The Edge of the World.
I have always found solace in the raw, unmanicured expanse of the natural world. There is a visceral, undeniable current that pulses through this wilderness—a thrumming of the earth’s veins that vibrates beneath the soles of my boots. Our Professor’s spoke of this sensation as the ambient magic itself—a boundless energy that surrounds and envelops us like a phantom tide, allowing us to better harness its power through our designated foci.
"N-non... nonsense." I chuckled weakly.
The answer was a whisper to a question the silent forest had never posed, my voice thin against the towering ancient pines. Nature is, in truth, the genesis of our existence, the cradle of humanity’s first tentative breaths. And it is where we will inevitably meet our dissolution, returning to the silent dark. All things must crumble, and our remains shall nourish the very earth we abandon, our marrow feeding the roots of trees that do not know our names.
They claimed this was the place where magic-wielders found their true belonging, away from the stifling politics of the Spires; for me, at least, that assertion rings true. Even the close, wet sounds of imminent carnage—the snapping of bone and the screech of territorial predators—a din that grated against my battered ears like shards of glass, and the slow, rhythmic creep of lost consciousness from the draining blood, could not wholly quash this unexpected calm within my chest.
I am, by the way, Ferith. The tired archetype of the protagonist.
What is my outward appearance? Am I rugged, scarred by the frost of the Carpathians? What destiny does my potential hold in a world that fears a hand without a wand? Will I, in the crucial, climactic moment, rescue the maiden from some eldritch horror? Will my specific tale serve to inspire the next generation of students in their velvet robes?
Does this narrative truly diverge from the thousand others that came before it in any meaningful measure, or am I just another ink-stain on the ledger of history? As hollow as the query may sound, the judgment rests with those who come after, those who sift through the ashes of our lives.
"D-damn you, Uncle... I was content within that f-forest. You should have l-left me there..."
To murmur life's regrets while fading into the chasm of oblivion, watching the canopy overhead blur into a canopy of shadows, is the clearest prelude to the end of one's road.
How did I arrive at this precipice? Ah, yes...
I received correspondence.
——
"Oyy, Ferith! There's an owl for ya!"
The shout shattered the delicate equilibrium of the clearing. I wheeled around, following a fool's instinct toward the voice, and instantly severed the mental tether to his will.
( CRACK )
Big Leonard—the name I had presumptuously given my soon-to-be Gryphon—did not appreciate the invasive, kaleidoscopic images I had forced upon his avian mind. Released from my psychic control, the beast exacted immediate retribution for my hubris.
The impact of his great, keratin-thick beak was jarring, a blunt-force trauma potent enough to sting my eyes with involuntary tears. I landed without grace, my arms stiffly splayed as I hit the forest floor, the sudden failure of my muscles sending me bucking, face-first, into the cold, iron-scented mud of the riverbank.
"Ferith! Watch out!"
I did not need to see the threat; the air itself screamed as the beast dove. Yet Rimel, a trusted friend privy to my peculiar, wandless ways, should have exercised more faith in my innate abilities.
( KLANG )
A light blue, shimmering shield of ætheric-glass materialized an instant before the bird's razor-sharp, obsidian talons struck the barrier and ricocheted harmlessly away with a metallic resonance.
Shields save lives, I thought, even as a internal warning flared: Never attempt to tame an ancient beast without one.
Leonard's confusion was palpable, his golden eyes wide and unblinking. Seconds passed as he analyzed the scene from a nearby branch, wondering what calamity had befallen his psychic link and why his supposed prey remained utterly unaffected by his aggression. In fact, the mouthful of grit and decaying leaves I'd almost swallowed did more to distract me than the deadly beast, momentarily eclipsing the brutal, splitting ache in my head that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
His bewilderment was short-lived. Given the opportunity and the lack of a mental leash, Leonard swiftly ascended into the sky, his massive wings beating the air into a frenzy, disappearing from view within moments. I rose, wiping the sludge from my chin, watching his magnificent, feathered form vanish over the jagged horizon—a sight that settled like lead in my stomach.
"Damn it... I wanted to execute that ascent." I bemoaned my terrible luck. I had been mere minutes from securing my very own Gryphon—an illegally acquired one, perhaps, lacking the proper Ministry-stamped beast-taming scrolls, but a Gryphon nonetheless.
Footsteps and the sharp cracking of fallen foliage sounded behind me.
"Um... I suppose that was, in part, my fault?"
The voice behind me was the audible embodiment of two wasted hours. Even his tone, high and apologetic, grated on my already frayed nerves.
"No... no." I sighed with dramatic flourish, brushing the moss from my knees. "It is entirely my fault for neglecting to erect signs declaring the importance of my work... yet again! Perhaps in glowing runic-neon next time!"
I turned, stumbling more than walking toward Rimel, stopping only inches from his sheepish face.
"...People typically take a quick assessment before they start yelling, but..."
"This situation presented itself as super easy to misunderstand," he interjected, his gaze shifting to the treetops, looking everywhere but at me.
My rant curtailed and my afternoon irrevocably ruined, I slumped onto the nearest flat surface—a moss-covered boulder—allowing the mental fatigue of the failed mind-meld to engulf me. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic heat. My arms ached from the impact. My pride had been thoroughly trampled by the Transylvanian earth, and most crushingly, the chance to become a Gryphon rider had slipped through my fingers.
My magic reserves, the invisible pool of mana-wells within my blood, slowly recovered with every deliberate, deep breath. I realized a grim truth as I watched the sky: had he attacked with his talons from the outset, before my instinctual shield flared, I would be dead. His simple-minded choice to attempt to peck me into submission had, ironically, saved my life.
"Hmph... hmph..."
The tranquil symphony of the rushing river and the ambient sounds of chattering squirrels and humming insects were suddenly shattered by the thoughtless intrusion of my friend. I surveyed the sweating, unfortunate man beside me, whose robes were dusty from his trek, and sighed once more.
"...Explain."
"What?" He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, playing the part of the innocent.
I awarded him the prize for the worst diversionary attempt in the history of the Border Command.
"The owl, Rim. You screamed. Cough cough... damn it, mud..." I attempted to articulate my fury, but had to spend several moments clearing the last of the river-silt from my mouth. "And furthermore, why was that news necessitating a shout? Why the need to deliver the message in person instead of sending a whisper-spell?"
"...It's your uncle, mate," he muttered under his breath, his playful demeanor vanishing. He produced a parchment, bound by a magically sealed letter that hummed with a low-frequency power, and waited patiently.
Instead of further discourse, I accepted the letter, the vellum feeling unnaturally heavy, and strode toward the river to wash away the mud and my mounting annoyance. We were currently ensconced within the deep, primordial woods of Transylvania. The owl must have witnessed an extraordinary journey, a marathon of flight across the continent from the heart of France to this secluded, forgotten location.
I knelt by the rushing water, cleansing the grime from my hands and face, allowing a pair of squirrels to regard me with twitching noses from the opposite bank. One tilted its head, holding its dark gaze until I deliberately splashed a handful of water in its direction. Noisy, impertinent creatures. They are not to be trusted.
After a few extra scoops of clean, crisp water to banish the last unpleasant taste of the earth from my mouth, I used a precise, sharp flick of my inherent power—no wand required, just a pulse of will—to sever the wax seal.
As the tiny puff of sulfurous smoke dissipated from the ruptured seal, a familiar, oppressive magical signature enveloped me. I hadn't sensed his energetic presence since my early childhood in the capital. Back then, it felt comforting and warm, like a hearth fire; now, it carried nothing but the cold, immense strength of the man himself—a weight that demanded obedience from most.
The parchment unfurled itself with a crisp snap, and his voice, clear and resonant as the noon sun, cut through the forest's tranquil ambient noise.
< Brat! It's good to know you're still extant. I'm only jesting—I always know where you're hiding. I bet you're currently wondering why this old, prodigiously talented bastard has finally chosen to contact me after all these years? Well… a favour, naturally! Listen up… >
I lifted my fist, and my raw, unchanneled power crumpled the paper into a tight ball, silencing his booming, arrogant voice mid-sentence.
A favour, my arrogant ass.
His world of gilded towers and ethical compromises is wholly incompatible with mine.
I swiped my hand through the air.
As the parchment instantly ignited in a flash of violet and candescent flames consumed the paper in a hungry roar, I strode back toward a still-waiting Rimel, leaving only a few flakes of grey ash behind.
"So? What did he require?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of his caution. Rimel showed signs of being a secret admirer of my uncle’s legendary status, an eccentricity I generally tolerated since he rarely used it to actively annoy me.
"I incinerated it before the letter could fully manifest," I replied, my voice flat.
The shock on his face was a feast for the eyes, his jaw dropping in genuine horror. I watched him gaping like a fish out of water for a few satisfying moments before I smiled, gripped his shoulder with a muddy hand, and turned him toward the winding forest path.
"Come on. We cannot miss supper again. I refuse to subsist on those meager, sour berries for another night."
——
The Transylvanian Border Command for Magical Fauna and Anomalies—or 'T.B.C.M.F.A.'—was a government-sponsored organization with the solitary, noble aim of shielding the country of Romania from its most perilous and ancient threats…
Who am I trying to deceive? They were little more than magical forest rangers in hand-me-down cloaks.
But I loved my time here all the same. The native tongue had been a genuine trial—a language of sharp consonants and complex grammar—but after two years of constant exposure via the enchanted-mirrors and the voice-boxes in the common rooms, I could manage basic conversation when necessary. However, it was rarely necessary; local magic-wielders seldom sought work at the far-flung, frozen edges of the world.
I was once told by a wandering monk that this place was where people came to seek refuge from the real world, to confront their deepest, most jagged issues, or to simply exist with unresolved burdens in the silence of the pines.
What a tiresome tool.
Perhaps they should cease their pseudo-philosophical musings and concentrate on their own issues, or better yet, simply work the patrols they were assigned.
The station itself was an architectural marvel, constructed hundreds of years ago directly into the sheer, grey side of the Carpathian mountains. The peculiar irony is that, despite the libraries of records kept within, not a single person could name its original architect. Its immense, jagged towers dominated the entire mountain range, soaring into the clouds and capable of housing hundreds of souls—a visual and structural masterpiece whose creator is now utterly lost to the fog of history.
Well, whoever it was possessed a supreme talent and performed a magnificent job, especially considering the sheer artistry invested in the structure. Every single inch of the building was crafted entirely of magically reinforced iron-oak and painstakingly carved by hand with motifs of vines and celestial bodies. They could have used high-level construction magic, I supposed, but I somehow doubted that choice; there was a soul in these walls that only a chisel could provide.
In time, the locals simply came to call it The Taj.
We spoke little on the winding ascent; Rimel was one of two close friends who knew a reasonable amount about my past, and he understood I wouldn't discuss the letter or my uncle unbidden. We politely passed a few fellow officers on the stone stairs, offering tired nods. They all wore the same emblem—a stylized mountain peak—that adorned our own travel-stained clothes.
Inside the dining hall, the population was sparse; it was Sunday, and most were either in town or sleeping off the week's exhaustion. Walking further into the vaulted room, we were spotted by our roommate, Pelit, who was already picking at a bowl.
"Ferith, you have a..."
"I already presented it to him," Rimel interrupted, waving a hand dismissively.
We made our way to the food line and acquired the weekend standard: a thick, grey porridge and a handful of bruised fruit. At least their offerings were consistent, if not overly plentiful or particularly flavorful.
But I had a small advantage in the social economy of the mess hall.
"Martha, my dear, you appear particularly radiant this evening. Pardon my crude delivery, the mud does not suit my compliments."
My flattering words earned me a genuine smile and a heavy, extra scoop of seasonal fruit, along with a few wary, jealous glances from the man standing behind her. I thought she looked perfectly fine, if slightly robust and smelling faintly of flour and yeast.
We took our wooden trays to a corner table, and I attacked the plate, my hunger outweighing my distaste for the porridge.
"So, what did the lett..."
"Hush," Rimel made a few suggestive gestures toward Pelit, a finger to his lips, effectively, if temporarily, silencing him.
"...er, from your uncle state?" Pelit finished with a defiant, wolfish grin, leaning in close.
I stopped eating, the cold spoon halfway to my mouth, and decided to share the brief incident, as I knew their curiosity was genuine and would only fester otherwise.
"...I cannot believe you destroyed the letter. The poor animal must have traversed nearly 3,000 miles, over mountains and seas, to reach us! That is utterly cruel."
I absorbed the jab from our resident animal rights advocate, Pelit, and waited for the other friend to weigh in. Rimel gave a small shrug, swirling his spoon in his bowl.
"Well, I think you should have, at minimum, listened to the entire correspondence before opting to dispose of it. It might have been important."
As always, one was loud and outspoken, the other sensible and measured—the two halves of a conscience I rarely listened to.
"Perhaps so, but it is far too late now. The ashes are already feeding the river," I feigned a thin layer of disappointment, then returned to my now-cold meal.
"...Perhaps not."
I set my spoon down with a clatter and began massaging my temples, feeling the familiar prickle of annoyance.
"What in the hell are you alluding to, man?"
Rimel produced his wand—a slender, polished piece of ash—and with a graceful wrist flick, a localized heat-charm flared. Soon my porridge was steaming hot once more, the scent of oats filling the air.
"We can use chronomancy to reverse the process. A simple Echo-Sight spell. All we require is the..."
"Stop, I grasp the concept." I put my hand up; the full, academic explanation of temporal manipulation would be long-winded and unnecessary. "...But what he wanted is irrelevant; it is all cinders now. Let us eat and enjoy the peace."
As if destiny itself sought to mock me and prove that my isolation was a lie, a second owl swooped in through the high rafters just then, landing decisively at the edge of our wooden table. Its large, feathered tufts were flattened, and its eyes were filled with an unmistakable, sentient resentment, as if my previous actions were the sole reason for its second grueling, long-distance trip across the continent.
"Look at that," Pelit laughed, pointing a finger at the exhausted bird. "It just became relevant again."
I had half a mind to incinerate this new missive immediately, watching the sparks dance in my palm, but Rimel was faster.
His wrist flicked with practiced precision.
The letter, along with the disgruntled owl itself, flew up with unnatural speed, caught in a telekinetic gust that made the poor bird panic, its wings flapping wildly before it was deposited softly back onto the table in front of him.
After retrieving the parchment with a smirk, he let the bird partake in some of his warm porridge and a shallow dish of water, gently patting its head, then held the letter out toward me with an expectant look.
"Come on, Ferith. At least be equitable and read it in its entirety this time."
It seemed I was cursed by the gods with the one friend who was the constant voice of reason, and another who was watching me with an unnaturally wide, mischievous grin.
There is no escaping fate, especially when it arrives by airmail.
