The Nightmare of Failure

Wells swore, slumping onto the bed and glaring at the heavy oak door. Magic was more of a mystery than an ally, and he barely knew what Cirus expected him to do. He closed his eyes and tried to “extend his myran,” whatever that meant.

Nothing happened. All he could sense was the familiar, low hum of magic in the air, a faint static against his consciousness. He tried to isolate a specific thread in the flow, but his skills, long out of practice, felt hopelessly dull.

A jolt of annoyance pierced his concentration. He opened his eyes, his voice a low growl in the still room. "You've done this before. You can do it again."

Closing his eyes once more, he focused past the tangible world and into the unseen. This time, he could feel it: faint, ethereal threads of myran leading off in countless directions. He could sense Cirus’s powerful signature downstairs. If he could follow that, perhaps he could find Aria’s.

Leaping to his feet, he flung the window open. The sun was setting, its fading light bleeding into twilight, and a cool gust of wind raised goosebumps on his arms. Wells stuck his head out into the evening air and closed his eyes.

He could sense the lingering cloud of Aria’s myran where she had been perched. Reaching out with his mind, he touched it, and was suddenly pulled along in her wake. The world outside became a muted, dreamlike landscape as he raced from Pelara. Her path was a frantic, unpredictable dance—a dive here, a surge toward the sky there, a sharp turn, always upward. Then, abruptly, he was beside her.

It was the strangest sensation he had ever experienced. He knew he was still in his room, head out the window, yet he could feel the wind tearing at his face as he soared high above a patchwork of brown and green earth. It was utterly, terrifyingly thrilling.

Hesitantly, he opened his mouth to call her name.

The instant he formed the thought, the connection shattered. He was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him with terrifying speed. He braced for impact, and his eyes flew open. He was back in his room, gripping the windowsill so tightly that splinters dug under his fingernails, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He kicked the wall and swore again. His efforts were useless. Defeated, he crept downstairs into the tavern. The common room was crowded and dimly lit, filled with the clatter of tankards and the low buzz of conversation. He found Cirus at a table, speaking with Isena. The sight of a centaur indoors was still jarring.

"Any luck finding Aria?" Cirus inquired as Wells sat.

"No," he muttered. "Well, I found her," he amended, "but when I tried to say something, I started to fall."

"Ah," Cirus murmured, taking a deep drink from his tankard.

"Ah?" Wells shot back, glaring. "That's all you have to say? Don't you even care about—"

Cirus slammed the tankard down. With a casual wave, the beer that had sloshed onto the table flowed back into the mug as if drawn by an invisible string. He stood, looming. "I daresay you will find that I do, indeed, give a damn," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Clearly, the nuances between sympathy and empathy are lost on you." He turned and navigated the packed tables with an unexpected grace, then vanished from the room.

"What was that about?" Wells asked, bewildered.

Isena regarded him with an expression a parent might give a child who had just broken a priceless heirloom. "You are aware of what happened to Cirus's kithara, are you not?"

"Oh. I know it died," Wells said.

"Yes," Isena replied coolly. "His kithara perished, and you blithely assume he feels no profound sympathy for a wizard who has lost his own, however temporary the separation."

"Great," Wells groaned, sinking into his chair. "I'm just stepping on everyone's feelings today."

"The acts are in the past and cannot be undone," Isena stated, her gaze so steady it felt as if she were peering directly into his soul. "You must, however, make amends for their consequences."

"I know," Wells mumbled. "I should. I will."

"To both of them?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the tavern noise.

"Yes."

"Good," she said. "Then go find Cirus."

Wells nodded and left the common room, unsettled by how easily Isena commanded him. He wondered if she’d used sorcery, or if she was simply that persuasive. Outside, the sun had fully set, and the encroaching dusk made it difficult to see.

He found Cirus on the inn's front steps, smoking his pipe in the same spot Wells had sat before his kidnapping. His ring pulsed with a faint light, and as he exhaled, the smoke twisted into intricate, luminous purple patterns that danced in the twilight before dissolving.

"Hey," Wells said, sitting beside him.

"Hello."

"I'm sorry."

Cirus looked at him, a small smile touching his lips as he removed his pipe. "Thank you, Wells."

"I didn't mean to—"

Cirus cut him off with a wave. "Say no more. All is forgiven." He put the pipe back between his teeth and, with a flick of his ring, blew a plume of smoke that formed into a hawk, circled once, and vanished.

"I wish I knew how to find Aria," Wells said sadly, watching the last of the smoke dissipate. A sudden, sharp pang of longing pierced his heart.

"If I may venture a guess," Cirus said around his pipe stem, "you might not like what I have to say, but it may help."

"I'll take any advice you have."

"The reason you could not communicate with her is because your bond is not yet strong enough."

"Not strong?" Wells repeated in disbelief. "How can you say that? We're close, we—"

"And you have known her for all of two weeks," Cirus finished. "Friendship is growing, yes, but a true bond requires absolute trust. Think, Wells. Are there secrets you keep from her? Parts of yourself you are unwilling to share?"

Instantly, his mind filled with images of Aidan, Alexa, Vance, Juliana, and Nikolai, laughing in a brightly lit lounge back in Tor Alian. The ache in his heart intensified. He felt a pang of guilt for not thinking of them, but so much had happened. He realized they belonged to a different life, to a different Wells. The person Aria knew, the boy training in the wilds of Remira, was a stranger to them. And the Wells they knew—the student, the son—was a stranger to Aria.

Wells sighed. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "There's a part of my life I don't want to share with her."

Cirus shook his head slowly. "Until you are willing to share all of yourself, your bond will never be strong enough to communicate across a distance."

"What about in dreams? I've spoken to her there."

"That is different," Cirus said. He pulled a pocket watch from his cloak, an object that seemed utterly alien in a place like Remira. "You should get to bed. It's late, and we leave early."

"What about Aria?"

"She will come around," Cirus said soberly. "In time, she will return."

Wells stood with a sigh. He glanced up at the sky, where stars were beginning to emerge in the deepening dark, and made his way back inside. "If you say so."

He returned to their room and, once Cirus unlocked the door with the only key, he allowed himself just enough time to get between the blankets before collapsing into an exhausted sleep.

That night, his dreams were a torment. He found himself in a long, dim hallway lined with portraits. As he walked, the subjects of the paintings began to step from their frames, their whispers following him down the corridor.

His parents were first, stalking just behind him, their hot breath on his neck. "You disappoint us, Wells. You failed us." He walked faster, but they kept pace.

His teachers followed. "You're a failure," they hissed from a distance. He tried to ignore them, pushing onward toward a destination he couldn't see but knew he had to reach.

Then his old friends, the ones left behind, swarmed out of their frames, circling him, their voices angry. "You abandoned us. You left us with nothing."

His path was blocked. His friends from Remira stood before him, their faces masks of fury. Aidan stepped forward and shoved him. "Traitor," he spat. "Abandoner."

"You left me," Alexa whispered, her voice breaking. "And you will never come back."

"How could you?" Vance muttered.

"You're a failure as a friend," Juliana said.

Nikolai’s voice was firm and terrible. "You are creating your own destruction. And you are creating ours."