The Storm Singers: The Archivum Tefica, #1

By Michael Boccardi

Tefia is a world ruled by magic; where nations jockey for power and the gods who once spoke to their disciples have been mysteriously silenced. It is a world of exquisite beauty and of horrific loss, of indulgent delights and deadly turns. A world where sky ships sail over lush vineyards and soldiers of fortune comb the ravaged plague-lands that scar the landscape. It is a world where demons walk among men and the lowborn seek solace from their days in a church that is equally as sinful.

 

Oren and Jerod are swords for hire seeking coin and merriment where they can. When a job goes wrong, they find themselves swept into a conspiracy involving the renowned archmage Telamon Tulthar and the mythic order known as the Storm Singers.

 

The two quickly find themselves playing a much larger game with stakes beyond their worst fears.

 

Their journey will take them across the face of the world and beyond, enlisting the aid of those they encounter along the way.

 

Tefia is a a world steeped in ancient mysteries. It is a world of grandeur and simplicity. It is a world where arch mages bargain with demon princes to achieve their aims, and where a band of companions can avert disaster for all, if they can but hold to each other while walking in the shadow of the Storm Singers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iron Works Studios
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215726938

Book preview

The Storm Singers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

First Edition 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Michael Boccardi

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

To request permissions, contact the publisher at [e-mail].

Cover art and endpapers by Danlin Zhang

World Map by Misty Beee

Illustrations by Eric Velhagen

Cover text and layout by 1134 Design

ironworkstudios.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

Encyclopedia Tefica

Acknowledgments

T, you are the reason for every step forward.

M & D, your support encourages me.

J & R, your hearts inspire me.

G S, your spirit guides me.

For everyone with an artist’s soul

and a hero’s heart, this one’s for you.

- M

Chapter 1

Syllistera - Mid Winter - The White Lion Inn

2172 Second Year of Silence

As a matter of note, Oren did not die well. The first time. It was a sloppy chaotic affair, filled with the impulsive missteps of those who all too quickly come to possess a modicum of power. Oren shuffled through the memory. His steps tumbled and his casting time was woefully long. His weapon was incapable of channeling enough power to properly amplify his spells. Though that was the point of that particular expedition, to retrieve an artifact more suitable to his innate aethereal abilities. Subsequent misadventures would have to be undertaken with more care, as the world had quite suddenly found itself short on miracles.

The wheel of Oren’s mind was halted by the sound of conspiratorial conversation close by. It began as such things often do, a tavern, a drunkard too loudly sharing a tip he came by on the road, promises of treasure, and guarantees of pain. In Oren’s experience, these generous adventurers were invariably conmen eager to grab fast coin off a fool too naive to realize that he was being taken, until his pockets were empty and he was left to gather what little wits he had, miles away from home.

Oren observed, as the latest in a long line of conniving bastards divulged the supposed details of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to a hapless fool. Oren was impressed with the unfolding of his story. The best liars always knew to layer the details, and the lout was sparing none. Oren chuckled under his breath as he eavesdropped on their conversation.

What’s put you in the mind of the merry? asked Jerod as he returned to their table, nestled in a shadowed corner of The White Lion. He passed Oren a glass of Dravarian Red. Oren savored the smell of the vintage, pretending to understand the intricacies of viniculture. After having tasted his wine, Oren replied.

I know what’s in the minds of the heartbroken, the lustful, and the mad. Of what makes a man merry, I haven’t the slightest. Oren brought the glass to his lips again and hummed with pleasure as he said, Those elven sods do know how to coax the best from a grape.

Jerod laughed with a voice that sounded like the rustling of a cloth sack filled with stones and broken glass. Well then, what is it you find so amusing?

The world amuses me friend, and every greedy idiot birthed into it.

Oren motioned over his shoulder to the pair sitting behind them. Jerod’s raised brow and widened smile implied that he took Oren’s meaning. It would be simple enough.

At least it had been in the past. Oren and Jerod occasionally took it upon themselves to follow such pairs as these two, to see how the play unfolded. If the liar was indeed just that, they found themselves obliged to come to the fool’s aid at the opportune moment. If he was inclined to offer a reward for their fortuitous heroism then all the better. If not, they would exact their fee from the liar. Well, they would do that in either case. Everyone would walk away from the encounter and they would have made some quick coin and moved themselves a pace or two closer to The Wanderer’s good graces.

A sharp gust of midwinter air braced the tavern’s main room as a pair of night miners trudged in, seeking what comforts The White Lion had to offer. Wine, ale, and food up front, games of chance in the back, ladies, or lads up top, and…the cellar was just a cellar as far as any knew. Norah, the late inn keep’s widow would not allow anyone entrance to the cellar after Hubbard’s death. A matter Jerod and Oren never cared to investigate, as it would neither fill their coffers nor empty their loins.

The liar had moved to the next act of his performance and had his audience of one enrapt. He was fussing over a piece of weathered parchment and pointing to an emblazoned leather folio tube as he spoke animatedly to the fool.

See this sigil here? The mark of Telamon Tulthar hisself! Only a master of the art such as he would have cause to seek out such a place. Surely, there must be treasures within that would fetch the highest price from here to Sul-Cathas across the sea! Why else would a mage of such power seek it out for hisself?

What Oren found more impressive than the liar’s chicanery was that the sod had heard of Telamon Tulthar at all. His name was well known, but common thieves didn’t usually follow the goings on of archmages, the highborn, and the political elite. The liar continued on. Do we have an accord friend? Forty percent of whatever we find to you, plus five gold crowns now as a show of good faith.

The fool took a moment to feign a process of decision. It was obvious he was ass-out of his chair in eagerness to get on the road, to wherever the liar told him his forty percent was waiting to be found. The deal was struck. Hands shaken, tankards emptied, the liar and the fool took to the winter air, both assured that they would finish their journey richer than they had started it. Neither was correct.

It’s too mumpin’ late and too mumpin’ cold outside for this. I’d much rather hoist another tankard and pass the night upstairs with Rowena. She told me she’s cured of the itch since last I saw her. Jerod spoke over his tankard.

How wonderful for you mate, your favorite pocket doesn’t have broken glass in it anymore.

Jerod choked on a gulp of his ale. Seven hells Oren, you got a way of making things sound.

Do you mean the way that they are? I’ll give you that Rowena is a pretty enough slip for a night, but nothing makes me sleep better than knowing I can afford a bit of slap around anytime I’ve the need for some. Come now, this will be easy coin, and without us, that poor fool might wind up with his throat slit.

It would serve him right, the greedy nonce. Who would believe that bollocks anyway?

You may be right, but he doesn't deserve to die for being an idiot. Some do, to be certain, but not tonight. Come, there should be enough distance between us to follow them by now. And look, that lad that just left Rowena’s room is scratching his coin purse!

Jerod stared across the table at Oren in silence. Oren returned the silence with the look of an expectant child during the Winterveil Festival. With a sigh, Jerod cast a forlorn look toward Rowena, finished his ale, and said, There and back before my beard freezes.

Agreed. Oren replied almost immediately. Jerod knew it to be a lie.

The two grabbed their gear, stole some warmth from the fire to gird themselves against the cold, and angered patrons as they opened the door of the White Lion to meet the blackness of the Syllisteran winter night. They would be back before the dawn. Or so that would have been lovely.

It’s cold as Vespira’s arse out here! Show sense, Oren. Let’s bed ourselves at the Lion tonight. We can pick that old sod off the side of the road come the dawn. If he hasn’t frozen over by then.

They can’t have gone farther than the city gate by now. We’ll skip the usual steps and intervene quickly. As for Vespira, I only pray to the moon goddess. Have you had occasion to bed the divine?

Every lass who shares a bed with me is divine in my eye. I could be at worship right now if I weren't out here proving myself a fool!

Jerod sighed and drew his gaze skyward. Levana, the name given to the celestial manifestation of the moon goddess, was waxing crescent and even with her two smaller sister moons, offered them little light. A reminder that the gods had left him, and all the people of Tefia.

All the gods are cold inside Oren. It stands to reason the moon goddess would have as much warmth between her legs as this night has for us.

Well, that settles the argument for the ages mate. I’ll send word to the four corners.

Jerod snorted a fog of misty white air at Oren. The warmth of it soothed the reddened skin of his nostrils for the briefest of moments before it was stolen by the night wind. The pair wound their way through the tightly woven streets of Qulin. What had originally been a simple mining camp had been built up and expanded upon until it had become the pulsing heart of trade in Northern Syllistera. Trade that pulsed life streams of gold throughout the continent and beyond. In the year 2100, Qulin had become the seat of power in Syllistera. While beautiful, with its stone and timber structures, the many years of ungoverned ordinance meant that the city’s architecture was eclectic to say the very least.

Turning out of Hawker’s Alley and onto the main thoroughfare, Jerod and Oren came in sight of the grand city square and Helia’s Gate beyond. They quickened their pace, careful not to appear as though they were fleeing from some crime of their own committing. The Night Blades of Qulin were often overzealous in the performance of their duties of keeping the peace. They reached Helia’s Gate and Oren cursed, Well, shit.

What?

One set of tracks. Oren replied.

Jerod mouthed an epithet of his own. Don’t tell me he already bled the poor bastard and fled.

Worse. Oren pointed to the thin layer of freshly fallen snow beyond the gate. Wagon tracks. Up for a bit of a jog?

My lungs are already aflame in this mumpin’ cold!

Well, I’ll not risk thieving a mount and alerting the Night Blades. If we want to catch them up, we’ll need to move things apace.

Jerod tightened his belt, the straps of his gear, and secured the axe on his back. Fine then, after you.

Within a quarter-hour, they saw the bouncing light of a caravan a short distance ahead. A single wagon, no outriders to be seen. Unless the liar had accomplices lying in wait, it would be two against one. A very good two against a very unfortunate one.

There, do you see? Oren whispered.

Aye, I see them. Jerod replied. Go on then. A small enchantment to make this quick. I’ve run enough.

It’s so much easier to pay with someone else’s coin isn’t it?

Talent always has its price. Jerod grinned.

All right, but just some silence and stamina. I don’t want to have to take a moment mid-coitus and leave you alone.

Not six weeks ago I was left in a tomb to deal with that Naldian, the lunatic with whips, while you puttered off to have some tea and such.

Oh that’s what I do, is it? Putter and tea sip? If you had landed your strikes proper, I wouldn't have had to waste so much time, energy, and wildly expensive elixirs.

Jerod snorted. Elixirs. Wood and steel in my hands and a prayer on my tongue are all I need to…

Jerod caught himself before continuing. It seemed for a moment that he was a world away, floating on an ocean of uncertainty and loss.

Oren placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

When the gods won’t answer you, I will.

Aye, you better. Jerod straightened to his full height and spat. A friend at my back is better than a god above anyway.

Or below, as is more often the case. Oren said.That rise there, we’ll get ahead of them and give them the lost looker?

No no, let’s do the four virgin daughters.

Oren let out a muffled laugh. I’m still amazed every time that one works. The classic never dies I suppose. Done. A moment please.

Oren took the wood and silver bound tome chained to his waist in his left hand. He held his right hand above its rough-hewn cover, and the pale blue-green jewel at its center slowly pulsed with light from what appeared to be an impossible depth. It illumined from within like midday light refracted beneath a sea wave. The minor use of Oren’s natural skill wove its way into his Libre Aeris and the book sprung open, the pages turning of their own accord to the one he desired. The yellowed vellum was inscribed with thaumaturgical circles and diagrams for the casting of spells, all penned in the various inks of his art. The enchantment he desired was inscribed in quicksilver and liquified sunstone.

Oren held his hand over the sigils as they flared with luminous fire. Silver-blue light raced along the ink, bringing to life the power within the page. Their mortal forms were imbued with the natural magic of the world and enhanced for a short while. A luminous glow formed around Jerod’s body in a honeycomb of light and then dispersed in a cloud of glittering motes, the spell having taken effect. He felt it immediately. Oren repeated the process on himself. Along with the feeling of enlivened strength and speed, he also felt the pull on his life force that the use of his art exacted. A simple casting such as that did not require much of him, but more costly spells could drain him quickly. On several occasions, he had pushed himself too far and lost consciousness.

He was lucky that Jerod knew how to handle such situations, especially since his god no longer answered his calls for power. Since the Silence had begun, Oren had taken greater care to pace himself when in battle. They silently made their way ahead of the caravan on its right flank and slid down the rise to overtake the liar and the fool on the road ahead. As the wagon slowly approached them, Oren turned to Jerod and whispered.

Are you ready?

Ready enough. Mind your aim this time. You played your part too well last time.

Sorry about that again mate, you know I….oh here we go. Oren quickly adopted an angered stance and tone of voice. Where’ve you hid them, you sodden oaf! Where’ve you sent them off to!!

The liar and the fool took in the scene unfolding before them on the side of the stone road.

Oi friend, what’s this now over here? Should we stop and see what’s amiss? The fool asked of the liar. He was a good sort. Good sorts wound up penniless and dead.

Probably fending off a brigand or some such. Not our concern, push on and leave ‘em to their own.

Taking in the fact that the wagon was not slowing down, Oren took his cue. He leaped upon Jerod and felled him like the oak he was, crying out. What’ve you done with my four virgin daughters you whoreson! Return them to me!

They came of their own accord little man.

Lies! You kidnapped them! I’ll beat their whereabouts from you!

You can certainly try, though you'll need more arms and more meat on those bones.

Oren threw his voice with as much dramatic flair as he could muster.

Oh, you’re right. Who am I alone, to rescue my four virgin daughters? I swear on the Wanderer’s lantern that I’ll marry one off to the gentleman who helps me serve you justice, and pay him her weight in gold!

The wagon came to a halt. The liar’s attention had been caught. It was a matter of interest, how the fisherman could so quickly become ensnared in a line himself.

What’s this now the right good gentleman says about you pilfering about his hearth? We couldn’t help but overhear your tribulations sir and I’d be proud to help a fellow man of good standing in the defense of his women.

The liar was truly quite good.

Oh thank The Wanderer! This man, this man sir…he’s a brigand and a thief! Help me subdue him and I swear to repay your kindness in gold!

Gold eh? Well, you’ve the look of a man with coin to his name. A bit young to sire four daughters though no?

The gods have seen fit to spare my visage the ravages of time, and I take great care while at my ablutions sir…and yes, I have been fortunate in matters of money as well.

Jerod merely sat at the wayside of the conversation, wondering to himself why this sort of thing was always so easy. Perhaps it was because the greedy were blind to naught but gold, and would always be so. It certainly was not because Oren was a great talent of the stage. The gleam in the liar’s eye at the mention of reward was enough to bathe light on a countryside with no moon. The liar turned to face Jerod, still on the ground.

Well you heard the man, tell us where they are and we’ll let you keep your tongue.

Greedy and brutal. It was certainly lucky for the fool that Rowena still had the itch. Jerod used his disappointment over Rowena as his dramatic motivation and huffed an overly exasperated sigh.

All right, all right. I can see when I’m outmatched. Here, lend a beaten man a hand up and I'll tell you all. Fastest coin you've ever earned, I’d say.

The fool gave Jerod a crooked grin and extended a gloved hand to him. No sooner had they grasped one another, when Jerod released his coiled, spell-knitted muscles. Jerod tightened his grip so as to nearly crush the liar’s fingers. He drew his free hand to the back of the man’s neck and pulled him to the ground. In one blinding motion, Jerod was now atop the man, pinning him with one massive hand as the other kept a vice-like grip on his purpling fingers.

Oi friend! Get him off me! My bleedin’ hand! Friend!!

Oren’s face came into the liar’s field of vision over Jerod’s right shoulder. Friend? Me? No no, I think you took the wrong impression of me sir. I am not your friend. Right now, Jerod here is the closest you have to a friend. I’d save your niceties for him if you want to be able to aim into a piss-pot again with that hand. You see, unlike this poor fool here…

Oren turned to motion toward the liar’s mark, only to see him disappearing into the distance, racing back toward Qulin’s gates.

Hmph, not so foolish then. Well, any road, back to our business at hand, or hands as it seems. You’ve been caught, you sod. Undone before you could take that poor chap’s coin and perhaps more. As a penance, you’ll have to reimburse us for our….

You fool, shut your mouth! You’ve killed me! You’ve killed us all!

The liar’s eyes grew wide with fear as his body broke into a feverish sweat. Jerod began to struggle to keep the liar subdued.

The liar thrashed beneath him, and in doing so he thrust his knee into Jerod’s crotch, stealing his wind and giving himself the moment he needed to roll away from his captor.

The ground vibrated and the air rippled as something knocked Oren to the ground, while the liar sprinted to the back of his wagon. Spellwork? It occurred to Oren, as he flew backward through the air, that perhaps they shouldn’t have skipped their usual preparatory steps. Checking for wards and enchantments, proper scouting. What had gotten into him that would make him abandon his usual attention to detail?

Oren are you all right? Jerod appeared over Oren, offering him a hand up while he readied a hand axe from his belt.

Only dusted, what about you? Have to wait a bit longer to visit Rowena now?

Stow it. What is this mess? A caster? Could that have been a single-use charm? And what in seven hells was he going off about us killing him?

Your guess is as good as any. Should we do like his mark and leg it back to the city?

Oh not before this whoreson apologizes to me. Oren had seen Jerod’s idea of an apology before.

All right then, you go left. We sprint to the rear of the wagon.

The pair split to either side of the wagon. Jerod fisted his hand axe, unsure what he would meet at the back of the wagon. Oren’s right hand curled as though he was holding an invisible orb. Slowly, motes of silver dust swirled to a nucleus in the center of his hand. A minor spell of binding.

As their footfalls reached the center of the wagon, they broke into a dash to the wagon’s rear. They met face to face as the other rounded the corner. The liar was nowhere to be seen. A sudden gust of wind from above knocked them both to the ground. The liar was atop the wagon with his arms thrust in front of him. That was no charm.

They were dealing with a caster. Oren could feel the pull of magic in the air. The liar pulled his right arm back, gathering power from the aether, coalescing it in his hands for another strike. Oren threw his right hand out, loosing his binding spell at the liar. It refracted off the liar six inches from his body.

The flash and momentarily visible outline of an aether-ward hummed around the liar’s body. Minor spells would not work. The ineffective binding spell was enough to distract the liar and interrupt his casting. More than enough time for Jerod to roll to his feet and charge the side of the wagon with his massive size. Oren appreciated that Jerod’s first thought was to overturn the liar’s means of escape and bring him back down on even footing.

The liar lurched and fell on the wagon’s roof as Jerod’s shoulder made contact with the wagon. Before the man could regain his footing, Jerod had reached under the wagon with both hands and was turning his complexion red with the effort of lifting it. Oren reached out to the aether and further enhanced Jerod’s strength to aid his efforts. The next sight he saw was the liar tumbling ass over teakettle as the wagon upended.

The liar made contact with the ground squarely on his chest, the breath knocked from him. Oren was sure the man had broken several ribs. Approaching the liar with a fist charged with pure force, Oren called out.

This is over. You’re beaten, mate. Sit up and keep your hands on the ground.

The liar made no movement, though they could see that he was breathing. Jerod had sheathed his hand axe and was brandishing his double-bladed as he strode toward the downed caster. He stood a pace away from the liar’s still form and looked to Oren. A moment passed and Jerod rolled the liar over with his foot. An orange ember burned to life from beneath the liar’s shirt and shot several feet into the air. The ember exploded outward in a sphere of flame, tossing Oren and Jerod backward.

That was a single-use charm. Oren shouted as he patted the fires on his shirt and breeches out. Break his bloody hands!

Jerod got to his feet as the liar was running at him, brandishing a truncheon he had produced from gods knew where. The liar was swiftly upon him. He swung the weapon wildly like a child might swing a stick while playing at soldiers.

Jerod brought his double axe down in an arc, parrying the liar’s swing and disarming him in the same stroke. The liar cursed, spat, then withdrew a few paces, and began speaking in a tongue Jerod could not understand. To his ears, it sounded like the guttural snarling of a beast as it devoured still-living flesh. The liar’s pitch rose as the speed of his words increased. Jerod tried to rush the man, but the air grew thick around him.

He could feel a density and heat closing on him. The liar continued his incantation as he backed away from the wagon and the men who sought to subdue him. Jerod felt as though he were in a dream, running through wet sand, trying in vain to reach his goal.

His muscles had burned through the magic Oren had woven into them. He could barely move, hardly breathe. The liar’s chanting reached a crescendo, a demonic cacophony of sound and sparks flying about him. The liar made to throw his arms wide, but with a sudden and violent jerk, his body went turgid. His mouth hung open, his arms gone slack. The sound and heat had fallen away to nothingness and there stood Oren with his Libre open in one hand, the glow from the pages slowly dimming. Jerod turned to his friend in time to see him sink to his knees.

Oren! Are you all right?

I’ll be fine, a sip of tea and I’ll be right around.

Stow that. Do you need one of your potions or some such? Your pack was thrown clear, I’ll go find it.

No, no I’m all right. Let’s deal with our friend here first. I don’t know how long this binding will last.

The mage and the former priest stalked toward the incapacitated caster with menace on their minds. Menace and questions.

I know you can hear me. What part of yourself can you move?

The liar was motionless.

Jerod, grab a blade and cut his hands off. Jerod immediately moved toward the liar while unsheathing one of the many blades he kept hidden in his smooth black leather gambeson. The liar’s eyes flared and moved side to side, tracking Jerod’s movement. Jerod ceased his advance.

There we are, you can move those beady rat droppings you have for eyes. I’m going to ask you some questions. You look up for yes and down for no. If you don’t, I’m going to have my mate here make certain that you never cast another spell for the rest of your unfortunate life. Do you understand?

The liar looked to Jerod and then back to Oren. Then, the liar looked up.

A good start to the proceedings. Are you from Qulin?

The liar looked down.

You are a guild mage, yes?

The liar looked up.

Which guild employs you? The assassins?

The liar looked down.

A lie no doubt. Jerod, have at him.

The liar blinked rapidly and looked up.

So you were hired for whatever tonight’s mishap was?

The liar looked up.

Was that fool the mark you were hired for?

The liar looked sideways. As Oren opened his mouth to question the reply, Jerod spoke.

Oren, come look at this a moment.

Jerod had begun to poke around the sprawled contents of the overturned wagon. Broken vials, parchment scrolls, provisions, weapons, and a rucksack whose contents were laid bare on the road. Oren left the liar but did not take his eyes off him. Look here, it’s what he was selling the sod on back at the Lion. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen many house sigils and this looks legitimate.

At the bottom of a weary but well-inscribed page of vellum was the sigil of Telamon Tulthar. Are you sure? Telamon Tulthar’s sigil is known to you?

Aye, I had seen it while still in service at the cathedral. Tulthar had come to speak with the Synod and had marked his sigil on official documents of their meeting. This would be a striking forgery if it’s not genuine.

Well, tonight is certainly interesting if nothing else. Oren clapped his hands and strode back to the still enspelled liar.

Forgive me that. Now, the treasure you lured that fool out here for, was just a ruse yes?

The briefest of moments passed between them. The silence of the midwinter night deepened, broken only by Jerod’s movement and breathing behind Oren. The liar looked down. An interesting night indeed.

I think we’ve exhausted the usefulness of your eyes alone. Please forgive me but this next part, you brought on yourself. Oren called out. Jerod.

Jerod strode past Oren and without pause took the liar’s petrified hand in his and broke several fingers. The liar’s eyes widened with the depth of pain he was experiencing.

Truly mate, I’m sorry. Oren sighed.

Jerod took the liar’s other gloved hand in his and repeated his grizzly task. Upon breaking the last finger, Oren released the bonds that held the liar in stasis. The silence of the midwinter night was shattered by the liar’s deafening screams of pain.

He would be unable to work his art without full articulation of his fingers. It was crucial to weaving spellwork. Oren, taking pity on a fellow mage, popped a small vial