Curse of the Red Tincture

You exist as long as I sing.” (Silver Fox)

For the first time in five months, the closed session of the Council of Mages* was at full attendance. The last to arrive, late as usual, were the Head of the Search and Rescue Service, Major Yuden, and his deputy. The major huffed and grimaced, tugging at his tight collar with an index finger as his sausage-like legs marched with soldierly precision across the tart-smelling parquet. It felt as though he had trudged through an endless circle of hell before finally reaching his seat in the box to the Chairman’s right. His flush face had sagged like a melting candle, his round cheeks slumping down toward his neck like two thick pancakes.

The mage squeezed himself into the chair—uncomfortably high and narrow. Just then, a wild thought gripped his mind: what if invisible leather straps had bound him, clamping him tight so he couldn’t defend himself when the tribunal charged him with incompetent command of the squads? The major frantically fumbled at his belly, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized the delusional captivity was merely a trick played by his own insidious fear. “They aren’t going to try you,” he recalled the encouraging words. Besides, this was just another routine meeting, not a tribunal. Nothing to fear.

*The events of the first chapter take place in Atlantis—a continent inhabited by mages who are direct descendants of humans that migrated to Primordium from our world before the barrier was sealed.

Emergency items had piled up on the agenda. Two pressing matters demanded immediate action: what to do about the unbearable heat blanketing Primordium, and how to tame the raging fire element expanding its ravenous maw wider by the day.

Chairman of the Council, Gordian Flavius, was the picture of composure—his face an unreadable mask of calm as his sharp gaze swept over every mage present.

Soon, it was the Head of Search and Rescue’s turn.

“Major Yuden, let’s move to the latest emergency report. Bring up the feed,” he ordered.

The transparent screens lining the sides of the assembly hall and meeting under the ceiling flickered to life, displaying footage from street cameras interspersed with memory fragments from eyewitnesses.

“Here is what we have: on the sixteenth of this month, a search and rescue team from Unit 1, consisting of eight responders, was dispatched to a house fire. The outcome? Six private homes destroyed, thirty vehicles mangled, and nine lampposts broken—leaving us with a half-million-gold compensation bill. But that’s not the point,” the Chairman said, waving a hand and holding up an index finger. “Read on, it gets more interesting: during suppression efforts, all eight responders were killed on the spot. The fire was barely contained after backup arrived from Units 2, 3, and 6. Well?”

He paused, but not to hear an explanation. No, his measured, rhythmic speech was far from over.

“How is it that eleven out of twenty-three responders—nine of whom held distinguished service awards—were burned alive? Who is to blame? Or what? Were the responders negligent, causing the destruction of neighboring houses before fate punished them for it? Is there a training issue at headquarters? Or were eight qualified specialists not enough to put out a single house fire? Was the equipment faulty? I’m drowning in possibilities. Do clarify the situation, Major! How do we soothe the mothers screaming on every corner that we killed their sons? What story do we give the press so they stop leeching off the scandal with increasingly ridiculous exposures? Will citizens retain any trust in our rescuers? That is what you should be worrying about right now!”

The major twitched nervously, probing himself with swollen fingers to confirm once again that no straps held him—he was simply wedged between the armrests.

“I can explain how this tragedy happened, Mr. Chairman, esteemed members of the Council. Or rather, it’s not easy to explain... I dare say it’s hard to believe,” the major composed himself, cleared his throat, and proceeded according to protocol. “I confirm that on the sixteenth at 14:10, a single squad was indeed dispatched. As you correctly noted, it was comprised of top-tier specialists who knew their trade well. I assure you, for a single building, eight responders are more than enough! It’s plenty. Look at previous reports—the number always ranges from five to seven. That is standard. The backup units had five responders each as well.”

“Then why send more than standard in the first place?”

“Well... just in case. The element is growing more aggressive; every time, it becomes harder to overcome. If I may continue, sir?”

Gordian nodded.

“At 14:13 the squad was on site, and at 14:28 a second distress signal came in. An additional squad was sent to the same location, and at 14:36, two more.”

“And did you report to the disaster site personally?”

“No, sir... I was tied up with department business. My deputy went in my stead. He’s right here. Question him if you wish, though I can answer myself as I know the matter in detail.”

“Continue. You’ll say the same thing anyway. The backup squads arrived, saw the fallen responders, and...? What killed them?”

The major pursed his lips before replying:

“If you read the report from the Third Division chief, it notes injuries to over half the squad. The Sixth Division report shows the same. The Second Division lost three. Believe it or call me a coward with a wild imagination, but the element itself is to blame. It has grown stronger. It crushes everything in its path. Soon, nothing will stop it.” The major searched the room eagerly, but met only blatant skepticism. “I’m not making this up! I’m not trying to cover my neck! I lost eleven of my finest firefighters in an area of less than a square kilometer! It’s tragic. But our responders undergo regular retraining, possess every professional skill, and react swiftly to any distress signal. They have thousands of successful missions to their credit, tens of thousands of saved lives! Why, just last month I personally drafted new operational guidelines for search and rescue. I revised them to account for changing conditions. Yes, my fault lies in not foreseeing the turn of events that claimed eleven lives. I will resign if the Council insists. The department needs a new chief—someone more flexible, more agile... than me.”

Gordian placed his elbows on the table. The major held his breath, watching the ominous whispers.

“Your thoughts?” the Chairman asked the Council mages.

“Reports of the fire’s supernatural power have come in repeatedly,” Yasur spoke up. “The frequent failure of our ward shields and this unbearable heat should have alerted us long ago. Let’s face facts: no one has any idea how to fight this, or what we’re even fighting. The element itself? Don’t make me laugh... If that’s the case, we’re dead men.”

“A bit pessimistic...” Gordian Flavius squeezed out a bitter smile.

“Not at all. I’m not suggesting we give up. We fight! We put our heads together and find a way out. But let’s actually start looking!” Yasur folded his hands instructively.

Approval murmurs rippled through the mages, boldly drowning out the rest of their colleague’s tirade. The Chairman waited patiently for everyone to tire of old Yasur’s chatter, reclaiming control at the moment of peak collective concern.

“And so the Council has reached a decision, Major. You stay. Draft a new operational protocol. Draft two, for all I care!”

“And what about punishing the guilty? The citizens are demanding blood!” Victor jumped in his chair.

“Naturally,” the Chairman’s First Advisor agreed with a nod. “The unit should be disbanded, staff re-evaluated, equipment inspected, and the chief fined twenty payroll cycles. Does the Chairman find this suitable?”

“It will do.” Gordian saw no fierce objections; everyone seemed reasonably satisfied.

Words of gratitude died on the major’s lips, relieved as he was to be spared, but he accepted the punishment dutifully.

“Make a public statement and offer your apologies to the families of the fallen. I believe everyone present agrees that we must remain discreet regarding the element’s unnaturally destructive power. By the way, who is attending to the injured?”

“Doctor Julius has generously accommodated them all at his clinic.”

“Good. He’s the best. We can be sure there will be no further casualties.”

For the next hour, the Council debated defensive measures and containing the element outside Atlantis, as well as aiding their neighbors. No one dared utter the word “fire” aloud, lest they invite misfortune; a tacit taboo hovered around the word. Tension mounted. Fear pulsed in the electrified air: magic was failing against the element, ward shields provided only temporary respite, and when no reliable defense exists, fear tightens its steel fingers around its new victims’ throats. Younger mages, as the Council’s most radical voice, proposed testing novel methods, but wasted their breath. The conservatives favored tried-and-true techniques whose mechanics were known inside and out, free of nasty surprises like backlash or rebounds, especially when lives hung in the balance.

The debate hit a dead end and slowly sputtered out. To make matters worse, the cooling charms began to fade, and heat-addled minds struggled to function. Thoughts dragged like sticky molasses, clinging lazily to reality before sinking into basic urges—a drink... rest... personal needs—only to freeze into crude shapes on the periphery of consciousness. Exhaustion hung heavy over the room.

When another mindless silence settled, Gordian broke it:

“Anything else? Besides...” He started to say “besides the fire,” but didn’t risk it. “Besides.”

“There is, Mr. Chairman,” bustled a gaunt, middle-aged mage with trembling hands, opening a folder. “Four unauthorized breaches were detected over the last two days through the Eastern Portal.”

The Chairman hoped for meatier news, but seized the lifeline. Anything was better than the fire!

“Were the trespassers caught?”

“Regrettably, not all. One managed to escape, though he was identified as a khing*.”

Gaunt Lloyd’s excitement faded as he recalled the khing. He cast an anxious look over the room and continued hesitantly:

“Though... he was rather odd. Seemed out of his mind.”

*Khings are sphinx-like creatures from the lands of Solarius. They often lead nomadic lives or dwell in clan ghettos. In their heroic past, they were fearless warriors; in peaceful times, they prefer freedom, plying clan crafts, though some turn to banditry or vagrancy.

Gordian’s face remained impassive. “Well, not everyone fleeing Primordium lately is crazy.”

A grim chuckle rippled through the hall.

“I shall leave the files for your private review,” the mage said, pushing the folder away with well-acted indifference.

“And the three in custody—who are they?”

“Demons, Mr. Chairman. Spies from the Dark Lands.”

“Aha! You should have started with them!” Flavius perked up. “Demons are foolish if they think our borders are guarded by infants. Let them mark well that mages always stand guard over order!”

Yet his inspiring remarks, like Lloyd’s report, failed to impress. Nobody felt pride or amusement; every mind was fixed on one thing: the fire!

“FIRE! Fire, Mr. Chairman!”

A hemerodrome* burst into the hall, shouting and waving a glowing sphere. Before his echo faded, the four-inch sphere darted across the room, alighting softly in Gordian’s palm. A second later, it dissolved into thousands of pixels that reassembled into a holographic broadcast from the incident scene.

*Hemerodromes are spatial messengers who deliver vital documents and sensitive letters requiring absolute integrity or official protocol.

“Damn it! Where?”

“On the southern border, gentlemen.”

“Impossible! We put up a new shield there just yesterday!”

“I don’t know what happened, but the shield is broken, and the fire is spreading at a terrifying speed. In fifteen minutes, it consumed a third of the forest!”

Panic erupted.

“Shields are useless! I knew it! How long will we sit on our hands?” voices shouted from around the table.

“SILENCE!” Gordian thundered. He watched the report, feeling he wouldn’t be surprised if he developed a nervous tic soon. “Deploy squads immediately!”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Send a dispatch to the Water Kingdom. Their penate* is obligated to assist!”

“Already reported. Penate Virsavii is on site. End of dispatch,” the hemerodrome reported. Light spirals flared on the disc beneath his feet, and his slender form vanished instantly.

*Penate is the highest title for an elemental keeper. In Marium (the Water Kingdom), the ruling dynasty consists of merfolk. Primordium has five elements (hence the Five Great Kingdoms), each with its own royal lineage of keepers, except for fire. The extinction of the fire lineage – The House of Fire – triggered an elemental rebellion, setting off a chain of catastrophic events.

“I believe the Council should oversee this personally.”

“Agreed! Who’s going? Let’s assemble!” chorused around the hall.

“Look at them jump... Time to head back, I suppose. Justice is a lost cause anyway,” Dimid whispered to a younger colleague, gloomily slipping his glasses into their case while inhaling the dry, scorching air.

“I’ll return to my duties as well,” Hector nodded.

Dimid glanced sideways at Hector, who was dabbing heavy beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Shaking his head, the older mage cast a brief evaporation spell. A pale blue haze flickered in the air, drying the young mage completely in seconds.

“That’s handy, thank you,” Hector said, stowing his handkerchief.

“Even my eight-year-old granddaughter can cast that.”

“I was fond of skipping school,” the young mage waved off. “Though I see now it’s better to learn the basics on time.”

“What kind of parents wouldn’t care about their son’s future?” the senior colleague flared up. “I’d make them…”

“Please don’t get too emotional, senior.”

“The meeting is adjourned,” the Council Chairman announced.

Dimid snapped his mouth shut in annoyance. But wasn’t it better to exercise restraint and avoid picking at old wounds? The old mage sighed, feeling pity for the awkward yet promising young man.

“Great, now you’re gloomy because of me. My tongue is my worst enemy. I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t, senior. No need to apologize. I’m really not as thin-skinned as you think,” Hector smiled.

Meanwhile, the hurriedly assembled squad gathered around a portal* that opened in the hall, stepping through without delay to the disaster zone, while the remaining Council members hastened to cooler quarters.

*Portals in government buildings, royal residences, military headquarters, and academies in Primordium usually opened only one way—outward. Powerful magic barriers cocooned the structures, capable of stopping even the most skilled spatial mage. Infiltration? Out of the question. Escape? Impossible. Authorized portals opened strictly under security supervision, each transit recorded in registers detailing date, time, identity, and purpose. Only hemerodromes with transit badges could navigate secure buildings freely.

Gordian walked unhurriedly to his office, sent a secret order to monitor the shield repairs, skimmed Lloyd’s folder, and then yielded to exhaustion, sinking into a plush armchair, removing his tie, and unbuttoning his collar. His white curls stuck disgustingly to his neck, irritating him to no end. He dried himself with a quick spell and felt a wave of vigor.

“I’m so sick of this! Peace. Just give me peace!”

No, the Chairman had no intention of resigning. Maybe later, in a hundred years... actually, never! His mind housed too many grand projects, though the cursed fires forced him to postpone them time and again. Such was life: months of planning, decades of work, an eternity of waiting. Fortunately, age worked in Flavius’s favor: magnetic charisma and striking good looks would have guaranteed him a reputation as a heartbreaker had he not sworn in his youth to dedicate his life to politics without wasting energy on love affairs. As a result, lean as a rail at ninety-six, he looked barely sixty, only recently putting on a bit of weight. Low physical activity, he judged. Not old age. What was old age anyway? Wrinkles? Frailty? Memory loss? Not for him.

He twisted the ring on his pinky—a habit whenever troubling thoughts crossed his mind.

“I need to watch my diet.”

Two short chimes from the prosopion* made him reach for the device. He accepted the call, and a face emerged—fluid and silver, like a mercury mask. The caller’s true voice, dissolved in distortion, sounded mechanically emotionless:

“The fire is suppressed, Father. Credit where it’s due—the penate did a fine job.”

*A Prosopion is a communication tool that projects a stylized face of callers on both ends, disguising voice and features under an impenetrable veil of confidentiality.

Gordian looked gloomily out the window: the sun beat down mercilessly, and in winter, no less! Pavements melted and gave way, forcing pedestrians under cooling umbrellas to slow down or hop along to avoid sinking.

“What heat! Why can’t that ‘evolved form of algae and seashell’ give us a simple rain shower?”

“Virsavii says—”

“I know what she says!” Gordian cut in, mocking the aquatic keeper: “‘Water doesn’t come from nothing and doesn’t vanish into nowhere. I can’t control the weather over all of Primordium!’” Windbag! She’s ashamed to admit the element doesn’t fully acknowledge her as master. That’s always how it is when power passes to the younger generation. ‘Penate’ my foot. Plenty of ambition and vanity, but zero results. If monarchs didn’t have their heads squeezed so tightly by crowns, no one would be suffering from fires or heat...”

“By the way, the search has been called off. Father, I disbanded the group. The House of Fire is gone.”

“Flammeus* is doomed then. Soon everyone will demand satisfaction from the salamandians, and then... enraged primordians will tear the kingdom apart.”

*Flammeus is one of the Five Great Kingdoms—the Kingdom of Fire, inhabited mainly by Salamandians, a lizard-like species.

The Chairman recalled a recent chat with an umbralite*. The memory of that voice—searingly cold as frost—etched a deep furrow across Flavius’s brow. The figure spoke at length of intending to exploit the conflict for a larger slice of the pie. Specifically, they targeted the heart of Flammeus: the ancestral shrine, seeking to subjugate the fire element. Though Gordian had little idea how they planned to achieve such a lofty goal.

*Umbralites operate in the shadows of official power, acting discreetly away from public knowledge.

“If those shadow devils gain more power, they’ll redraw the map of Primordium. Nothing good comes of that,” Gordian concluded, though aloud he merely said: “I truly hoped at least one descendant survived.”

“Did you meet with them? What are their plans?”

“Those sneaks want to tame the fire.”

“Is that so?” The mercury mask froze in surprise. “Is there really a way to harness an element that has lost its keeper?”

Gordian’s face lengthened, his lips trembling slightly from tension.

“Devil knows. They plan to conduct tests. Personally, I doubt it’ll work. But on the other hand, what if they know something we don’t? Their network is vast; their vaults could rival the stashes of Lucius* himself. And as everyone knows, the only person richer than the count is his grandfather!”

*Lucius is one of the four counts of the demonic Dark Lands—a young ruler of eighteen principalities, heir to an unthinkable union between a demon countess and a fallen angel, and favorite grandson of a chthonic deity. Famous as a brilliant alchemist who generates spaces and synthesized an artificial element matching natural power. Renowned as a refined antiquarian, art connoisseur, guest of honor across kingdoms, and founder of charities. Rumored to be charming, high-stakes, secretive, and deadly.

Gordian looked away from the prosopion toward the half-curtained window. The stifling heat outside choked and pressed in. He dried himself once more with a spell and clutched an ice orb. Water dripped onto the desk, forming a small puddle that quickly evaporated.

“Many are unhappy about the major’s fine,” his son redirected the topic. “The timestamps have been falsified, as have the reports from the 3rd and 6th divisions. It won’t be hard to refute them and prove that the units dispatched to the scene were actually separated because the dispatchers failed to provide exact coordinates. I agree with the issue of incompetent offspring, but they have to be put somewhere, right? As for top-tier firefighters? Perhaps fifty years ago. Re-certifications haven’t occurred since the victory over the She-Devil*! Alright, I exaggerate a bit, but new guidelines blatantly copy old ones, while re-equipment funds mysteriously flow into generals’ and majors’ underground pockets. Father, forgive my ignorance, but why did you let him stay?”

*The War against the She-Devil (Mother of Vampires) ended over 400 years ago when the vampire race was purged.

“I simply kept him in debt to me. I like debtors. They’re pleasant and eager to please.”

“The major might think his hard-earned reputation saved him.”

“Are you trying to get dispatchers blamed instead?” Gordian spat venomously. “Allow citizens to pull a thread that unravels administrative ties, and every organization will face the same purging. Reputation or not, his is tarnished. He’ll work his fingers to the bone, or... we’ll dispose of him.”

A chime rang from the reception room.

“Enter.”

A soft glow outlined the secretary in a light blouse with a green bow beneath a broad collar. Her slicked-back curly hair in a bun shimmered with gold dust.

“Mr. Chairman, good news: the fire has been extinguished, the forest is saved, and the shield is restored.”

“At least one good thing today! You may go, Olivia. Thank you.”

“Hades is here. He says it’s urgent.”

“Everything is urgent! Fine, let him in.”

Olivia’s projection stepped aside and opened the door to invite the angel inside, casting a sharp look at him before vanishing. The massive angel barely squeezed through the ten-foot doorway. Muscular wings darkened behind his shoulders like craggy cliffs, his bald head scarred and dented. He served as a tracker, a hunting hound that always returned with game between his teeth.

“Ah, Hades. How are you holding up?”

“N-not bad, Mr. Chairman. I hope you know... that... the fire is out?” the mountain stammered, halting mid-room. Speech came hard to the mercenary.

“Yes, yes. If that’s all, I’m eating...” Gordian gestured dismissively. The hot air was suffocating, and the angel brought an acrid stench of smoke with him.

“Oh no, Mr. Chairman! I know how... busy you are. I never come for... minor things. Don’t worry, I won’t take much of... of your time. It really is serious.”

“We’ll see.”

Hades glanced cautiously at the active prosopion, but seeing no objection, began his story:

“I just came from the southern border. Inspecting the shield as ordered. Uh... found something interesting: usually, when fire breaks a shield, the... edges melt, nothing more. But today, the shield was magnetized... or was magnetizing... how do you say it right?”

“Doesn’t matter. Go on.”

“Just a bit, at first. Then it stopped.”

“It wasn’t fire that broke the shield!” The Chairman’s son leaned forward in the prosopion, nearly popping out of the projection.

Hades let out a rough laugh, pleased to satisfy his superiors. The angel possessed raw, primitive strength capable of tearing someone apart bare-handed, yet around the Chairman he acted with extreme care—refraining from flapping his wings to avoid knocking things over, or stomping his feet to prevent the floor from cracking, as had happened during his first visit fifteen years ago.

“Are you certain? Could it be a reaction to the element’s growing strength? We’re losing our minds here!”

The giant shook his head firmly:

“Certain. Someone... uh... deliberately damaged it and let the fire in.”

“Who else knows?”

“Nobody. No one noticed.”

“Good.” Gordian paused, twisting his pinky ring. “Any tracks?”

“Unlikely. Everything burned to ash around it.”

The Chairman merely hummed.

“That’s all. May I go?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have a pleasant weekend, Mr. Chairman.”

“Well now, what news!” Gordian drawled as the angel left. “Does this mean while our eyes are on the fire, someone in the shadows is feeding the flames?”

Meanwhile, his son breathed a sigh of relief, glad he no longer had to endure those... what were they, um... barely coherent interjections grating on the listener’s brain.

“Looks like someone’s pushing the crisis to a boiling point, doesn’t it? They’re moving fast,” Gordian mused, returning to the thought of the umbralite. “Unless the Dark Lands intervened.”

“I’m keeping an eye on Amadeus. He’s up to something. Demons are acting suspiciously bold lately, visiting Atlantis like it’s their backyard.”

“Perhaps. But he’s merely following the count’s orders.”

“Shall I scare him off?”

“Doesn’t matter. The more volunteers involved, the sooner Flammeus falls.”

“Still, I intend to check, if you don’t mind. Until tomorrow, Father!”

“Be careful.”

“Will do.” The silver mask faded into the prosopion.

The hot day of visitors was not over yet. Toward evening, the gaunt mage from the morning meeting returned.

“Enter, Lloyd. Thank you for dropping by, colleague.”

“I had to... I thought you’d have questions. As you could tell, I didn’t risk speaking before everyone. Didn’t write it in the report either. Delicate matter, could make unnecessary noise.”

“Quite right. The quieter the predator, the quicker it fills its belly.”

“Silence is golden for the wise,” Lloyd nodded eagerly. “Mr. Chairman, it’s about that hopeless case you assigned me long ago. We had nearly given up, but yesterday fate pulled a trick! Do you remember the khing I mentioned? As he fled the patrol, he slipped into a portal that opened on its own and illegally transported him to the human world. Well, I reviewed the footage several times and can state with confidence that I saw a portal bordered by a ring of fire. That ring was identical to the ones I’ve seen used by the keepers in Flammeus.”

Gordian’s face lit up instantly.

“Remarkable! And impeccably timed! Keep an eye on the khing, my friend. Nothing must happen to the successor, mark my words! Spare no expense—I will authorize the funds.”

“Extremely generous of you. I stake my head that the mission will go smoothly. I asked a condottiere* acquaintance to dispatch top mercenaries for the search. Expect good news soon,” the gaunt mage assured, bustling off after hasty farewells. He was proud that Atlantis would gain glory by returning the keeper to Flammeus, contributing to a peaceful future where no one would suffer from wild fire.

*A condottiere leads mercenary squads categorized into three ranks: Butcher, Executioner, and Reaper. They contract with states or officials for fee-based deployment.

“Crisis averted. The fire successor has been found.”

The Chairman closed his eyes and folded his hands as if in prayer. His facial muscles relaxed, the deep furrow smoothing out.

“The umbralites will be furious when they find out! Ha! Wonderful. No need to play along with their schemes anymore. Once the fires stop, I’ll return to my project. Must remember to tighten security—escape attempts have already begun... But strange—why did the keeper appear in the human world? So... have we been looking in the wrong direction this whole time?