It was past midnight, and the adults were still talking in circles—asking the same questions again and again, just dressed in different words. The answers hadn’t changed, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Rishmond, Cantor, and the rest of the group had returned with Torg about half an hour after sundown. Late, but not so late that anyone had begun to panic. Halmond and Beritrude had been waiting outside the house, their postures stiff, voices clipped—clearly unhappy, but not furious.

That changed the moment the children introduced them to Torg.

The shift was immediate. The kids were rushed inside, voices drowned out by sharp commands. Torg was left standing alone on the raised porch, expression unreadable beneath the intricate facets of his crystalline face. Halmond stationed himself in the doorway like a sentry, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes never leaving the golem—never mind that the children had already traveled hours with him.

Inside, Beritrude paced the hearth, her arms folded tight, her lips drawn into a line. The fire snapped sharply, though no one added wood.

Rishmond took the lead in explaining—sticking carefully to the version they’d all agreed upon before leaving the Goddess Denisisie's sanctuary beneath the sea. He said they’d found an odd crystal jutting out of the sand just as they were preparing to head home, and how curiosity had led them to spend over an hour digging out the small golem.

“No symbols. No sounds. He just looked… odd,” Cantor chimed in. “Like he was waiting for something.”

“I didn’t think he was real at first,” Drak added, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “I thought it was just a sculpture.”

Beritrude's frown deepened. “And it never occurred to any of you to leave him there?”

“We thought it was just old magic,” Rishmond said quickly. “Dormant. Harmless. But when I touched his head—he... just sorta woke up.”

“You woke him?” Halmond asked. “Just like that?”

“He didn’t seem dangerous,” Toby said quietly. “He hasn’t been. He let us bring him here.”

The adults fell silent again.

“So I can talk to it? And it’ll understand me—and talk back?” Halmond asked, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Rishmond replied. “His name is Torg.”

Halmond turned to the golem, narrowing his eyes. “You! Torg! What are you, and what business do you have here?”

His tone wasn’t just sharp—it was wary. Rishmond had never heard Halmond sound quite like that. Beneath the command was something colder. Something cautious. Maybe even afraid.

Torg spoke for the first time since they’d arrived.

“Hello. I am Torg, servant of the Goddess Denisisie. My business here is to find my mistress. In pursuit of that goal, the Wizard Rishmond and his team have brought me here to seek the aid of the Wizard Tybour, who Rishmond believes may be able to help me locate Denisisie and the other Gods.

“It is my understanding that you believe the Gods to be gone from this world. That cannot be true. The Gods promised they would always remain for the sake of mortals."

Torg's head turned slightly towards Rishmond.

“I was buried in the sand on a beach, unable to move or call out. Inactive. I do not know how I came to be there, but I have been inactive for over 300 turns. I mean you no harm. In fact, I can no more harm a mortal than I could fly.”

A long silence followed.

Halmond turned in the doorway and met Beritrude's eyes. Something passed between them—silent, weighted. Then Halmond spoke, his voice low with disbelief.

“A servant of the Goddess Denisisie...”

Beritrude shifted her gaze to the teen-agers. She held out a hand, palm down—a clear signal to stay put—then stepped forward to stand beside Halmond.

“You’re here to search for the Gods?” she asked Torg. Her voice was soft, strained. “Do you know what happened to them? Where they went?”

There was no suspicion in her tone, only a deep yearning. The return of the Gods was more than anyone dared hope for. Life, for the most part, had found balance in their absence—but their presence had once shaped the world. Most mortals still carried that absence like a wound.

A few more cautious questions followed, and then, after a long pause, Torg was invited inside.

Beritrude offered him a seat and refreshments out of habit. Torg declined both with gentle politeness, explaining that as a construct, he had no need to sit, eat, drink—or even breathe.

Halmond, still visibly on edge, left the house and crossed next door to alert the neighbors. Within minutes, a rider on a fast horse was dispatched to the castle with urgent instructions: summon the First Mage Tybour, Ele Walsing, and any other Wizards available. Something ancient had awoken—and the realm needed to know.

Tybour arrived first, stepping through a portal that shimmered into existence just above the roof of the house. He landed lightly in the front yard, his cloak billowing with calculated flair, and entered the room as he always did—radiating confidence, brimming with energy, and fully expecting to take command of the situation.

He went straight to Rishmond without so much as a glance at the golem standing in the center of the room.

“My boy!” he boomed, throwing an arm around Rishmond and pulling him into a fierce, back-cracking embrace. “I knew you were destined for greatness!” he declared, as if this moment were the inevitable result of a prophecy he himself had authored.

Then, still grinning, he turned to Cantor, took her hand with exaggerated elegance, and kissed it with a flourish. Cantor's face lit up crimson, and she quickly looked away, caught between flustered embarrassment and shy pride.

Tybour moved to Halmond next. Their greeting was all forearms and shoulder claps—soldierly and boisterous, like old comrades reunited after war.

Tybour greeted Beritrude with kisses on both cheeks, then pulled her into a warm embrace. “Beautiful as ever,” he said with a grin, gazing into her eyes.

She smiled back with a fondness that spoke of old memories and mutual respect.

Only then did Tybour's eyes land on the golem.

Torg stood still in the middle of the little family room, his crystalline body gleaming faintly in the firelight. The only movement was his head, which had been tracking Tybour since his arrival with quiet, mechanical precision.

“Tybour,” Rishmond said, stepping forward with practiced courtesy. “This is Torg. Torg, meet the First Mage of Malminar, Tybour Insuritor.”

“Hello,” Torg said in his clipped, crystalline voice. “Wizard Rishmond has spoken highly of you. He believes you are the most suitable Wizard to assist me in my mission to locate the Gods and restore their attention to the mortal world.”

Tybour blinked, caught for a second off guard by the golem's articulate speech.

“Yes. Well. Yes, of course,” he said, pulling on his vest. He bent to meet Torg at eye level, glancing sideways at Rishmond with a curious smirk. “Did he tell you the story of the Blessing?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

“We believe the Gods sealed themselves away from the mortal realm,” he said, his voice dipping into the familiar tone he used when giving lectures or speeches. “They were trying to rid us of the Demons once and for all. Something went wrong. The Demons remain—trapped, yes, but still present behind their barrier. And the Gods... are gone from Rit.”

Tybour turned back to the golem, his face just inches away from Torg's crystal features.

“We’ve been here over 300 turns,” he said, voice low, probing. “While you were buried... in sand, I believe?” He lifted a brow. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, Wizard,” Torg replied without hesitation. “It has been three hundred forty-one turns, four months, and eleven days, to be exact—based on both my internal timekeeping and the information provided by Wizard Rishmond. I have been inactive for that entire period.”

The golem tilted his head slightly.

“However,” he continued, “Rishmond has stated that no God has made contact with mortals in your lifetime. With respect, that means you have not witnessed their dedication or integrity firsthand. The Gods do not make mistakes. Nor do they lie. Ever.”

“Hmmm...” Tybour murmured, standing to loom over the golem, eyes narrowed in thought. “Then where might they be? Why don’t they answer us? Are they just... busy?”

He didn’t sound angry—more like a parent gently chiding a child for being late to dinner. Rishmond frowned, puzzled by the subtle sharpness in Tybour's tone. It seemed oddly dismissive, even mildly rude, especially given Torg's politeness.

Torg, however, showed no sign of offense.

“I cannot speak for the Gods, Wizard Tybour,” he replied calmly. “I can only share what I know to be true—and what I believe to be likely until proven otherwise.”

He paused a moment before continuing.

“Time does not flow the same for the Gods as it does for mortals—or even for me. I may be nearly immortal, but next to a God, my existence is brief and bounded. Yours, Good Wizard, is even more so.”

Torg tilted his head slightly, his tone remaining matter-of-fact. “No offense intended. It is simply truth. What feels to us like three hundred turns might be but a blink in the existence of a God.”

He looked up at Tybour with steady, unblinking eyes. “I cannot begin to fathom the full scope of their purpose, nor what might drive them to cease contact for such a span. But I trust there is a reason—and that it is not one born of indifference.”

“Tybour?” Rishmond asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Rishmond?” the First Mage replied, still watching Torg with a glint of curiosity.

“Do you see the flows of magic inside him? Inside Torg, I mean. And that dark blob—like obsidian—in his head? With the silver sparks shooting off it, like tiny fireworks?”

Tybour nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. Quite clearly, in fact.” He turned to look at Rishmond, brows raised. “Is that not what everyone sees?”

Rishmond shook his head. “No. I can see it... and so can Bollen. But none of the others can.” He glanced at his friends, then gestured toward them. “They don’t see any of it.”

Tybour's expression sharpened with interest. “Fascinating.” He turned toward the adults. “Halmond? Berti?”

Both shook their heads.

“I see the golem, sure,” Halmond said. “But nothing inside him. No sparks, no blob, no... flows.”

Beritrude echoed him. “Same here. He looks... normal. Magical, yes. But not like that.”

Tybour folded his arms and regarded Rishmond with a thoughtful look. “Well now... That is interesting.”

Tybour shifted his attention fully to Torg, his tone becoming more analytical, the curiosity in his eyes sharpening.

He began asking questions—what materials Torg was made of, how his magical systems operated, what sustained his awareness, and whether he required external energy to function. Torg answered each one willingly and thoroughly, providing technical explanations in his clipped, formal voice.

But when Tybour's questions turned to the golem's origins—how he had been made, who had constructed him, what spells or techniques had forged his crystal body—Torg hesitated.

“I do not possess that information,” he said plainly. “I know when I was created—three hundred seventy-one turns ago. I was formed for a singular purpose, as instructed by the Goddess Denisisie: to aid Her in her great works. Secondary to that is to maintain Her sanctuary when she is gone and deliver worthy mortal Wizards to her should they come to my attention. My knowledge begins the moment I was activated. The process of my creation lies outside my awareness.”

Tybour frowned slightly, fingers stroking his chin. “No embedded memory of your own construction? Not even a framework?”

Torg's head gave a slow, mechanical tilt. “No, Wizard Tybour. I was not designed to know such things. My function is to serve, to seek, and to report. I assume the nature of my creation was deemed irrelevant to my purpose.”

The little house had quickly been overwhelmed. Neighbors, Wizards, scholars, and curious onlookers all tried to squeeze into the cramped family room, jostling for a glimpse of Torg and a chance to hear his story firsthand—or, more often, to offer their unsolicited opinions about what ought to be done and by whom.

It didn’t take long before it became obvious that the space simply couldn’t hold them all.

That's how, at midnight, they found themselves gathered in the town's meeting hall. Dozens of important people milled about, voices rising in overlapping waves—debating the fate of the Gods, the nature of the golem, and what course of action should be taken next. Torg stood calmly amid the chaos, the eye of a growing storm of speculation, theory, and bureaucratic excitement.

Just after midnight, several local families arrived at the meeting hall carrying trays of food and pots of hot drink, eager to contribute to the gathering that had blossomed into a full-blown midnight assembly. The gesture was welcome—especially for Rishmond and Toby, who were finally able to sit down and eat after hours of excitement, questions, and standing on ceremony. Both were starving, and both were grateful for the brief lull in attention.

Among the offerings was a pot of acradious brew, its rich, earthy scent cutting through the room's hum of conversation. Rishmond watched as Tybour poured himself a steaming cup, then proceeded to add a generous spoonful of sugar, followed by an equally generous splash of cream. Across the table, Haningway and Halmond took theirs black, grimacing in amusement.

“Sweet tooth, Tybour?” Halmond asked, raising a brow.

“I thought you were a grown man,” Haningway added with a smirk.

Tybour took the ribbing in stride, sipping with exaggerated satisfaction. “Some of us appreciate the finer things,” he said grandly, earning chuckles from both men.

The meeting hall buzzed with voices, and the crowd continued to grow. Only minutes after the group had settled in, the Mayor of Retinor arrived—his presence announced by the parting of townsfolk and the subtle straightening of a few backs. He wasted no time, repeating questions the Captain of the Guard had asked just moments earlier, much to the quiet exasperation of the kids.

Both men were Altemen and seemed particularly interested in Torg's stated destination: the Glittergreen Mountains of The Reach.

“And why there, exactly?” the mayor asked, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

Torg answered with his usual calm. “The Goddess Denisisie was to travel to the Glittergreen Mountains in search of a holfin crystal.”

The mayor pressed further. “What kind of crystal? Size? Shape? Purity? Magical resonance?”

“I’m afraid I do not have those specifics,” Torg replied. “Only that it was called a holfin crystal, and that it was important.”

That didn’t seem to satisfy the mayor, who scribbled a few notes and exchanged a look with the captain. Rishmond had the distinct sense that things were about to become far more official—and far more complicated.

Over the course of the night, every Researcher from the Malminar Council of Wizards had made an appearance. Some still lingered in the meeting hall, hovering near Torg or debating in quiet clusters, while others had already been dispatched—sent on urgent errands to retrieve old texts, comb through records, or investigate arcane details tied to Torg, Denisisie, or the time leading up to the Blessing.

Their mission was clear: find anything—anything—that might have been missed in the last three hundred turns. An overlooked detail, a misinterpreted sign, a forgotten prophecy. The hope was slim, but urgent: that somewhere in the ancient scrolls and magical archives lay the key to discovering where the Gods had gone—and, more importantly, how to bring them back to the world of mortals.

For the first time in centuries, there was a real chance the silence of the Gods might be broken. And every scholar in the room knew it.

Torg had answered question after question without pause, never once showing frustration or weariness, even when the same points were asked repeatedly in slightly different ways. His patience was unwavering.

Rishmond, on the other hand, found his own patience tested more than once. Several times throughout the evening, the relentless interrogation brought him to the brink of snapping—ready to tell some overeager scholar or minor official to back off and give Torg space. But each time, he managed to keep his cool.

By the time they’d relocated to the meeting hall, it seemed Tybour had made up his mind about the golem. Torg had earned his trust. More than once, Tybour stepped in when questioning tipped toward aggression, gently but firmly diffusing tensions and redirecting conversations. His presence—and support—had clearly shifted the tone.

After the initial inquiries from Halmond, Beritrude, and Tybour about how the group had discovered Torg, no one pressed the kids for further details. Rishmond, Cantor, and the others were left alone. Their version of events had apparently been accepted as truth.

Over the last half hour, the mood in the hall had shifted. The barrage of questioning had wound down, replaced by quiet discussions among clusters of Wizards, scholars, and officials. The crowd had thinned—many of the curious townsfolk having returned home once their curiosity was satisfied. The debate and planning were now left to those whose job it was to worry about such things.

Torg stood at the center of the stage, unmoving in posture but still alert, exactly as he had stood all evening. Beside him sat Tybour, cross-legged on the wooden boards, speaking with the golem as though they were old friends catching up. Their conversation was low and calm, just beyond Rishmond's hearing.

He was too far away to make out any words—and with so many Wizards in the room, casting an eavesdropping spell would have been a very bad idea.

So he simply watched. Watched as the First Mage of Malminar sat shoulder to shoulder with a being crafted by a God, speaking like equals, like collaborators. And though he couldn’t hear the words, Rishmond could feel the weight of them. Whatever they were saying, it mattered.

Discussion of the journey ahead had taken place earlier in the evening, back when the excitement was still fresh and the room brimming with energy. After hearing Torg speak at length about Denisisie's preparations—the planned pilgrimage, the Blessing, and what she had intended to accomplish—Tybour had committed quickly.

“This,” he’d said with quiet conviction, “is our best lead since the Blessing itself. If we’re ever to find out what truly happened—and find a way to bring the Gods back—this is where we start.”

Rishmond had taken that as his cue.

He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to convince Hal and Berti that he should be allowed to go as well. After all, he had found Torg—well, they had, he admitted, gesturing to his friends—but it was he who had formed the bond. Torg himself had backed Rishmond's claim, calmly expressing that the boy had been instrumental to his reactivation and that there was a special connection between them.

But Torg's support, while appreciated, didn’t sway the adults.

Hal and Berti had said no. And they had meant it. Their decision stood, firm and final, even when Tybour himself agreed that Rishmond should come along. “He may be young,” Tybour had said, “but he's already proven more capable than many seasoned adepts.”

Still—no.

And then there was Toby. Not only did he not want to go, he’d sided with Hal and Berti. He’d listed, quite reasonably, all the things Rishmond was supposed to be doing instead: schoolwork, fishing season, basic magical instruction. "You’re still in your first year,” Toby had said flatly, “and you barely keep your books dry.”

That had stung. Not because it wasn’t true—but because it had come from Toby.

Rishmond had said nothing at the time. Just nodded and sat back, chewing on the frustration like a bitter root.

The adults had made their decision: none of the children who had helped discover Torg would be permitted to join the journey to the Glittergreen Mountains. The reasoning was straightforward—age. It didn’t matter that they had risked the descent into the cavern, or helped dig Torg from the sands. In the eyes of the council, they were still just kids.

When Tybour raised the point that, among the Tribes of Uhl, boys undertook their passage into adulthood at thirteen turns, he was quickly silenced by a chorus of disapproval. Comparing the traditions of “uncivilized” tribal cultures to the expectations of a “civilized” nation like Malminar was, apparently, not a winning argument.

Of the entire group, only Cantor managed to secure permission to join the expedition. Her father had been hesitant—more out of habit than true resistance—but she was nearly of age to make her own decisions anyway. In truth, he was relieved to see her showing interest in something serious, something “adult,” as he put it. He had long feared she would waste her potential lingering in the streets with the neighborhood kids. This, at least, had purpose. Direction.

As soon as her father gave his blessing, Tybour accepted her into the expedition without hesitation.

Rishmond nodded again, eyes drifting to the far side of the hall where Cantor stood in quiet conversation with her father. She looked different somehow—older, maybe. Or maybe it was just the way she stood, squared shoulders, chin slightly raised. Like she belonged.

She caught him watching and gave a small smile, uncertain but warm. He smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He turned his attention back to Tybour, who was already discussing provisions with Haningway. Rishmond stayed quiet, listening to words that barely registered. Salt marshes, storms, road conditions. Things that didn’t matter anymore—not to him. Not if he wasn’t going.

Cantor was going.

Cantor.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud of her—he was. She’d argued her case, stood her ground. She’d earned her place. But it still stung. He was the one who’d found Torg. He was the one the golem had first spoken to, the one who could see the magic inside him. And yet… here he was. Left behind.

It wasn’t fair. But worse than that—it felt final.

He glanced back at Toby, still asleep on the bench, blissfully removed from it all. And then at Cantor again, now deep in discussion with Haningway, nodding like a soldier taking orders.

Something inside him twisted, a tight little knot of resentment and longing and shame.

He wasn’t angry at Cantor. He wasn’t even angry at Tybour. Not really.

He just hated the feeling of being small again.

“Rishmond,” Cantor said softly as she approached. “I know you want to go. And I know I shouldn’t be going without you.”

He looked up from his seat, not trusting himself to speak. He tried to keep the disappointment from showing in his eyes, but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

Cantor glanced at the sleeping form of Toby beside him, then leaned in, her voice low and trembling. “Look... I’ll stay. If you’re not going, I won’t either. It's not right, Rish. You’re only two months younger than me. They’re not being fair.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

Rishmond felt a tightness in his chest. She meant it. She would give up this chance—something huge, something historic—just to stand beside him.

But he couldn’t let her do that.

“No,” he said quietly, eyes lowered. “You have to go. So at least one of us is there.”

He looked up, and met her gaze. Tears welled in her eyes, barely held back.

“We should’ve waited two months,” he said with a crooked smile that didn’t quite make it to his heart.

Cantor gave a soft, painful laugh. Then she squeezed his shoulder—firm, lingering—and nodded once.

Then she turned and walked away.

He watched her go, feeling both proud and hollow all at once.

Over the course of the long evening, a company had slowly taken shape—those who would accompany Tybour and Torg to The Reaches and the Glittergreen Mountains.

Haster Unto, the Altemen Captain of the Guard—and one of the snake-kin native to the Glittergreen Mountains—had been selected to guide the expedition and represent the Altemen. Major Able Haningway, naturally, would go as Tybour's second-in-command, along with most of the Phoenix Company: the elite unit of Wizards and soldiers under Tybour's command.

VanLief Aerickson had volunteered as well. An experienced explorer and a Researcher for the Malminar Council of Wizards, he was well-respected and more than qualified to be part of such a mission. Bit by bit, the roster filled out. It seemed the expedition was nearly complete. Tybour and Haningway would make the final selections in the morning, before the party departed Retinor tomorrow afternoon.

Rishmond stepped quietly away from where Toby now slept curled on a wooden bench, arms folded, head tilted back. He climbed the edge of the stage and made his way toward Tybour, who was still seated beside Torg, now speaking softly with Haningway.

“Hey,” Rishmond said, trying to keep his voice even, casual. “Should be a good trip, yeah? Did you decide if you’re going by sea or overland?”

It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask—but it was the one he could ask.

Tybour looked up and smiled faintly. “We’ll go by sea. Safer than the Salt Marshes this time of year. The rains have come early—whole place is likely a sucking mess of mud, biting insects, and demon-spawn beasts. We'd lose days.”

He leaned back on one hand, relaxing a bit. “We may hit a storm or two, but nothing the Company can’t handle. The Merion tribes tend to stick to the north—Dragor Island, Iffe—we won’t be anywhere near there. After we land, it’ll still be a march across the wilds, but the Altemen keep their roads in decent shape.”

Rishmond nodded, doing his best to seem interested in logistics while the weight of not going pressed heavier with every word.

“Rishmond,” said Tybour, his voice low and somber. “I… you know I—” He paused, searching for the words. “If I could’ve convinced Halmond…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere just past Rishmond's shoulder.

“You know I want you along. If there were anything—anything—I could do to change their minds, you know I’d do it.”

Tybour shifted, finally turning to face the boy. “You can’t blame them. They haven’t had you around that long—just three turns, and that's not enough for them to know what I know. Don’t hold it against them. You know they love you.”

He let out a slow breath. “This is a big deal, Rishmond. A real lead. A real hunt for the Gods. It's the kind of thing people write ballads about.” He stopped, realizing too late he might’ve only made things worse.

“I know,” Rishmond said, barely above a whisper. He stared down at his shoes, unwilling to meet Tybour's eyes. “I know...”

He didn’t blame them, not really. But he wished they saw it the way he did. This wasn’t just a trip—it was history in the making. A chance to stand beside Tybour, to matter, to be the person he knew he could become.

“They think it's dangerous,” he said quietly. “But it's not. I can feel it. People go to the Glittergreen Mines all the time, and they don’t have you, or Haningway, or Phoenix Company soldiers to protect them.”

He sighed. “I know they mean well. I know they’re just trying to keep me safe. But I wish… I wish they saw it from my side.”

There was a quiet shuffling sound, and Rishmond looked down to see Torg approaching. The little golem reached up, touching his waist with a gentle tap of crystalline fingers.

“Wizard Rishmond,” Torg said, looking up at him, “am I to understand that you will not be accompanying me to the Glittergreen Mountains?”

Rishmond blinked. It occurred to him, for the first time, that no one had actually explained any of the plans to Torg. They’d questioned him, studied him, built an expedition around him—but they hadn’t asked.

“That's right, Torg,” Rishmond said softly. “I can’t go. My parents—Halmond and Beritrude, the ones you met earlier—they said no. Others did too, but… they’re the ones who matter.”

Torg tilted his head. “Why do Halmond and Beritrude get to decide what a Wizard of your talent can and cannot do?”

Rishmond gave a short laugh—more bitter than amused. “Because I’m seventeen. Still considered too young to make my own decisions. And… I respect them. They’re just trying to look out for me. They want me safe.”

“I see,” Torg said, his voice calm, curious. “At what age do mortals gain the right to make their own decisions?”

“Eighteen,” Rishmond replied. “Two more months.”

He hesitated, then added, “It's not just the number, though. I’ve only lived with Hal and Berti for a bit less than three turns. Before that, I… well, we weren’t a family yet. Now we are. And that makes them more careful. More protective.”

Torg was silent for a moment, processing. Then he nodded slowly.

“Flesh and blood reasoning is complicated,” he said. “But I will do my best to understand.”

Rishmond smiled faintly, the sadness still clinging behind his eyes. “Yeah. It is complicated.”

“I would like to hear more about your arrival here,” Torg said, voice calm and curious, “and what your life was like before you came to be part of a family with Hal and Berti and Toby.” He said the names slowly, as if testing their weight on his tongue. “I do not know if that is pertinent to the current issue, however.”

Torg's head tilted slightly. “I cannot go on this journey without you, Wizard Rishmond. My mission—set by Denisisie herself—was to await… discovery by a Wizard of sufficient strength and skill to awaken me. I am to serve that Wizard until my Mistress ends that service.”

He paused, a faint pulse of light flickering through the crystal beneath his chest.

“I will do everything in my power to remain within one mile of you, Wizard Rishmond. If, for any reason, I am taken farther from you—or you from me—I will do everything in my considerable power to return to your side.”