A Stranger by the Fire

An hour after Roan’s departure, Aria and Anais began to stir. Having been confined for so long, Wells’s legs had stiffened into a dull cramp, but the ache sharpened into true pain only when he rose to help Anais erase any trace of their campsite. With Aria perched on his shoulder, he asked Anais if he could walk beside Situs the horse for a while, hoping to restore the circulation. Anais agreed from the saddle, and they set off toward Pelara.

After fifteen minutes, Wells broke the silence. "Where is Halia?" Jogging to keep pace with the trotting horse was a welcome exertion after days locked in a cell.

"About twenty miles from where you were held," Anais replied, mounted high on Situs. "Why?"

"A man named Roan visited our camp this morning," Wells explained. "I gave him some food. He said he was the son of Halia's Lord."

Anais shifted in the saddle, brushing a stray hair from his eyes. He was quiet for a moment before confirming, "Roan is the Prince of Halia, yes."

"Cities in Anolin have lords?" Aria asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Only five," Anais told them. "Tor Alian, Halia, Iloria, Merelia, and Neara. King Haelen is the Lord of Tor Alian, and his family rules Halia as well."

"What power do these lords hold?" Aria pressed.

"Their duties are largely ceremonial," Anais explained. "They possess the right to object to the selection of an heir to the throne, though it is rarely exercised. Otherwise, they function as governors for their cities."

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence before Wells spoke again. "Roan mentioned that Uncle Jonas saved Halia from a warlock."

Anais nodded. "After King Haelen’s father was assassinated, Remira was plunged into chaos as warlocks and wizards vied for power. Jonas defeated a warlock who had seized control of Halia."

"Impressive," Aria remarked.

"Your uncle has a formidable reputation here, Wells," Anais said.

It took two more days to reach Pelara. The trio spoke little during the journey, each lost in private thought, but the quiet was never strained. Upon reaching the town, they made their way directly to the Blade and Band Inn. The common room was nearly empty. Wells followed Anais to the second floor and into room 99, where Cirus and Elrin were deep in conversation. At the sight of them, both men shot to their feet.

"You found him," Cirus breathed, clapping Anais firmly on the back before pulling Wells into a one-armed embrace. The relief in his voice was palpable, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Wells thought he saw new lines of worry etched into the man’s face. "Where was he?"

"The outpost nearest Halia," Anais reported. "Helena had him in a holding cell."

Cirus and Elrin exchanged another brief, hushed conversation. Then Cirus turned his full attention back to Wells. "Are you alright? And you, Aria?"

"I'm fine," Aria chirped.

"So am I," Wells confirmed.

A smile touched Cirus’s lips. "No curses placed upon you?" he pressed.

"No. I think the Ring of Resolve protected me." Wells glanced down at the ring, which caught the flickering torchlight and cast a star-like pattern on the floorboards. "It’s a powerful object."

"That it is," Cirus agreed, his smile deepening the crinkles around his eyes. He turned as Anais and Elrin finished their urgent discussion. "Now, Anais, what of Lady Helena?"

"Wells, Aria," Elrin cut in loudly, "why don't you come with me to be fitted for a sword?"

The abrupt change of subject was jarring. Wells exchanged a puzzled glance with Aria; her confusion mirrored his own. "Uh, alright," he answered, trailing Elrin, who was already heading out of the inn.

The midday streets of Pelara were thronged with people. As Elrin led them briskly down the road, several townsfolk waved to him. The bustling scene stood in stark contrast to the deserted inn.

"Why was the Blade and Band so empty, except for you and Cirus?" Wells asked.

Elrin’s expression soured. "News of your abduction spread like wildfire. Pelara is a small town, and word travels fast. Fear is keeping them away for now."

"That’s foolish," Wells retorted. "Helena’s people had a specific reason to take me." He looked around. The town’s buildings were mostly behind them, leaving only a dirt road ahead. "Why am I getting a sword, anyway? Shouldn't my magic be enough?"

Elrin grinned. "In the old days, before the Order of Sorcerers, wizards were also knights. They were trained in swordplay as well as wizardry. Cirus believes the Order was wrong to abandon that tradition. He thinks you should learn to wield a weapon—to embrace all facets of your heritage. I’m inclined to agree with him."

"And what about me?" Aria asked dryly. "I couldn't hold a sword if I wanted to."

"From what I hear, you're quite a formidable combatant already."

"Well, I don't like to brag," Aria replied, feigning modesty as the barb lost its sting.

Wells snorted. "You don't like to brag? You do it constantly!"

"I do not," she retorted, ruffling her feathers primly.

"You love asserting your superiority," Wells teased.

"Only because you make for such an easy target—"

"Alright, you two," Elrin interrupted with a laugh. "No need for a skirmish. You're supposed to be a team."

Aria gave Wells’s shoulder a light pinch. "He’d be boring if I didn’t push his buttons now and then," she declared.

"No," Wells grumbled, rubbing the spot, "but my shoulder wouldn't be sore."

Elrin had stopped before a smithy. Its front was open to the road, where a bear of a man hammered relentlessly at a piece of glowing metal on an anvil. Behind him, a massive forge roared, spewing sparks that danced like sprites in the swirling shadows. The soot-stained walls were hung with axes, swords, and javelins of every description, and loose straw littered the dirt floor.

"Falken!" Elrin shouted over the din of the hammering. "FALKEN!"

The smith cursed as his next blow missed the anvil entirely. He threw the hammer down in disgust, where it landed with a thud in a cloud of dust. His expression cleared when he looked up and saw the trio. "Elrin!" he boomed, striding out to greet them.

Falken was an older man, yet immensely powerful. He had a bald, gleaming head, a ruddy complexion, and dark, muddy eyes. Tufts of white hair curled from the collar of his heavy leather apron, and his bare arms were corded with muscle.

"Wells, Aria, this is Falken, the finest smith in all of Anolin," Elrin said. Falken beamed at the praise. "Falken, this is Wells Barlow, and his kithara, Aria."

"Elrin flatters me," Falken rumbled in a deep voice. "But it is an honor to meet you, Wells Barlow, and a very great honor indeed to meet a kithara." He gave Wells a powerful handshake, then tentatively offered a calloused hand to Aria. "May I?" As she inclined her head, he gently stroked her feathers before letting his hand fall. "Now, Elrin, what brings you to my humble forge?"

"Lord Cirus wishes for his apprentice to have a sword," Elrin answered. "Can you fashion one for him?"

Falken’s face fell slightly. "A wizard's blade is a difficult thing to forge. To make a proper one would take me months—" His voice trailed off as his gaze caught the gleam of Wells’s ring. "You're related to Jonas Barlow, aren't you?"

"He was my uncle," Wells confirmed.

"I thought so," Falken said, his eyes twinkling. "You have his eyes—and his nose."

Wells smiled. "I've been told."

"Jonas was a dear friend. And a fine wizard." He beckoned them into the hot, grimy smithy. "I forged a wizard’s sword for him, oh, fifty, maybe sixty years ago," Falken recounted as they walked. "When he left Remira, he returned it to me. Said he wanted me to save it for a wizard who was worthy."

"Uncle Jonas was a swordsman?" Wells asked, astonished.

"One of the best I ever saw," Falken declared. He led them into a darker room at the back. A single beam of light from a grimy windowpane cut through the air, illuminating swirling dust motes. The space was even filthier than the forge, with every surface coated in a thick layer of grime. The low ceiling made Aria shift uneasily on Wells’s shoulder.

"Jonas's sword was a fine piece of work, if I do say so myself," Falken said, pulling a silver key from his apron. "He named it Magos. I’ve kept it in this trunk all these years."

He gestured to a plain wooden chest with a silver lock, pushed against the far wall. Kneeling, he unlocked it and lifted the lid. Reaching inside, he withdrew a long object wrapped in a heavy wool blanket.

Elrin watched, his expression one of reverent fascination, as Falken presented the bundle to Wells. "Magos," Falken said, his voice thick with emotion. "The sword that helped win the Warlock War."

With a sudden turn, he headed back to the main forge. Wells and Aria exchanged a look before following, with Elrin jogging behind them, his eyes still fixed on the wrapped sword.

Falken had stopped at a solid wooden table. Aria flew from Wells's shoulder to a beam overhead for a better view. Wells carefully set the sword down and began to unwrap it. The wool had been folded with immense care, as if its heavy threads could protect the blade from the passage of time itself.

When it was finally uncovered, he gasped. Even to Wells, who knew nothing of swords, it was a breathtaking weapon. Elrin stepped forward and reverently touched the blade. "It's exquisite," he whispered, snatching his hand back as if from a fire.

It was. Nearly three feet in length, the double-edged sword tapered to a lethal point. The blade was so highly polished that Wells could see his own reflection staring back. The hilt was a work of art, inlaid with intricate gold wire, and the crossguard was fashioned into the shape of a roaring lion’s head at either end. Set into the pommel was a magnificent sapphire, a perfect match for the stone in his Ring of Resolve.

"You're letting me have this?" Wells said, his voice filled with awe.

"It is rightfully yours," Falken stated. "Are you not Jonas's successor? You wear his ring."

"I... yes, I suppose I am," Wells admitted, thinking of the note his uncle had left him.

"Then you are the master of Magos."

As he finished speaking, the sapphire on Magos and the stone in Wells’s ring flared in perfect synchrony. The dazzling blue light forced Wells to blink away the spots in his vision. Aria flew down from the rafter and landed on the table, a concerned look in her eyes.

"What was that?" Wells asked.

"Ownership of the blade has just passed to you," Falken explained. "It is now mystically bound to you. You will be able to channel your myran into the steel to amplify your magic."

Wells hesitantly picked up the sword. It didn't feel awkward in his hand, but it was far from a natural extension of his arm. Stepping away from the table, he attempted a single swing. The blade cut through the dusty air with a soft whoosh, but its momentum twisted in his grip, pulling him off-balance and sending him stumbling to the floor. Falken and Elrin exchanged a look. Aria chuckled.

"And so a mighty warrior is born," she chirped, fluttering down to meet his gaze. "You look like an idiot, you know."

"Shut up," Wells replied glumly, pushing himself up. Aria flew to his outstretched arm. "I'll learn to use it."

"Just as you'll learn to control your impulses," a familiar voice cut through the air from the smithy's entrance. Wells’s stomach dropped. He turned to see Cirus standing with his arms crossed, a look of profound disappointment on his face. "Wells, Aria. A word, please."