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Please don't read this yet. It is not done.

The packed dirt and clay of the entrance faded into the grasp of misty claws. The damp clung to my face and wound around my ankles, pulling me in towards the Misting Well. It lounged to make a Husk of me. Yet, for now, the warmth was enough.

‘Keep the Alegoan on your tongue as long as you can,’ Hershen had repeated. The smooth pale stone had been cool when it had been placed in my mouth, but that had already begun to change. ‘If the burning grows too intense, swallow, but know your timer’s been set. Once it has fully dissolved, you will be vulnerable to the mist. And, I’m not sure we’ll be able to save you.’

Me neither you crazy old mage. Me neither.

Slipping a hand into my robe, I felt for a nearly invisible seam sewn among yellowed ruins. A whisper would have undone it with less effort, though not worth the risk each breath already posed. Instead, I pried it open, locking my fingers around the vial sealed within.

I’d breached my own masking wards but it was worth any reprimand. If I needed it, I’d have it and those outside wouldn’t detect it unless it left the mist. It was like a thorny bramble patch without a path, providing something of a twisted sense of security.

I needed it.

The thought made my small heart stutter and shake. Instinct nearly took over, my lungs desperate to compensate, before I clamped a hand over my mouth and inhaled through my nose. The mist whorled and reached for my face, slipping past as I staggered forward, boots squelching in the mud.

I see him. Both of him.

We’d been gathered around the table again. Dad…Dad was waving around ink and ruin film stained gloves as he regaled us with a line up of the day’s client request - some fellows demanding full reinscriptions over chips or another insisting a pile of rubble just needed a quick fix. Durnin was leaning forward, stew set aside and elbows propped against the ruin-inscribed wood as he savored each word, feasting on even the slightest mention of magic. Then his eyes turned.

My heart thudded, and my fingers curled around the fabric of my shirt.

The excuse came - it always did. We knew it was magic, a curse of some sort, yet he shut down any mention of it when the subject was broached.

The packed dirt and clay of the entrance faded into the grasp of misty claws. The damp clung to my face and wound around my ankles, pulling me in towards the Misting Well. It lounged to make a Husk of me. Yet, for now, the warmth was enough.

‘Keep the Alegoan on your tongue as long as you can,’ Hershen had repeated. The smooth pale stone had been cool when it had been placed in my mouth, but that had already begun to change. ‘If the burning grows too intense, swallow, but know your timer’s been set. Once it has fully dissolved, you will be vulnerable to the mist. And, I’m not sure we’ll be able to save you.’

Me neither you crazy old mage. Me neither.

Slipping a hand into my robe, I felt for a nearly invisible seam sewn among yellowed ruins. A whisper would have undone it with less effort, though not worth the risk each breath already posed. Instead, I pried it open, locking my fingers around the vial sealed within.

I’d breached my own masking wards but it was worth any reprimand. If I needed it, I’d have it and those outside wouldn’t detect it unless it left the mist. It was like a thorny bramble patch without a path, providing something of a twisted sense of security.

I needed it.

The thought made my small heart stutter and shake. Instinct nearly took over, my lungs desperate to compensate, before I clamped a hand over my mouth and inhaled through my nose. The mist whorled and reached for my face, slipping past as I staggered forward, boots squelching in the mud.

I see him. Both of him.

We’d been gathered around the table again. Dad…Dad was waving around ink and ruin film stained gloves as he regaled us with a line up of the day’s client request - some fellows demanding full reinscriptions over chips or another insisting a pile of rubble just needed a quick fix. Durnin was leaning forward, stew set aside and elbows propped against the ruin-inscribed wood as he savored each word, feasting on even the slightest mention of magic. Then his eyes turned.

My heart thudded, and my fingers curled around the fabric of my shirt.

The excuse came - it always did. We knew it was magic, a curse of some sort, yet he shut down any mention of it when the subject was broached.

The packed dirt and clay of the entrance faded into the grasp of misty claws. The damp clung to my face and wound around my ankles, pulling me in towards the Misting Well. It lounged to make a Husk of me. Yet, for now, the warmth was enough.

‘Keep the Alegoan on your tongue as long as you can,’ Hershen had repeated. The smooth pale stone had been cool when it had been placed in my mouth, but that had already begun to change. ‘If the burning grows too intense, swallow, but know your timer’s been set. Once it has fully dissolved, you will be vulnerable to the mist. And, I’m not sure we’ll be able to save you.’

Me neither you crazy old mage. Me neither.

Slipping a hand into my robe, I felt for a nearly invisible seam sewn among yellowed ruins. A whisper would have undone it with less effort, though not worth the risk each breath already posed. Instead, I pried it open, locking my fingers around the vial sealed within.

I’d breached my own masking wards but it was worth any reprimand. If I needed it, I’d have it and those outside wouldn’t detect it unless it left the mist. It was like a thorny bramble patch without a path, providing something of a twisted sense of security.

I needed it.

The thought made my small heart stutter and shake. Instinct nearly took over, my lungs desperate to compensate, before I clamped a hand over my mouth and inhaled through my nose. The mist whorled and reached for my face, slipping past as I staggered forward, boots squelching in the mud.

I see him. Both of him.

We’d been gathered around the table again. Dad…Dad was waving around ink and ruin film stained gloves as he regaled us with a line up of the day’s client request - some fellows demanding full reinscriptions over chips or another insisting a pile of rubble just needed a quick fix. Durnin was leaning forward, stew set aside and elbows propped against the ruin-inscribed wood as he savored each word, feasting on even the slightest mention of magic. Then his eyes turned.

My heart thudded, and my fingers curled around the fabric of my shirt.

The excuse came - it always did. We knew it was magic, a curse of some sort, yet he shut down any mention of it when the subject was broached.