Chapter 12: A Power That Bends Reality

The Adventurer’s Hall stood by the southern gate of Cinabar. Hall was a generous word, really—it looked more like a tavern that had given up on life a few decades ago. The wooden beams sagged, the air smelled of sweat and stale ale, and every other man inside looked like he’d lost a fight with sobriety about ten years back. If you squinted hard enough, you could almost convince yourself it was organized chaos… except without the organization.

It didn’t take me long to figure out how the place worked. There were no ranks, no guild masters assigning jobs, no pretty little badges to prove your worth. Just a crooked notice board nailed to the wall and a bunch of half-drunk brutes grabbing contracts like beggars fighting over scraps. They’d exchange a few words, slap each other’s backs, and vanish. Efficient? Maybe. Professional? Absolutely not.

If we wanted certified passes for the main roads between cities, this dump wasn’t going to provide them. For that, we’d need to actually join a real guild and play the game properly. Still, for now, anonymity had its perks—we could pick whatever job suited us, no questions asked.

Serine and I scanned the board. A few half-torn posters clung on for dear life, promising miserable pay for miserable work. Nothing glamorous. Nothing interesting. Just… menial chores disguised as “adventure.”

Then a walking mountain behind us exploded in frustration.

“Bloody hell! Not a single escort job to the Mist Caves again? No monster hunts? What’s the point of this shithole?” His voice shook the walls as much as his fists. “Useless! Useless, the lot of it!” He stormed out, kicking the door wide open.

Serine and I exchanged a look. Of course there was no work in the Mist Caves. My undead army had probably been “cleaning house” every single day, leaving no beasts for these poor bastards to slay. I almost felt guilty. Almost. At least the caves were safer now. Safer and thoroughly… occupied.

After chatting with a few adventurers and gathering scraps of intel, Serine and I settled on a dull little request for medicinal herbs up in the nearby mountains. Poor pay, but quick enough. A warm-up, if nothing else.

We were about to leave when raised voices stopped me.

“You tryin’ to kill us, you bastard?!” a scarred man shouted, shoving a smaller fellow against the wall by the collar. The scar looked fresh, angry, and deep across his cheek. “Do you see this? A godsdamned Wyrm did this! A Wyrm! You didn’t warn us!”

Two other men stood behind him, jeering and egging him on.

The smaller man stammered, “I—I didn’t know there was a Wyrm! I swear!”

Typical. Testosterone, stupidity, and just enough alcohol to make it messy. I sighed and stepped forward.

“Really, boys?” I drawled. “Three of you ganging up on one little man? That’s impressive. Heroic even. Shall I clap for you?”

The scarred brute turned, sneering at me. “Stay out of this, girl. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, but it does concern me,” I said sweetly, tilting my head. “See, I have this horrible habit of despising idiots. And right now, you’re ticking all the boxes. Scar, rage issues, pack mentality… You even smell like fermented piss. Congratulations, you’re the full set.”

One of his buddies snarled, “Watch your mouth—”

“Or what?” I cut in sharply, stepping closer. My smile stayed plastered on, but my eyes narrowed. “You’ll add another scar to that ugly mug of yours? I’d hate to embarrass you further in front of your boyfriends. So here’s a radical idea: why don’t you three walk away before I really lose interest in being polite?”

They stared at me. I stared back, unblinking, until the silence grew uncomfortable. Finally, the scarred man muttered something under his breath and shoved past me, his goons following. Good choice. Cowards always fold under pressure.

The man they’d been harassing adjusted his hat, revealing fine, almost delicate features. And when he pushed it back, a cascade of green hair spilled free, tied neatly but unmistakable. Androgynous didn’t even begin to describe him—if I hadn’t heard his voice, I might’ve mistaken him for a woman.

“Th-thank you,” he said softly, bowing his head.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied. “Though you owe me a drink for my performance fee.”

He blinked, then smiled. “Fair enough.”

Serine and I followed him back to a quieter tavern nearby. Over mugs of ale (well, my mug was ale, Serine stuck to something tame), he introduced himself and explained.

His name was Elyndor, a carpenter by trade. He’d been hired to repair a broken bridge three or four days north of Cinabar, the fastest route to the city of Aveloria. To transport his tools and supplies, he’d hired adventurers. Only problem? The bridge hadn’t collapsed from rot. A Wyrm had built its nest beneath it and greeted them in the rudest way possible.

“I had no idea,” Elyndor said miserably, fingers tightening around his mug. “I thought it was just weather damage… but no one told me about a Wyrm. And now my reputation is ruined. I can’t fix the bridge without help, and I don’t have the coin to hire warriors strong enough to face such a beast.”

I leaned back, sipping my drink. Wyrms. Not true dragons, but close enough. Territorial, dangerous, and infamously touchy if you wandered too close to their nests. A mother with hatchlings could easily massacre a party of adventurers.

I was about to tell him we couldn’t help when a familiar voice purred inside my mind.

“Mistress,” Arkanthos whispered from the bag at my side, “accept his request.”

What? Are you mad, skull? I thought back. A Wyrm would shred us in seconds. Fire or no fire, one swing of its wings and we’d be paste on the rocks.

“Trust me, Mistress. You can defeat a Wyrm with ease. And if you cannot, then I will. To me, such a creature is nothing but an insect. Did you forget who I am? Arkanthos Veylarion of the Three Suns, Grand Custodian of the Empire of Eryndralith?”

I smirked faintly. Of course he’d pull the titles out. Always so dramatic. Still… he had a point. A Wyrm’s hide, claws, and bones were worth a fortune. And if that bridge was repaired, the path to Aveloria would be wide open for us. That meant a real guild, real work, and more importantly, fewer prying eyes as I tested the limits of my powers.

Fine, arrogant skull. I’ll listen. But only because I’ve seen you torch a Widow of the Abyss with a single spell. If you can burn a spider the size of a house, I suppose a lizard with wings shouldn’t be too much trouble.

I looked at Elyndor, who was still fidgeting with his drink. “All right, carpenter. We’ll take your job. We’ll deal with your pet Wyrm problem.”

His eyes widened with relief. “Truly? You will?”

Serine, on the other hand, nearly choked. “Rissa! Are you insane? A Wyrm? We’ll be slaughtered!”

I patted her hand with mock sweetness. “Relax, Serine. I wouldn’t dream of letting anything happen to you. Besides…” I grinned. “What’s the point of being alive if we don’t occasionally flirt with death?”

She groaned, facepalming. Elyndor just looked confused. And Arkanthos? Oh, I could practically feel his smug satisfaction radiating from the bag.

Great. Just great.

The three of us left Cinabar that same afternoon, Serine and I walking side by side with the skull of Arkanthos wrapped securely at my hip, its hollow eyes glinting faintly in the last rays of the sun. Our destination was the bridge to the north, where the wyrm had made its nest. Elyndor’s desperate face lingered in my mind, but so did the thought of wyrm scales sold for a fortune.

On the way, I explained to Serine why I had accepted his request. She looked at me skeptically, her chestnut eyes narrowed as the wind carried strands of her dark hair across her face.

“You’re mad,” she said flatly. “A wyrm is no beast to play with. Do you even know how big they get?”

I smirked. “Big enough to crush us, yes. That’s why I have this bonebag here.”

“You wound me, mistress,” Arkanthos’ voice rattled dryly in my head, the smugness unmistakable. “Have I not assured you already? A wyrm is hardly worth stretching my jawbones for. You will not need me.”

“Oh, really?” Serine muttered. “So you’re saying Rissa is going to kill a wyrm. By herself.”

“Exactly,” Arkanthos replied without hesitation. “I have chosen my mistress well. Do not doubt her.”

I raised an eyebrow at the skull dangling at my side. “You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t been alive in… what, five thousand years?”

“Four thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight, but who’s counting?” he shot back. “Do not mistake my current condition for weakness. I was the Grand Custodian of Eryndralith. Entire kingdoms trembled at the flick of my wrist. Compared to my enemies of the past, your wyrm is little more than a lizard with delusions of grandeur.”

Serine groaned, rubbing her temples. “You two are insane. Absolutely insane.”

That night, after hours of marching, Serine and I sat by a small fire. Arkanthos’ skull rested on a tree stump, his empty sockets fixed on us as if he were still alive.

“All right then,” Serine asked, poking at the flames with a stick. “How are we supposed to kill this wyrm? Because I don’t see it happening.”

“Very simple,” Arkanthos replied. “Mistress Rissa will finish it with a single strike. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I blinked at him, then scoffed. “Oh, sure. One strike. With what, my bare hands?”

“Step by step, mistress,” he said calmly. “You will understand soon enough. The truth is, the world itself has grown weak.”

Serine frowned. “Weak? What do you mean?”

“In the thousands of years I’ve been dead,” he explained, “I have felt the difference. The air is thin of magic. The beasts are smaller, fewer. Even people seem fragile compared to my time. That you fear a wyrm at all almost makes me want to crawl back to the Mist Caves and finish fossilizing.”

I traded a glance with Serine, neither of us sure if he was joking.

Then he added, “You do not even know what magic truly is.”

That stung. “Excuse me? I’ve studied magic theory for years. I’ve tried every formula, every ritual. Nothing works for me, but don’t say I don’t know what it is.”

“That is because you have been trying to use catalytic magic.”

“Catalytic… what?” Serine and I asked at the same time.

“Catalytic magic,” he repeated. “The most common kind. It comes from the user’s own inner power. That is why it shows itself in children—accidents, fires, little earthquakes. Elemental spells, barriers, healing. Every mage you know draws from their own core, and they can sense that same energy in others.”

Serine nodded slowly. “That sounds like what we’ve always learned.”

“Yes. But there is another: essential magic,” Arkanthos went on. “Tied to races like elves and dwarves, though not exclusive to them. It is power drawn from the world around you—forests, spirits, ley lines. It allows visions, communion, flight, even what you call necromancy. But it depends entirely on the strength of the land itself. Without it, essential magic is weak.”

We sat in silence, listening intently. For bookworms like us, this was knowledge we had never even imagined.

“So then,” I said carefully, “I must have essential magic. That’s why catalytic doesn’t work for me.”

“No, mistress.” His voice was almost amused. “You have neither. And forgive me, Lady Serine—neither do you.”

I felt my stomach drop. “Then… what do I have?”

For a moment, the only sound was the fire crackling.

Finally Arkanthos said, “There is a third type. The rarest of all. So rare it was nearly forgotten: dimensional magic. Those who possessed it could bend space to teleport themselves a some meters and move through time few seconds, command or create magical creatures with words. Most were weak, their gifts small. But long before my birth, there was one man who mastered it all. He could create matter, even life itself. His name was Altheryon. His power was so immense that even those without magic felt crushed in his presence.”

Serine whispered the name under her breath.

“He sought godhood,” Arkanthos continued. “Immortality. In his obsession, he twisted the natural order. The undead were his doing, born from his failures. His empire collapsed, but his legacy remains. And you, mistress…”

His gaze fixed on me, and even though he had no eyes, I felt it pierce me.

“You carry the same power. Dimensional magic. And unlike Altheryon, you can control its power with precision, life and death doesn’t even exist for you mistress, they’re just words.”

I stared at him, my mind reeling, that was all hard to believe. For once, I had nothing to say.