Metal was an irritating thing to magick. It was not like the soft, pliable flesh of men. It was not like the capricious flowing of the stirring air or of the trickling water. Metal did not bend. Metal did not yield. It, unlike the earth, did not break. It, unlike fire, did not change. Truly, Willem could not help but notice, metal was strange.

To channel magic into metal, one had to find the lattice and sent power through it. It was a curious thing—the lattice was like a fine web, or like the grain in wood. Pressing magic against the lattice was like trying to cut against the grain, with barrier after barrier dispersing the energy. The first time that he had tried enchanting a runeblade, Willem had fallen into that fallacy; forty minutes of effort had left him with no progress and completely drained of mahji.

Yet unlike the grain in wood or muscle, the metal lattice was unorganized in its structure. Folding and hammering left the strips uneven to find, and often when he wanted to send the mahji to a point, the path ended before reaching the destination. Carve the runes, he told himself irritatedly, and then fill them with power. That blasted demon had made it sound so simple, but trying to get the mahji to reach the runes was like solving a maze each time.

Once more, he reached inside himself for the mahji, rubbed his fingers against the hollow runes that had been carved into the steel in the spine of the blade. Carefully he felt the ribbons of magic pour through his arms and out of his fingers, into the metal. The material ate it greedily, swallowing more and more of his mahji as he tried to direct it. It was like a flood being poured into a hundred rivers, and he was trying to find which river reached the lake. And yet, as he pressed more and more mahji, it felt as though none of the paths were successful. The rivers all tried up, the flood receding, and he opened his eyes to see the purple sparks of mahji crackling helplessly on the surface of the steel. Useless, he thought as he gasped for breath, trying to resist the frustrated urge to throw the blade on the ground.

A slight rattle off to the side distracted him from his word, and he looked up to see a familiar face drop off a few more swords in a crate. It was a moment before Willem recalled who it was—the wounded legionary that had came to him for aid. The arm seemed to have healed as well as it could have without a Me’jai in the camp, although he still kept it bandaged and treated well with salve.

“They have you doing manual labor then?” Willem asked, startling the man somewhat until a distracted blush crept across his face.

“Aye. I can’t fight much with a wounded arm, so they won’t have me doing drills either. In any case, there’s too many men in camp and not enough people drawing short straws for logistics, so—” He shrugged, smiling lightly. “Besides, we can always use more latrines.”

Willem nodded, something that he hoped passed for a smile stretching across his face as well, in spite of his mood. It was good to see someone else in higher spirits, and it felt good to see that he had helped. Crows, how long has it been since I felt like I was truly helping? And not this damned smith work either—helping lives. He shook his head gently, for he knew the answer to that question as well: too long. Too long practicing, not enough time spent doing.

Willem looked up to see the man making his way back to the camp, awkwardly rubbing his sore arm. He could see the other soldiers drilling in the field, could hear the shouts of the Swords and Shields and could hear the grunts of the legionaries. He could even see the demons wrestling in the mud, the pups squabbling amongst themselves as children were prone to do. The air was punctuated with the shrill staccato of their calls, occasionally sizzling and popping as gouts of flame spat out of their mouths. Yet there was a strange peace that hung in the air from the whole scene, something that was rare to find in these days and would only grow rarer.

He should have known the peace would not last.

Shouts filled the air to the west, towards the plains by the Kingsroad, where the horses had been set out to graze. Willem looked over to see some of the horses behaving strangely, buckling over and collapsing to the ground with strange twitches. Hurriedly, he set the blade down onto the ground, hardly caring as the steel rattled harshly against the stone. His attention was instead fixed on the strange animals, as their legs buckled and suddenly twisted in a hideous motion. It was something abhorrent, something warped, as if he was watching their reflection in a shattered mirror.

One after one, the animals collapsed with loud brays, attracting a handful of legionaries to rush over. No! Willem thought hurriedly, yet his body was two steps behind his mind. His claws were outstretched, the air rushing through his lungs, but his throat had yet to give birth to voice when the ground under the horses suddenly shimmered. No! No, no, no… Willem could only think in belated terror as a familiar black smoke billowed off the ground.

Those three soldiers tried to stop, but their momentum carried them forwards in spite of their wishes. Their boots dug into the ground, dust and dirt mingling with that black mist as the shadows under the horses writhed and twisted. The men’s faces were covered with fear, with a mingled terror as the skal lunged towards them.

In an instant, there was the sickening squelch of flesh and bone, the violent spray of crimson that fountained into the air. That curtain of blood froze as it touched the black mist, like some grotesque work of art as the men turned rigid, impaled on those spears of shadow. Then, their flesh turning gray and black, they began to crumble into dust in the wind.

“Stay back!” Willem shouted out at some of the legionaries that seemed to want to help their friends. He bolted towards the horses, desperation and anger filling him as he ran. I was helpless last time. I was useless last time.

But this time, I’m ready.

Reaching for the pit of his stomach, he found the mahji there coiled, as if waiting for him. It looped easily in his grasp, pulled up through his limbs as if nothing more than string. And as he felt that wild power crackling through him, purple mahji rippled out of his claws to trail behind him in a storm. Exhilaration filled him as he ran, an exuberance that came with success.

He was fond of wind, but wind would not kill the skal. Only one thing could harm the shadows: only fire could make them crumble back into ash. Burn! He thought excitedly, feeling the mahji accede to his demands in a way that it never had before. Smolder and burn!

That black mist stirred in the wind, but Willem clapped his claws out in front of him so that the ribbons of mahji coiled in the air before him. Those cords of arcane power blasted the mist apart with a crackling hiss, like that of ice sublimating to steam. BURN! He urged the mahji, pleaded with it as the ribbons danced near the twisting shadows. And finally, like a blessed light, he saw that first spark catch in front of his claws.

It spread into an inferno in an instant, the entire length of mahji bursting into brilliant white-orange. The air rippled with an explosion of heat, his vision going white from the sudden change. Even his lungs seemed to be seared by the flame, as if the air inside of him had abruptly gained a thousand degrees. Pain shot through his mind as he nearly crumpled over in surprise, but he fought to remain standing. Yes! He tried to maintain focus. This was it.

His vision was blinded for the moment, but he could still hear. He could hear the crackling of the flame, that telltale popping noise of mahji as it burned. And he could hear the hissing screams of the skal, that beautiful chorus of noise as the black shadows were swallowed by flame. As his sight began to recover, he could spy those dark bodies dancing in the middle of the white, struggling in some way to put out the fire in futility. He watched as their bodies grew smaller and smaller, more and more of them being burnt into unmoving, glorious ash.

It could not happen fast enough.

Riding his high of adrenaline and exuberance, Willem let out an involuntary howl of success as the fire poured out of his claws. More! MORE! The skal twitched and screamed and died in front of him, surrounded by the blaze. And then, they were utterly extinguished.

Finally, Willem severed the flow of mahji to the flame, feeling a sensation of emptiness and lethargy suddenly well up inside of him as if it had merely been suppressed before. It struck him like a wall and he collapsed, coughing madly as his lungs were seared by heat and smoke. Blood splattered on the grass in front of him, a throbbing pain twitching in the pit of his stomach as he suffered the backlash of his spell. Blood and bones, he cursed inwardly as he felt the edges of his vision dotting black. Too much magic, I drew too much.

Then there was no more time for thoughts, as sleep snuck up on him and stole them away.