chaos, and worry. More discomfort. But it was my road. And therefore, it was the better road.

  Egotistical? Maybe. Arrogant? Definitely. But that is the burden of overwhelming power. It demands much. Far more than any other path. In the skills and abilities needed, as well, but in responsibility the most.

  To seek overwhelming power is not to merely rise to the upper echelons of magical or physical strength. It is not the ability to kill hundreds, or command thousands. It is not about dominance. It is the decision to decide the endless march of fate. Forever and always.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  How it is achieved is irrelevant. For good, or for ill.

  Three days after I arrived back home, a plume of dusty snow was spotted on the horizon. As always when there were visitors, someone ran around informing everyone. I didn't think it took a genius to realize that Sakra had discovered my little ruse.

  The villagers gathered in the town square. For some reason it surprised me just how many people took the time out of their day. Though, I supposed this convoy was a touch larger than normal.

  Before the carriages fully stopped, Mariera stepped forward. She stood alone in front of the crowd, as if to shield the people from the carriages. Her auric expression was strained. Almost angry.

  Then the carriage doors opened and out stepped Sakra like some sort of avenging angel. Morag appeared at her flank and a dozen soldiers armed to the teeth jumped off the trailing carriages.

  There was an aura in the air. As if people were about to stab each other. Not exactly ideal, but it was touching that these people would stand up for me. I was actually curious to see how far they would go.

  Too bad it wouldn't be necessary.

  Before some idiot could ignite the conflagration, I flared happiness. Mom jerked, and I took advantage by squirming as hard as I could. She struggled for a moment, trying to calm me, before finally setting me down on the ground.

  "Saki!" I called out.

  Everyone turned to watch me because of my auric outburst. Their chins raised, or tucked, depending on their disposition. Sakra had hers raised while she blinked rapidly, though her aura was an unreadable swirl. The crowd parted for me easily as I toddled to the front with Mom fast on my heels. Then without further preamble, I fell on Sakra's boot.

  "Ahmnnumm!" I burbled, flaring happiness as hard as I could manage without straining my will.

  Sakra's aura wobbled.

  It was endearing how easily I could make her happy.

  And just like that, the tension in the air popped like a soap bubble. Like I thought, it was extremely hard to stay angry when a one-year-old child was overjoyed to see 'the enemy'. The crowd—both the villagers and the soldiers Sakra brought along—started mumbling, and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Morag's leg hairs were standing on end.

  "Hi, Silas," Sakra kneeled down. "Did you miss me?"

  I levered myself upright, using her pant leg as a support, and then reached up with both hands. "Up!" I demanded.

  Sakra picked me up and stood up. Then she started probing me like she thought I was injured. She even grabbed my dorsal braid and held it to her throat. That was never a very pleasant sensation, so I grabbed hers and turned to mom. She looked extremely nervous.

  "Mama!" I cried, reaching for her with my free hand. She brought her dorsal braid around tentatively. I grabbed it, then with both braids in hand, I brought them together, giggling like a madman as I said. "Mama! Saki!"

  Both girls blushed crimson, from the base of their necks to the tips of their dorsal braids. It was a funny sensation, feeling the fleshy ropes in my hand heat up. They jerked backwards in unison, but I stubbornly refused to release their braids. Someone in the crowd coughed. Then a chuckle broke the awkwardness.

  There. Introductions complete.

  The crowd dispersed as I imperiously commanded Sakra to our house. My parents and Akira's family trailed along after being given a meaningful glance by the young noble lady. We all crammed into our small living room and I immediately dragged mom and Sakra to sit with me before the hearth.

  I brought out my toys. A rattle. A set of four carved wooden blocks. An oddly shaped bone. I presented each toy to either Sakra or Mom as if they were ancient artifacts. They smiled, and accepted the toys as graciously as nervous parents at a parent-teacher conference.

  I smiled and laughed and clapped my hands as they played with me. All while I flared my aura through a gamut of cheerful expressions. Sakra kept tilting her chin and blinking at the intensity while Mom's smile grew genuine.

  I'd effectively broken the ice earlier, but there was still tension in the air. Mom and dad kept sharing glances, and Mariera looked like she was about to bite Sakra's head off. To be fair, she probably only looked like that because Akira was hiding behind her dad's leg.

  "He really likes you," Mom eventually addressed the Lady. "He hasn't bonded so well with anyone else in the village. Not even his grandparents! If you can believe it. It sometimes seems like the only person he likes is little Akira."

  "And you," Sakra responded. "He adores you."

  "And me," Mom agreed easily. "And his father, though sometimes he conveys it differently."

  Dad sat down beside mom and placed a hand on her knee. They shared a loving glance. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he said. "Our Silas doesn't give his love out easily."

  "That sounds like him," Sakra murmured. "He didn't take to his caretaker in the slightest. Not even bribes could sway him. He is a very stubborn boy."

  "He is," Mom smiled. She shook a rattle in front of me. I reached out with my will and gripped the internal spell matrix and yanked it toward me. She smiled, as she handed me the rattle. I grabbed it, then channeled a sliver of mana into the device. A flicker of light shimmered across the surface of the rattle as the internal arcane matrix thrummed cyclically. "And so smart, our little boy. I imagine that is why you took interest in him?"

  Mom let the end of the question trail off, as if offering Sakra an opportunity to explain why she had come. Sakra didn't immediately respond, seemingly uninterested in taking the bait Mom left out for her.

  "Is he doing okay?" Sakra asked instead. "Is his arcane capacity doing fine? Did you notice any problems since he arrived?"

  "No?" Mom shared a confused glance with Dad. His aura rippled in a shrug. "He is just as active as ever. Maybe a little reserved? But its hard to tell. He is growing so fast, and he learned a few new words while he was... with you."

  "I see," Sakra sent a glance at Morag. I blinked. When did he get here? The spider person was staring daggers at me with every one of his hairs standing on end. As if I was giving him the heebie jeebies. How rude.

  "Is—did you expect him to... not be doing okay?" Mom asked. A touch of motherly worry entering her tone.

  "No, no." Sakra shook her head. I might be dense but even I could tell that was a deflection. Huh. "Nothing like that. I was just worried is all. But seeing him now, it is a relief. He looks healthy... And happy."

  The last words were a touch sad.

  "You love him too, don't you?" Mom asked gently.

  Sakra's aura clenched. She swallowed, but didn't respond.

  Well. Isn't this all terribly fascinating. Call me impatient, but this is the longest, most winding path this conversation could have taken. Honestly, girls. We're not here to shame Sakra. Get to the point.

  I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  I laboriously climbed into mom's arms and insisted on lunch. She glanced around the room, then hesitantly tossed a scarf over my head and gave me access. The world went dark and I resorted to using my arcane eye to view the situation through the scarf. A moment later, mom manifested an arcane fire for me to enjoy as I suckled.

  Wait for it...

  "May I?" Sakra asked, her tone a pleading whisper.

  There it is. Now talk. Silly girls.

  "Of course."

  Mom's fire winked out, and was replaced by an identical flame. I cycled my aura with those small blips that indicated joyous surprise. It wasn't even wholly an act. Sakra's flame was subtly different to Mom's, and I found myself forgetting to drink as I strained my arcane eye to try and analyze the unique signature.

  "Is he always this happy?" Sakra asked after a bit. She played with her spell output, twisting it in fractal patterns with far more skill than anything Mom had ever shown. I watched enraptured, and even reached out with my will to nudge at the construct every so often.

  "Yes, this is normal for Silas," Mom said, a smile in her voice. "He is a little louder than other children, but we haven't really discouraged him. Why? Was he not like this with you?"

  "He was quieter. Less... blinding. Very well behaved and endlessly curious."

  "That's my Silas," Mom murmured.

  Hmm. The conversation was going in the right direction, but still too slow for my tastes.

  I 'suddenly' remembered to drink and started suckling desperately. Was it a little over the top? Probably. But you try acting underneath a scarf. Honestly, I deserve an Oscar.

  "Breathe, Silas," Mom caressed me through the covering. Her aura swirled around me, projecting calming feelings that I wholeheartedly ignored. "Breathe. Momma's not going anywhere." There was a pause, and I imagined she had looked up from my covered form to meet Sakra's gaze. "Right?"

  Finally.

  Children these days. Honestly.

  The adults stood or sat around the hearth where a mother nursed her son. They watched the small lump hidden beneath the fabric as if the small boy possessed all their hopes and dreams. In some sense, it was true. For all the adults at least, though even little Akira seemed to possess little desire to interrupt the solemnity of the moment.

  Everyone knew why they were here. The villagers perhaps were missing some information, but that was quickly remedied as Lady Sakra explained the mistake. She made no mention of the dozen other letters that had been involved in the mistake, content to imply that the failing of her fief was singular.

  It was enough for the villagers. They cared not for grand schemes or political games. They understood why the children had returned and why Sakra had arrived a few scant days later. There was a brief moment were they reviewed the reasons for the original warding of the children, but in actuality, none of the participants required a refresher.

  Somehow this time, with everyone clustered so closely around the fabric covered lump in Lira's arms, the conversation was more civil. The mothers didn't burst into tears, nor did the fathers feel inclined to resort to aggression. They spoke in calm tones. Patiently waiting for the other to finish their say before speaking their turn.

  The civility wasn't because of Morag's formidable presence. While both the Lady Sakra and her drider attendant were undoubtably powerful, it was not that strength that they brought into the discussion. Everyone was here for a singular purpose, and slowly. Ever so slowly, everyone realized that.

  "If we ignore any of our desires, the basic situation is simple," Sakra said. "The children need protection and training. There are plenty of groups who would be more than happy to take advantage of their talent. This would all be far simpler if the children were grown, but as it stands, they aren't old enough to negotiate their position."

  "And why can't we negotiate for them?" Medlas asked, but Sakra was already shaking her head. "Fine, then we'll train them."

  "Forgive me, Medlas," Sakra said. "But the training of a knight is very different to that of a farmer."

  Medlas grunted, but didn't argue further.

  "The second issue, is a personal one," Sakra sighed. "Or rather, a political one. The Norgard house has a responsibility to the crown to identify and train talent in our lands. The crown would react poorly if I looked the other way."

  "Then what if we all move to the city," Mariera said. She kept her tone even, a stark departure from her typical affectation. Not that either Sakra or Morag recognized it. "It's not ideal, but maybe you could provide jobs for us. It seems like the best solution that satisfies everyone. The children would be close to you for training or whatever. But they still get to live with us and be happy. After all, isn't it far easier to train a happy child than it would be a petulant or argumentative one?"

  "That's true," Sakra chewed on her lip.

  "Can you provide work for us?" Medlas asked pointedly. "I must say, I don't like the idea of moving to the city. I quite like my life here."

  "I can," Sakra said. "But it would amount to a recommendation. It all depends on your skills. In principle, I can hire you on at the castle, but that depends on you. Would you be interested in guard work?"

  Medlas met Perrylas' gaze and they shook their heads together.

  "I thought not," Sakra said.

  "It seems like all solutions have problems," Lira murmured. Silas had long ago stilled in her arms, but she couldn't help touching his face with her dorsal braid. He shifted groggily, eyes opening and closing as he skirted the edge of sleep.

  "I'm sorry," Sakra sighed.

  "Don't be sorry," Lira said softly. "We understand. None of us would thrive in a city. Our home is here. We just hoped that our children's home could also be here."

  Sakra's expression tightened.

  "If the concern is anonymity, can't we just hide the children here?" Mariera asked, shooting a glance at Akira. The young girl shrank behind her father's leg. "Surely the village is safer than locking them up in a castle. Everyone here loves the children. We could easily ask them to hide their talent from any passing merchants."

  Sakra shook her head. "You risk the children's future. And I risk my house."

  "Then you come live here," Mariera said. A silence greeted that statement, as if everyone was unsure if they heard her correctly. "Surely your husband can handle the administrative duties while you are gone. And it isn't like you are going to be doing nothing. From what you told us, you spent much of your time with Silas and Akira. You can come live here and do that as a full time job."

  "It can be very beautiful here," Lira added.

  Sakra blinked, then sent Morag a questioning look. "Will that work?"

  He considered it for several long moments, and everyone held their breath as he passed judgement.

  "Mariera makes an excellent point. This village is vastly more remote than Norgard Castle or Chikarun proper. We would have had problems hiding their presence in a few months anyway, but here it would be trivial to veil their presence from unwanted eyes. And regarding your temporary leave of absence... it is not unheard of for a noble to go train a young talent and leave their holdings to their spouse."

  "I... see," Sakra said slowly, but her aura twisted into a faint smile.

  "It all depends on you, Lady Sakra," Morag continued with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you think you can stomach living in a small, boring village like this?"

  "I should speak to my husband about this, but..." Sakra glanced at Silas' sleepy form. His eyes languidly opened and his aura sparked with a brief, tumultuous flare of joy. "I think... Yes, I think I will manage."

  "Did you hear that, Aki, dear?" Mariera turned to her daughter. "You get to stay!"

  Akira rushed into her mom's embrace. Perrylas closed in on the pair, enveloping the both of them as silent tears wetted shoulders.

  A warm autumn wind blew over the peaked roofs of the alten city of Colefallow. It slinked through the streets where children played, and over the great curtain walls, taking with it the final touch of warmth of the year. It traveled east, brushing against trees and gently encouraging them to shed their verdant canopy. Some listened, others were more stubborn, yet the wind attempted with them all.

  Soon, the land sloped upwards, and the wind entered the foothills of the grand Cotealian mountain range. The playful twirl of mana attracted it. Its caresses targeted grasses and then boulders as the earth forced the cool air higher. It chilled, growing sluggish and voiding the moisture it carried to nourish the few plants that still eagerly spread their limbs to the sky.

  The wind was cold, and sleepy, but abruptly it crossed a threshold where its cool turned frigid and a new form of energy filled it. Delighted, the wind raced down the slopes, curling and swooping through valleys and into a broad basin in the shadow of an iced peak.

  The wind sensed the dizzying presence sleeping upon the mountain, but found the curious, bright threads of mana far below much more enticing. It flowed over a road, then a village, then it lost its momentum. For a brief eternity, the wind lamented as it was forced to settle within the crude construction of man.

  The melancholy didn't last long. The wind forgot such mortal worries. It drifted between the homes, finding warmth and small lives bustling with an energy that belied the cold. It slithered through shutters and curiously explored the unique and odd way of life of the creatures who thought to tame the power of mana itself.

  That bright young flash was back, and with it, the wind's curiousity.

  The home the wind entered was small, and newly constructed, sticking out like a sore thumb among the other snowed in buildings. There were two such buildings, standing side by side, sharing a pile of timbers slated for a lifetime of holding back the cold.

  Four individuals were huddled inside. Two were small. Two were big. One was bored and the other exasperated.

  "Momo!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  "Morag. My name is Morag you dense child," Momo growled, holding me up and away from him like a used diaper. "Dragons above Sakra. Are you quite done yet?"

  "Give me a moment!" Sakra's voice came from the other room.

  "Momo!" I squirmed.

  "I think that Momo is a way better name than Morag." Akira declared from the side.

  "Damnit Sakra! I'm a spymaster and a master assassin. I did not sign up for this!" Momo complained.

  "Just cast some kind of spell! He'll quiet right down." Sakra called back.

  Momo grumbled, but grudgingly set me down. I immediately flared my will and my diaper pulsed with power as I zipped between his legs. I looked up, eyes going wide as for a brief moment I saw Momo's black, fuzzy carapace from underneath. It was imminently cool. In an organic, xenomorph kind of way.

  Then he skittered back and a cage of black light slammed down around me.

  "Gah!" Momo exclaimed. "Just—Look, kid. You can't go crawling under a drider's legs. It is exceptionally rude. Do you know what exceptionally means? Of course you don't..."

  "I know what exceptionally means," Akira added her two cents.

  I ignored his put upon sigh, and examined the cage of light surrounding me. It was formed of hollow black rods that obscured my arcane eye from viewing the juicy internals and how the spell managed to physically block me from chasing after the disgruntled spider-grandpa.

  "Saki!" I pointed at Momo. "Look!"

  Sakra entered the living room of her newly constructed house, and shot Morag an arch look. "Let him go Morag. Let's not teach him any bad habits, alright?"

  Momo grumbled something dark under his breath but the cage of black light vanished around me. Sakra sat before me, and placed a complicated looking cube in front of me. The physical device was plain, but intricate, with the walls made of several interlocking panels that reminded me of a rubiks cube.

  "Gather around Akira. Do you want to play a new game? I made it especially fun this time around."

  "I'm busy!" Akira flipped her dorsal braid over her shoulder. She didn't even look up from the drawing she was working on, a charcoal pencil clutched between her fingers as she made some sort of masterpiece.

  Sakra's smile tightened, but she gaily turned to me. "What about you Silas. Want to play?" She shook the block in front of me, then reached for it with her will and began manipulating the internal strands. Interesting. The puzzle block seemed to be capable of converting and transmitting the arcane force into the sliding panels of the cube.

  Now, let's see...

  I accepted the block, noting the eager expression on Sakra's aura as well as the fact that Morag had stepped closer with his leg hairs raised. It was a complicated mechanism, and the complexity made it difficult to see deep within the structure and identify the weak spots.

  Luckily, it is always easier to destroy things than it is to make them.

  I reached into the device with my will and located a particular segment. I funneled power to the tip of my will and pinched a mana pathway within the structure. Then, I abruptly shoved my mana into the device in a way it wasn't really designed to accept.

  My mana flooded in, but with nowhere to go, it overloaded a specific lever arm. The stiff thread of mana flexed, then cracked explosively. The panel it held in place shot upwards, bopping Sakra on the chin before clattering to the floor.

  Sakra spluttered as I fell into a fit of giggles. The noise drew in Akira, who carefully glanced over, trying—and failing—to hide her curiosity.

  "What is that?" Akira asked.

  "It's a training cube and it broke..." Sakra's aura frowned. "No, the rest of it looks fine. Silas? What did you do?"

  I giggled, grabbing at my toes.

  "Can I try?" Akira asked, leaning forward.

  "Sure, just avoid this side," Sakra said. She pointed out the broken side and showcased how to manipulate the sliding panels once more for the young girl. Akira was immediately hooked, probing and prodding the device with her will, and then loudly complaining when the panels jammed due to her shoddy control.

  "You're doing very well, Akira. Just keep trying. You'll get it," Sakra encouraged. "It's getting late. Would you like to stay or—"

  "I'll stay," Akira said, then looked up accusingly. "You're not allowed to go. You need to help me with this."

  "Okay. I'd love to, Akira," Sakra smiled. She glanced at Morag "Morag? Could you take Silas home?"

  Momo nodded, then reluctantly looked at me. I grinned cheekily back at him. "Alright. Let me just get my socks."

  He vanished into the other room, and my grin grew wider as the sound of bumping and scraping and slammed drawers sounded through the doorway. By the time Sakra was frowning in that direction, Momo burst out, wearing six socks on his long fuzzy legs and waving a seventh in the air.

  "Damnit, Sakra! Where is my last sock?"

  Sakra blinked. "Did you lose another set?"

  "I didn't lose ano—Gahh! Where is..."

  His voice trailed off as it vanished into the other room. I waited just the perfect amount of time, then surreptitiously crawled to the kitchen. I extracted a fuzzy black sock from underneath the spice cabinet and crawled back to Saki.

  "Saki!" I held up the sock proudly. "Sock!"

  "Thank you Silas," Saki's aura glimmered, and she graciously accepted the sock from me. "Morag! Silas found your sock."

  "Found my—" Morag poked his head through the door. He eyed the sock, then met my gaze. His eyes narrowed. "Did he now..."

  "Momo!" I responded, completely ignoring the suspicious looks he shot me the entire walk home.

  My eyes snapped open in the middle of the night. The frigid air nipped at my earholes, carrying with it the gentle hum of steady breathing. I turned my head left and studied my father. Blue-gray scales, two small earholes, a slitted nose, and too-large closed eyelids greeted me. He was laying on his stomach, as I'd found was most comfortable for my species, with his dorsal braid draped carelessly over the back of his neck.

  I turned my head in the other direction to behold my mom. Her features were similar, but more delicate and angular. It had been a full year and I think I was finally getting the hang of the different facial features of my species. She was laying in a similar position to Dad, though her dorsal braid had found its way onto my back during the night.

  Oh yeah, today was my birthday.

  A full year. I smiled, disentangling myself from mom's embrace, and crawling carefully to the foot of the bed. It was hard to believe that only a year had gone by. Life as a baby moved so unbelievably slowly at times, and yet that was with me spending over half the waking hours asleep. I couldn't imagine what it would be like as my body matured.

  I was still weak. Physically speaking, though I was getting stronger and stronger every day. Walking was no longer a chore, but I still sometimes lost my balance. Despite everything, I still somehow sometimes forgot that my knees faced the wrong way. It also didn't help that my head was a touch too large for my small body.

  But my magic was a different story entirely. I trained that particular muscle religiously. During the days I worked on finesse and control, given the constant surveillance by my parents or otherwise. I didn't feel bad keeping this part of myself secret. It was just the way it was. My life was strange, and I'd long ago reasoned that it would be better for everyone if I kept this secret.

  The nights were different. Every night, I pushed a different aspect of my growing will to the very limit, only to allow it to recover for a few days before repeating the process. I'd identified over a dozen different facets of will, and it seemed like every week I learned a new way that I could use this magical muscle.

  It was repetitive, but I never grew tired of weaving the glittering strands with my mind.

  I parked myself against dad's legs. He never woke up, no matter how I jostled him, and I still preferred to lean against something. Tonight was the last day in my training cycle. The following week would be for deloading; my least favorite part of the month. Despite myself, I always managed to get irritable before the half way point. It was necessary though, and I firmly clobbered down my boredom each and every time.

  But there was one benefit to this being the last night in my training cycle.

  Measurement day.

  Or night. Whatever.

  I closed my eyes and let my body slacken against Dad's foot. My mind emptied of thoughts, worries, ideas. Everything. I slipped into an almost meditative state, as my breathing first came slow, then accelerated. Each breath came harsh and fast, my core muscles clenched subconsciously as I uncoiled my will.

  Like a titan awakening from a slumber, my aura throbbed to life. Kinks, and sore spots were shaken off as I scanned the ethereal muscle for failure points. My will had no physical form, and therefore didn't need to be warmed up before something like this. It was me that needed the routine. My mind was the weak point. I found the thought immensely amusing.

  I pulled a thin thread of mana from my core.

  One thaum became two became four and beyond. This wasn't a control training session. This was measurement day. It was time to see how far I'd grown. The thread of mana thickened further and further as I braided more strands of my core mana into the construction.

  Then, just as I reached a rope of mana the thickness of my pinky, I compressed the mana down. The rope shivered as I forced it down. Compressing it into a hair thin strand of glowing power.

  Then I did it again. And again. And again. Each time, braiding the compressed strands together into a solid luminious rope.

  My will strained merely to hold the mass of mana within its grip. My core likewise ached at being emptied of mana at such a rapid rate. I ignored both sensations, already far too comfortable with the sensations to give them much thought.

  I held the rope of mana for a breath, then I shoved it away from me. I strained, teeth baring as the thick strand glacially moved away from me. It didn't jerk in fits and starts, moving smoothly but over long seconds to my will; an indication that this wasn't an issue of stabilization, but rather raw, unfettered force.

  I pushed, and pushed, and... I failed.

  The rope slipped, and I groaned as it returned to its starting position. Then I repeated the exercise, but this time in the pulling direction.

  I failed again. And again. And again.

  But by the time I was covered in clammy sweat, and over an hour had gone by, a massive smile split my lips. I'd done it. Sixty two point five thaums. Moved in all the basic motions for over ten centimeters before slippage was observed.

  The motions were slow, with painfully ugly form, but damnit, the mana moved. It moved. And not just a simple loose mana yarn, I'd done it with the compressed variant of mana I'd seen many of the adults work with. The kind of mana that could propel a bolt of force at mach speeds and turn wool into an insulator so effective that a single, thin layer could keep out the harsh endless winter of my home.

  I slowly let the mana dissipate, finally allowing my body to unclench. The ache in my core was deeper now. Not just empty, but horribly sore. I reveled in the sensation, knowing that the discomfort was a herald of growth.

  Dad's foot shifted and shoved me forward. I squeaked, toppling face-first into the mattress as he groaned something unintelligible. My squeal woke mom, and she jerked upright. It took her barely a second to locate me and the tension rapidly left her posture.

  "What are you doing there, little Silas?" Mom murmured, lying back down.

  I grinned, with both my lips and my aura—despite how it made my core twinge—and righted myself. Then, because I could, I crawled onto dad's foot, and bit his toe.

  "Oww!" Dad bolted upright, jerking his foot away from my two razor sharp incisors. Not even the blanket could protect him. I giggled, chasing after the retreating lumps of his feet, as he rapidly shook off sleep. "Dragons above, Silas. What are you—OW! Stop that!"

  Mom was laughing so hard she was curled up in a ball. She was no help as Dad finally managed to pick me up by my armpits and hold me at arms length.

  What?

  It was deload week. I wasn't allowed to use my will. How else was I to entertain myself?

  an ideology, and not The ideology. There are a dozen issues with this way of thinking and I imagine Aristotle or Kant would be rolling in their graves if they read this. Unfortunately, I would need a thousand pages to explore the idea of power more completely.

  Gee, I've written chapters of length, 2k, 2.5k, 3k, 5k, and 10k, why not do something in the middle. Say... 8k? That sounds nice.

  Discord. All the usual. Hope you have a wonderful rest of your day.