Tower

The massive iron door closed with a clatter, lost somewhere in the raging gale. The cold, early autumn rain bit into the thick, black cloak of the young man, who, from beneath his closely cropped hair, cast a last, desperate glance at the proud and menacing tower. What had inspired fear in passersby at the sight of the ancient spire, brought him pleasure like a mother's caring whisper. Years ago, when he had first entered those forbidding walls, he had found there the warmth of friendship and the almost limitless power he had just lost.

The man shook off the wondrous memories and walked slowly down the empty alley. Water sloshed in his boots, and the cold wind mischievously drove a mass of frosty droplets down upon him. Soon he found the inn where he had been instructed to stay. "Under the Ivy," the sign read. Just as he was reaching for the doorknob, three black-clad teenagers he hadn't noticed before jumped out of the alley. The tallest of them pinned him against the wall, pressing a knife to his throat.

"Give me your money," whispered the second, while the third looked around.

The man quickly squeezed his knife to cut off the blood flow and uttered a few rustling syllables. The knife fell from his suddenly paralyzed hand.

"Damn it!" the child shouted in fear, looking at his limp hand. "He's a damned sorcerer!"

The three fled, ignoring the knife lying in the mud. The sorcerer smiled wickedly. He picked up the knife—a simple pursuit spell would have sufficed to find them, but… The man stopped smiling and entered the warm inn.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the innkeeper asked, assessing the customer's wealth at a glance.

"A room for the night," the man said in a hoarse voice. "And something warm to eat."

The innkeeper bowed at the waist and returned to the back, while the sorcerer sat down against the wall, fiddling with his acquired knife.

Yes. He could cast tracking spells, and they had come in handy more than once, but… but now he couldn't cast a single spell. None! He was the best sorcerer of his generation, and he was a sorcerer stripped of his powers by the Council of Elders!

A young servant handed him steaming soup, bread, and cheese. The sorcerer suppressed his rage. They were right, and they had every right. He had broken the rules, and now he must earn it to regain his lost trust. He knew the innkeeper had letters of errand for him. He would take them in the morning and finally see what he had to do to regain his power, but until he completed his mission, he would be a mere, defenseless mortal.

He ate his meal, thinking about the mission ahead. The innkeeper soon appeared.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, my lord?" – he asked the guest humbly.

– Zjadliwa – said the sorcerer

. – Could I ask about your lordship's name?

– Kelsin – replied the sorcerer.

"I have letters in the back, for his lordship and—" the innkeeper began, but the sorcerer interrupted.

"You will give them to me tomorrow. Wake me at dawn, my lord, and have me prepare something to eat."

The innkeeper bowed and led his guest to a modestly furnished room: just a bed, a chair, and a small table. The room was by no means a luxurious room with a soft bed, filled with books and ingredients for mysterious potions. Kelsin sighed heavily. He hung his soaked cloak on a chair and went to bed.

The innkeeper, as instructed, woke him at dawn, bringing him breakfast on a tray and two sealed envelopes. The sorcerer ate his meal and read the letters thoughtfully. One informed him of the necessity of a long journey, the other of the disappointment he had caused his master. Kelsin counted the money he had received from the guild, and although he didn't know the going rates, he was certain it wouldn't be enough to cover the cost of the horseback ride. He would have to walk.

His stomach tightened with anger. This was the greatest humiliation he had ever suffered. Even the public flogging paled in comparison. HE, the most promising sorcerer, Karnal Marshal, was to traverse almost the entire country ON FOOT, without the aid of magic, to reach a half-mad mage who wasn't even known to be alive! How was he supposed to get there? Just like that, on foot?! Like a common, stinking peasant?! HE, who had frequented royal palaces, was supposed to WALK ON FOOT?!! It was unthinkable! One could understand the need for a harsh punishment, but must they mete out such humiliation?! Enough, Kelsin whispered to himself, calming the churning sea of ​​emotions. He read both letters again, and on the back of one, he found a rather detailed map. He should leave the capital and follow the Kingsroad, heading south, and then in the Great Forest turn east into the thicket until he reaches the Little Desert, where he finds the mad mage's tower lost in the depths of the sand.

The sorcerer carefully folded the map and tucked it, along with the second letter, into his coat. He went downstairs, drank a glass of tart wine, and paid for his stay. His purse felt much lighter. Oblivious to everything, trying not to think about his humiliation, he emerged onto the bustling street, even at dawn. He skillfully navigated the network of narrow, neglected streets. He tried not to notice the piles of garbage, the puddles of slop, and the people with angry eyes. He turned without a second thought, even though it was his first time here. He passed two thieves robbing an old woman and another two having fun with her young daughter. Though both desperately screamed for help, he passed them indifferently. He wasn't meant to heal the wounds of the world. After a while, he reached the Blood Gate, which many simply called the South Gate. He passed it and found himself surrounded by filthy dugouts and a few wooden houses. Neighborhoods of the poorest commoners were growing beneath the city walls. Through the very heart of this human swamp ran the King's Road, slowly filling with hunched-over peasants carrying baskets of fruit or pulling heavily laden carts.

Kelsin walked quickly, trying to stay as far away from the filth and slime as possible, passing people reeking of sweat with distaste. After an hour, he left the city behind and sat under a stunted tree to rest his weary legs. He had never walked so long on his own two feet. His feet, unaccustomed to walking, radiated pain, and he couldn't even feel his heels. He happily rested on the grass, inhaling the soothing scent of the rachis flowers growing all around him.

He had been stripped of his power and his friends, but despite this loss, despite his aching legs and ragged breath, he felt a happiness unlike any other. The black cloak spoke volumes, so he threw it into the bushes. In that moment, in that brief moment, he was his own master, the master of the world! For a moment, the sorcerer allowed himself to be lost in this feeling, but soon he mastered his joyful emotions. He might have been stripped of his powers, but he still knew how to control himself.

A small cart pulled by a mule rolled up the hill. On the box sat an old man with a wrinkled, good-natured face, traces of gray at his temples, and in the back a dark-skinned young warrior.

The old man stopped the cart and looked at Kelsin curiously. The sorcerer felt as if the old man's gaze were piercing him.

"Hello, sir," the old man finally said. "You're not used to traveling on your own two feet, are you?

" "Right," the sorcerer stammered, confused

. "Get in, sir, I'll give you a ride ."

The stunned sorcerer wasn't sure what to do. The first man he met offered him help. Trembling, he climbed awkwardly onto the cart.

"Thank you," he said, surprised that the word had even passed his throat. "Where... where are you going, Mr. Landlord?" he asked slowly, considering each word.

The old man smiled happily.

"Far away, boy. First, along this road they call the King's Road, but before that, it had another name, the kind only old people tell children about at night. Later, we'll spend a while in the city, maybe a day or two. Maybe we'll have an opportunity to trade..." The old man fluently moved from descriptions of landscapes and buildings to weather and trade, usually ending with complaints about customs and taxes.

The sorcerer nodded, occasionally asking a question. He, however, watched the warrior sitting opposite with interest. The man wore only short, loose trousers. Scars gleamed in the sun on his bare torso, partially covered by a belt running from his right shoulder to his left hip, on which a sword scabbard was placed at the back. A second belt crossed the warrior's chest, studded with metal studs, between which were embroidered symbols unfamiliar to Kelsin with red thread. The warrior remained silent the entire journey, carefully observing his surroundings.

At noon, when the heat was at its peak, they stopped for a rest to let the weary mule rest. Hunger was churning in the sorcerer's guts, but he had nothing to eat. And he was ashamed to ask. He had a feeling he had met this talkative old man and silent warrior somewhere before, but he wouldn't ask. When the travelers sat down in the shade of the wagon, the sorcerer walked away, pretending to stretch his legs, but in reality, he wasn't sure how to behave. His companions pulled a few flatbreads, cheese, and wine from their bags. Kelsin felt his mouth water at the thought of those hard pancakes, but he didn't dare ask. Angry at his own foolish pride and sense of honor—which were all he had left now—he sat down next to the warrior, thoughtfully chewing a piece of grass. He prepared himself for the fact that he would eat nothing more that day.

The warrior took one of the flatbreads and, looking the sorcerer in the eye, extended his hand. Kelsin hesitated for a moment. He had always been told that nothing comes for free. Everything comes at a price sooner or later. He didn't know the price of this gesture, but he was hungry. He extended his hand and accepted the offered flatbread.

"Thank you," he said before greedily biting into the hard dough. The warrior nodded in understanding. This one simple flatbread tasted better than the exquisite feasts at the king's court.

"What is your name, boy?" the old man asked. "

Kelsin," the sorcerer lisped, his mouth full.

"Do you know, Kelsin, what it means when he"—he nodded at the warrior—"shares a meal with someone?" "You got it—pay." Could he have been such a fool to think for even a moment that there was such a thing as human kindness? Apparently, he was wrong.

"No," Kelsin replied confidently. They'll probably demand payment for the journey and this paltry flatbread soon.

"My companion," the old man said seriously, "has deemed you a worthy companion. You may travel with us beyond the Great Forest. My name is Onefar.

" "And I am Abdun tin-Dur," the warrior spoke for the first time.

The sorcerer was completely taken aback. He had expected a demand for payment for his hospitality, not an invitation to join his company.

"Th...thank you," he finally managed to utter

. A word he hadn't used in many, many years, one he had almost forgotten suddenly found its use.

Soon they were on their way again. They managed to get into the city for the night, though the gates were already closed. Onefar's name meant more than it seemed. They stopped at an inn of dubious reputation, in the poorest part of town. It was low, dark, and smoky. The innkeeper had only one eye, and it glared at him with a malevolent look. It was nothing like the Ivy House. They ate a modest dinner, paid for by Onefar, and settled down on their pallets alongside armies of fleas, lice, and cockroaches. Abdun soon abandoned his rest in this "moving" company and settled down on the floor at Onefar's feet. The exhausted sorcerer fell asleep almost immediately.

He arose around noon, covered in bites and pain, in an empty room. Neither Abdun nor Onefar were there. Perhaps that was a good thing. Kelsin sat down on the pallet to think things over. Here he was, a serious and until recently respected sorcerer, meeting two random people and, without asking any questions or considering anything, setting off with them. Had he done the right thing? The wrong question, he chided himself. Had he done the right thing? They were such… such strange people. They helped the stranger, gave him a lift, fed him, and without questioning anything, accepted him into their company. It was the first time he had encountered such people. He should have thought it all over, meditated, but he didn't have time.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Abdun entered the room briskly.

"Come," he said, leading the sorcerer out onto the street, where the mule, the wagon, and Onefar were waiting.

"Do you know how to drive a mule?" Onefar asked without preamble.

"No," Kelsin replied, embarrassed.

"That's good," the old man replied with a smile. "Hop in.

" The astonished sorcerer slowly climbed into the wagon, staying there all day. Onefar headed to various corners of the city, from the poorest districts to the wealthiest. Each time, he stopped the wagon at a chosen house, and he and Abdun disappeared inside for a while, Kelsin guarding the wagon. He felt humiliated, the best sorcerer as an errand boy. He was hungry, thirsty, and tired, but he insisted that in this way he would repay at least part of the debt to his companions.

Just before sunset, they returned to the inn. Abdun and Onefar were fresh and cheerful. The warrior even managed a joke, but Kelsin longed for nothing more than sleep. Without a second thought, he headed for his room, leaving his companions drinking to their secret affairs. As soon as he reached the pallet, he fell asleep immediately.

Abdun had to shake him awake for a while before he woke up.

"What... what is it?" the sorcerer asked, his voice hazy. "Where's Onefar?

" "With his woman," Abdun said. "You have to help me carry him here.

" "He has a woman?!" the astonished sorcerer exclaimed

. "Of course he does," Abdun stated dispassionately. "

Come on." The awakened Kelsin briskly followed Abdun, who led him through dark and dangerous streets. From one of the side streets came screams and cries for help. Kelsin ignored them, but Abdun, after a moment's hesitation, headed in that direction. The sorcerer cursed softly and followed him. When he reached the alley, he saw Abdun facing three armed men, or rather two, as the third was occupied with the woman lying on the ground.

"Leave her alone," Abdun whispered, and there was something in the whisper that echoed through the alley. The two men turned, glaring at their opponent.

"Run, if you value your life!" one shouted, brandishing his weapon. "That's the master's sword! See?

" "Leave her alone," Abdun repeated calmly.

Furious and drunk, they charged in unison. Abdun stood no chance. The sorcerer hesitated: to save himself or his companion? In a desperate act of courage, Kelsin lunged at one of the men, knocking him down and knocking the weapon from his hand. Abdun, calm as a rock, waited for the other master. As he swung, the warrior drew his sword in one fluid motion and beheaded his opponent. Kelsin was speechless. Meanwhile, the second attacker lost the arm he used to reach for his dagger and also punched a hole in his lung. Abdun's sword moved quickly and efficiently. The sorcerer watched as the warrior approached his last opponent and pierced him through.

Abdun turned away from the raped girl and went after Onefar. The shocked sorcerer followed him. Abdun is a master swordsman! A true master swordsman! And from what happened, it's clear he's very skilled at his craft.

The sorcerer caught up with the warrior.

"Why did you do it?" he asked inquisitively .

"It was necessary," Abdun said indifferently.

"You risked your life and killed three masters without even getting tired, because it was necessary?!" Such a philosophy of life was as far from what a sorcerer had been taught as the statement that the Earth is square is from the truth!

"What they did was wrong," Abdun stated.

"There is no right or wrong, only benefits and losses," the sorcerer repeated a well-learned lesson.

"Right," the warrior agreed gently.

"So what benefit did it bring you?" Kelsin was always questioned when he did something without a rational reason.

"None," the warrior replied. "It was necessary."

Kelsin didn't pursue the matter any further. Arguing with the uneducated and stubborn warrior was pointless.

They found Onefar in a middle-class district, in one of the small but well-kept houses. The black-haired woman who opened the door wordlessly took them to the room where Onefar lay dead drunk. Abdun dressed him and unceremoniously threw him on his back. The sorcerer had no idea why Abdun had taken him on this expedition. He was of no use to this strong and well-trained warrior.

They reached the inn without further mishap. As he fell asleep, the sorcerer thought about what Abdun had said. "It was necessary"—three words that disturbed his peace of mind. That night, he had nightmares.

They left the city early in the morning, after a meager breakfast. Abdun steered the mule, and Onefar lay groaning in the bottom of the wagon. The liters of beer and moonshine he had consumed were taking their toll. Unlike the old man, the warrior was in excellent spirits. Humming songs, he exuded an aura of joyful silence. The sorcerer wavered between sympathy for the old man and the perfidious joy that always enveloped him when someone fared worse than he did. The sun was no longer as hot, and the icy wind sent shivers down his spine. They rode slowly all day, without an afternoon rest. They stopped only late in the afternoon at the edge of a centuries-old forest.

"Why don't we continue?" Kelsin asked. "We could have covered some ground by evening.

" "That's the edge of the Great Forest," Abdun stated simply, and Onefar laughed bitterly.

"Bandits," Abdun whispered .

He groomed the tired mule and lit a small fire to cook a warm dinner. Meanwhile, the sorcerer took care of Onefar. He gave him water and entertained him with conversation

for the first time in his life, expecting nothing in return. He secretly rejoiced that his companions didn't know who he was. People feared sorcerers. Suddenly, he felt he could live a life where, instead of magic, all he needed was a silent warrior and this old man with a massive hangover. Before he knew it, evening had fallen, and the moon had taken possession of the sky. After dinner, the old man dozed wrapped in blankets, the warrior hummed tribal songs, and Kelsin thought. He had been thinking a lot lately. He pondered about good without profit—for the first time in his life, he began to question what he had been taught.

Abdun's singing grew louder as he drew his weapon from its sheath in a fluid motion. The sorcerer watched him intently through the quivering flames. The birds fell silent, and a fox feeding nearby pricked up its ears. The mule tottered restlessly in place. Abdun gazed sightlessly at the flames and with the tip of his sword cut the palm of his left hand. With the first drops of blood, the sorcerer felt what the animals feared—magic. Bloody magic. Kelsin watched, captivated, as the warrior thrust his bleeding hand into the fire's flames, moving it in time with unfamiliar songs. The flames reached greedily for the wound. The warrior stopped singing. In gloomy silence, he rubbed the blood on his sword's blade, whispering an alien prayer to alien gods. When he finished, the magic faded, and the terrified animals returned to their duties.

"I'll take the first watch," Abdun muttered.

Kelsin nodded absently. He was angry. It was like giving a man dying of thirst only a sip from a skin full of revitalizing water. The sorcerer craved more and more power, more magic. Kelsin didn't sleep that night. He was too focused on his desire.

The morning dawned frosty. The three of them stretched their stiff limbs, feeling the warmth gradually reach their frozen fingers. They hitched up the mule and ventured into the Great Forest. Abdun remained silent as usual, Kelsin wallowed in self-pity, Onefar hummed softly. The wagon stopped unexpectedly. Onefar stopped mid-sentence, Abdun scowled suspiciously, toying with his dagger, and Kelsin looked around, curious. A bloodied man lay on the roadside, the remains of the wagon strewn about. Kelsin expected Onefar to rush to the wounded man's aid, but the old man sat motionless.

"Sir..." the man whined in a pleading voice, "... Help..."

Pity welled in Kelsin's heart, but Onefar sat unmoved.

"Stand back, sir bandit," he finally shouted at the top of his voice, "I have with me a swordmaster you've already encountered and a sorcerer from Karnal Marshal. I carry nothing worth your lives!"

Kelsin was stunned. How does he know?! How does this old man know who I am?! I didn't tell them, and when we met, I wasn't wearing the treacherous cloak. So how does he know?! And if he knows what he expects? Thunder, lightning, magic?! He doesn't have any! He no longer has any magic..." The sorcerer decided to inquire about this when the bandits were no longer a threat.

Onefar's warning seemed to have worked, because they weren't stopped as they passed the wounded man. They rode as fast as they could for the rest of the day, until finally the sweaty mule stopped, demanding a rest. So they stopped for the night.

"Why did you say I was a sorcerer?" Kelsin asked quietly.

"You're not?" Onefar asked in surprise

. "I don't do magic.

" "Just because you've been stripped of your magic doesn't mean you're not a sorcerer," the old man replied.

"How do you know?!" Kelsin exclaimed. His shame had been discovered.

"Right now, I know more about you than you do about me. I won't tell you how I know. Just accept this fact, as well as the fact that tomorrow you'll turn east and we probably won't see each other again for a long time..."

He hated it when someone knew more than he did. And it was someone he trusted, too! He was furious. If it weren't for Abdun sitting next to Onefar and his art of self-control, he would have pounced on this know-it-all old man, torn out all his secrets, and then torn him to shreds! The sorcerer fell asleep, filled with evil thoughts. He awoke early, in the cool morning. The birds were already singing a song of praise to the sun, and the sorcerer was alone by the dying fire. His purse was gone, but what remained were a bag of food, several water skins, and instructions scribbled in the sand near the arrow pointing east: "ALONG THE WATER. STILL EAST." Kelsin took his bag and headed into the thicket. The forest seemed to overwhelm him with its vastness. The old, enormous trees instilled in him an uncontrollable fear. As if these giants were about to come alive and trample an unwary traveler. The sorcerer felt like an intruder, and though no one and nothing paid him any attention, he moved as quietly and cautiously as he could. When he felt hungry, he gathered some berries and nuts, saving the supplies from his bag for later.

He soon found what he was looking for: a deep valley with steep slopes, from which flowed a swift stream that slowly turned into a lazy river. He walked along the stream for a while. At noon, he decided to rest in the shade of an oak tree. The wind gently swayed the treetops, and the river murmured soothingly. The sorcerer fell asleep. When he opened his eyes again, he almost screamed in terror. An unknown creature was leaning over him. Long, black hair flowed in a shimmering cascade over a dark green jerkin. Eyes as dark as two coals, and pointed ears pointed to an elf. Kelsin had met the first elf in his short life. He would probably have been overjoyed if the elf hadn't been pressing a silver dagger to his throat. The sorcerer felt his heart want to burst from his chest and flee on its own.

"Who are you?" the elf asked in a velvety voice. "

My name is Kelsin," the sorcerer stammered. "Could you…?" he asked uncertainly, glancing at the dagger.

The elf politely sheathed his weapon and pulled the astonished sorcerer to his feet. Kelsin saw two more elves in dark green jerkins searching through his bag.

"What are you doing in this forest?" "

I'm traveling east," Kelsin replied.

"Why?

" "I have my own business," the sorcerer replied, a little more casually.

"Shall we take him to the Palace?" one of them asked hopefully.

"And leave three weeks of hunting? You know we can't. Listen, man," he said, turning to Kelsin, "we're hunting a group of certain... creatures...

" "... demons..." one of his companions interjected.

"We can't let you go without permission, so you're coming with us. Don't try to escape or slow down your march, don't make noise, don't seek help from beings…

" "… demons…" his companion interrupted again.

"Stay quiet and listen to us, regardless of what you see or hear. Will you remember?

" "Yes," the sorcerer replied in an offended tone

. The elves stood for a moment as if listening, then handed the sorcerer the bag and set off without a word. Kelsin could barely keep up with them. Long-legged and seasoned, the elves covered in a dozen minutes what would have taken Kelsin at least an hour. Sometimes they slowed their pace for a moment or two to find a trail. They moved quickly and silently, like the forest shadows the old men told tales of.

Kelsin felt ill. His legs ached, his arms ached, his back ached—there was nothing inside him that didn't ache. He ate and drank hurriedly, trying not to delay his forced companions. He mentally gave them names, so in front walked the reliable ranger, with hair lighter than the other two, followed by an archer with a quiver full of arrows, and bringing up the rear was a hunter with a golden hunting horn strapped to his belt. Suddenly, the elf in the lead stopped. The ranger bent to the ground and studied it intently for a moment. The sorcerer, seeing an opportunity for a moment's rest, sat down.

"They didn't kill him," the ranger whispered in horror.

"Will there be a feast?" the archer asked with fear and disgust

. "We have to hurry. They'll probably stop by the water… Where Rauga has its pool," the ranger added.

"Shall we relieve ourselves?" the archer asked

. The others nodded gravely. Kelsin didn't know what they were talking about, but he had two strong premonitions: first, that he didn't want to find out, and second, that he would find out regardless.

Although the march had already lasted several hours, the elves had doubled their speed, showing no sign of fatigue or even shortness of breath. Kelsin was a different story. He gasped for air as if he were about to run out of it, his legs swaying with exhaustion and involuntarily tripping over protruding roots. He longed to lie down under one of the trees and fall asleep.

The shadows lengthened as the sun moved across the sky. As the sun set, the forest transformed into a dark, ominous wilderness, unillumined even by the faint moonlight. Soon, they spotted a faint, flickering speck among the trees. Despite his exhaustion, the sorcerer's blood pumped faster and faster, allowing him to maintain a relatively clear head. As quietly as they could, they crept to the bushes behind which a fire burned. The elves ordered Kelsin to wait in hiding while they took up positions in the tall trees. In the darkness, the sorcerer managed to make out seven armed shadows. A dim blur loomed on the other side of the fire. Curious, the sorcerer inched closer. When he realized what he was seeing, his stomach rebelled. Even the fact that he had barely eaten anything didn't stop him from convulsing and violently vomiting. A man was tied between two trees. Alive. Naked and defenseless. Covered in his own blood. Shadows sometimes approached him, carving chunks of flesh with curved knives and devouring them before his eyes. Kelsin wanted to flee, to forget what he had seen, but two pairs of strong arms grabbed him and dragged him to the fire. In the firelight, the sorcerer surveyed his pursuers… and their victim. The creatures were short but muscular. Black, or perhaps grimy as they were. Each hand had five fingers, three of which tipped with animal claws. Their faces were elongated snouts, lined with rows of sharp, inhuman fangs.

Their victim was a human, whose gaze now shifted vacantly. The sorcerer saw his liver, intestines, and all the organs his tormentors had not yet consumed. He buried his face in his hands and began to cry. Sorcerers were said to be cruel, and indeed they were, but this… this was beyond all imagination. Where were the gods that allowed such a thing? Where were the elves?

The air whirred with elven arrows. The first brought death to the captive, swift and painless. The next mercilessly slaughtered his tormentors. With a final effort, Kelsin leaped over the fire and ran frantically into the Rauga's pools. He plunged into the cold current, but it brought him no relief. He forgot he couldn't swim, forgot about the leeches, and wanted to forget what he had seen. Fear gives some people wings. He gave him fins so he could escape this nightmare as far as possible. Tired beyond endurance, he crawled ashore and fell asleep accompanied by his first salty tears.

He woke late in the morning, not quite sure where he was. Suddenly, memories of the previous night returned with terrible force. Angrily, he plucked the last of the leeches from himself and tried to conjure even a small flame, but remembered he couldn't. Unsure what to do, oblivious to the sun, the heat, and the exhaustion, he began a slow trek eastward. Just to take another step eastward. One more, and one more. As he moved further from the river, the ground became increasingly soft and sandy. Without the life-giving water, plants died, and as far as the eye could see, only sand dunes stretched. When the shimmering silver of Rauga disappeared from the horizon, he took off his shoes and wrapped the remains of his linen shirt around his head. Even the sorcerers imprisoned in Karnal Marszal knew a thing or two about desert survival.

He ignored his sand-scorched feet. Numb, he paid no attention to the vultures circling above him, nor to the tall, dark tower emerging in the last rays of day. As the sun set, the previously hot air cooled, bringing a modicum of relief. He gazed at the tower with half-conscious eyes. Why was he going to it? Ah, yes. He was going for his power. But what good was it to him? He stopped suddenly. For as long as he could remember, he had relentlessly pursued power. He allowed no rest, studied books, and trained. Just to be stronger. Just to be better. And where had that led him? To the desert. Why did he need this magic? It hadn't saved him. It hadn't helped him. What good was it? Perhaps it would be better to lie down on the sand and let the sun and the vultures do their work. Wouldn't that be better? He fell to his knees. Yes, he was striving for that tower, but was it worth it?

Something was stirring in his mind. A long-dormant question: what was the point of living? Something came to mind. A look full of unspeakable pain and suffering. Despairing eyes, without a glimmer of hope, lost in peace, waiting for death. Innocent eyes. That man, the demon's victim, looked at him like that. If he had the power, he would have saved him. With magic, he could have killed his tormentors with a mere glance. With magic… empty words.

Kelsin slowly stood up and, with the last of his strength, dragged himself to the gate. He pressed his hands against it and cried out in astonishment. He felt the magic pulsing within those walls. This was not a mage's tower, but a magical tower. He pushed open the massive gate and fainted in the courtyard.

Dreams, twisted and bizarre, tormented him. Full of fear, anger, and rage. He wandered through labyrinths, wanting to survive. He had to survive. But to do that, he had to kill. And he did. Quickly and efficiently, not allowing his victims to suffer. He walked and killed his conscience like a machine. Hundreds of faces, dead because of him. He saw them now. He saw them all. But he wasn't afraid of them. He knew when and how he had killed them; he could do it again. He almost gladly sank into the sea of ​​death, even though it was just a bad dream.

A familiar neighing woke him. Curious, he hurried in that direction. He found a brick stable, where the mule Onefar stood. Anger flared within the sorcerer anew. He searched the wagon in the corner and found two flatbreads, an apple, and a half-full waterskin. He ate them all, and in the rags left over from his traveling clothes, he entered the tower.

The interior was cold, dark, and gloomy. Like catacombs. Kelsin walked carefully, calling out to his host from time to time. He climbed slowly to each floor, admiring the spacious library and the works of art scattered throughout the corridors. The tower seemed long uninhabited. Dust had settled on the paintings. Kelsin took down one of the smaller pictures and wiped it. He screamed and dropped it. His heart pounded, but it was only a mirror, only a mirror. With a trembling hand, he reached for another picture—a child. A small, smiling girl with blond hair. He knew that face. He remembered.

"She's dead..." he whispered through chapped lips. He remembered killing her. The picture fell from his hand.

He should have focused on the task at hand! He felt himself approaching the source of magic. Funny, he thought, his younger sister's death had led him to Karnal Marshal, to the knowledge of magic, and now he was here, where he would regain his power. He walked forward, always forward, until he reached the end of the corridor. There were no stairs, only a ladder hanging from the ceiling. Kelsin climbed it. He found himself in a narrow corridor, almost at the top of the tower. Torches were burning everywhere, and at the end he saw a door, but access to it was blocked…

"Abdun?" Kelsin asked in surprise

. The warrior nodded. The sorcerer clumsily climbed out of the opening and stood on his feet.

"If you want to regain your power, you must go in there," the warrior said solemnly, pointing to the door. "To do that, you must kill me."

With those words, he unstrapped his sword and tossed it to Kelsin.

"I am defenseless," Abdun said, sitting down in front of the door.

"I don't want to kill you," the sorcerer said .

"It is necessary," the warrior replied

. Kelsin recalled his dream. He knew he would kill this proud warrior. The magic was too close for him to resist. He felt it pulsing. He knew it was seeking him just as he sought it. He had survived so long to gain it that killing a friend was no longer too great a price to pay.

He picked up the fallen sword, unsheathed it, and strode purposefully toward the defenseless warrior.

"It is necessary," he whispered, echoing Abdun's words

. The sword arced awkwardly. The warrior's head fell from his body, and a fountain of blood gushed from the wound. The sorcerer didn't wait for the headless body to fall; he immediately opened the door and stepped through. He wiped the warrior's blood from his face.

The chamber he entered was perfectly circular. In the center was a pentagram, and above it, the sky. The arched ceiling ended at the pentagram's perimeter, as if its energy had torn a hole in the ceiling. Kelsin, a maddening smile on his face and a still-dripping sword in his hand, entered the bright chamber. He rubbed the blood from the blade into his arms and tossed the now-useless weapon toward the door.

He glanced around the chamber and spotted a young woman in a flowing scarlet dress, tied with a golden sash, hiding in the shadows. Watching her closely, he slowly entered the center of the pentagram.

"My magic," he growled more than he spoke to the stranger.

The woman approached him cautiously. She circled the pentagram, studying Kelsin. She was beautiful, very beautiful.

"First, I will tell you what you will become," she whispered.

"Speak," Kelsin growled. He could feel the magic. He was like a hound on a scent.

"If, after what I say, you give up your quest for power, I'll understand. However, I'm giving you another option. Your power is nothing compared to mine. But I, if you wish, will give you mine.

" "At what price?" the sorcerer asked.

"Oh, nothing major. Just your humanity.

" "What?!" Kelsin exclaimed.

"The power I grant you will make you a monster. People consider magicians cruel, but that's nothing compared to what you will become. Even what you saw in the Great Forest will be trivial."

Kelsin shuddered with disgust.

"Give it to me," he said, his voice firm

. "Think about it. You will lose your conscience, mercy, the ability to feel compassion. You will bring about cataclysms with a wave of your hand, destroy armies with a glance. You will become a god. Nothing will equal your power. You will wade through a sea of ​​blood if you so desire, and no one will threaten you."

The sorcerer listened, fascinated.

"Do you agree?" You want power equal to that of a god, with all its consequences?

- I do.

- Are you sure? - she asked again.

- Give it to me!

The stranger smiled condescendingly.

- Fine. Don't move.

Kelsin stood tense. The woman stood opposite the door and stretched out her arms, shouting incantations. The sky clouded over violently. An untamed wind buffeted the desert spire. Thunder and lightning rolled across the black sky. The sorcerer watched the raging nature with awe. One of the luminous bolts detached itself from the rest and, through a breach in the chamber's roof, struck Kelsin with all its murderous force. The sorcerer howled in pain, his cry merging with the final words of the invocation. Now the lightning bolts began to shoot directly from Kelsin, and one struck the unknown woman. The sorcerer felt immense, filled with energy and power. He could do whatever he wanted. He was the master of life and death. He would take revenge for all humiliations. He would repay what had befallen him! He was all-powerful and mighty!

"I am God!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the world like thunder. "I am God!"

Tears of blood began to fall from the sky.