I could not say how long I stood there, staring at nothing. A complicated mess of emotions ran through me, most of which I could not name. The strongest of these was...not guilt or regret but something close to that.

  These bandits were not good people. They had hurt, likely even killed innocents, and shown no hint of remorse in the process. They were not here hiding, ruminating on their mistakes, or fleeing. I had no doubt that they would go on to harm more if left to their own affairs.

  But who was I to pass down judgment? I was not some lord or magistrate. I was a mage, and not even a particularly strong one. Yet I had so easily stepped into the role of a butcher, cutting down dozens without nearly as much hesitation as I should feel.

  I considered it for a few more seconds, then shook my head and banished those worries before they could take root. Ultimately, it did not matter. Authority and moral standing were meaningless. I had done what I felt was needed, and that was the end of it.

  My spear remained stuck fast, but a quick tug tore it free from the bandit's body. His corpse slumped forward, toppling out of the chair to collapse in a heap on the ground. I stared for a moment, then shook my head again and moved deeper into his 'home.'

  The tent was massive, a multi-room affair, the type I might expect from a wealthy merchant or a mage on a wartime campaign. The central chamber was the entrance, occupied by a rapidly cooling corpse and some furniture, and the right held his bed, a dresser filled with ostentatious outfits, and a bookshelf with various oddities and knickknacks. The leftmost of the three rooms was, as a result, the most interesting.

  Boxes, chests, and shelves lined the room, forming a jumble that was at once cluttered but organized. Books sat in neat rows, the spines decorated with gold lettering that declared their title. I plucked one from the lot, flipping it open to a page and random. The writing within was neat, clean, and flowing, clearly the mark of a trained expert rather than the mass-production type seen with less valuable works.

  I set the tome back and knelt, flipping open one of the chests at random. A violin sat within, carved of wood so polished I could have counted the freckles on my face if I had any in the first place. I plucked one of the strings before closing the lid and moving on to the next. This one, smaller than the first, held a stone statue depicting a bird of prey. Its eyes glittered in the lantern light, and I realized they were carved of some clear, shimmering gemstone.

  It took me some time to search the entire room, and when it was done, any lingering remorse I had for my actions vanished like water on a summer's day.

  The sheer wealth here was not the sort of ill-gotten fortune acquired from one or two unlucky merchants. No, this was the product of years of banditry. It boggled the mind that they had gotten away with it for so long, but the reason why was not hard to puzzle out.

  No one cared enough to stop them. Sure, the merchants who escaped would have reason to want revenge, but how many would possess the wealth or connections to press the issue? Killing a camp of this size would usually take at least a half-dozen trained warriors, if not more. At that thought, a new emotion rose within me.

  Disgust.

  I had killed them all without so much as a scratch, and I was still weaker than most combat-trained adepts. If I could do this, so could they. If we cared, we could have solved this problem. But we let it fester like a wasting plague.

  A flicker of guilt passed through me as I thought of the minor injustices I had never noticed. I pushed it aside, instead busying myself with checking the rest of the camp for anything valuable. Returning these possessions to their owners was impossible, so I might as well put them to use.

  Night had well and truly fallen by the time I was finished. I found myself with the leader's tent, filling one of several packs with as much treasure as I could feasibly carry.

  This little diversion would refill my coffers, and it had allowed me to test my magic, but that did not change facts. This was a diversion at the end of the day, little more than a waste of time. My pursuers remained, my problems loomed, and a solution had not presented itself.

  Maybe...maybe I could return to Aresford. The city was far off the beaten path, and I doubted many would think to search there. What's more, the Aether-infused waters might hold new wisdom to plumb thanks to my experiences over the last few months. I had not grown as fast as I wanted on my second trip to the city, but my third might prove more fruitful.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  But I knew that would ultimately waste more time. At some point during this past year, I had lost it. My drive had shifted, and I had begun meandering. Maybe it was the apparent glut of time or the sudden freedom, but something had changed.

  I needed to rediscover what truly pushed me. Or rather, what pushed magic in general. The answer came without bidding.

  Friction.

  It was the constant push and pull between what we knew and what we wanted to know, what we could do and what we wished to do, that drove magical innovation. But I needed more than just that. I needed something pushing me, a looming threat rather than something far-off and amorphous.

  I thought back to the times of my greatest growth. Those first few months, when magic felt new and unknown or my battle against the monster within the waters, when death loomed like a specter. Or when I dueled with Flynn Sion, knowing it was an unwinnable duel but also—

  An idea came to me like the sun breaking through storm clouds. It was implausible, a gamble far likelier to fail than succeed, but it might be my best chance so long as I could make it into a reality.

  The first inklings of a plan rose in my thoughts, daring, bold, risky as hell. But if it worked, I would not only save myself from those assassins but ensure years of steady growth. And if I failed, well...

  Well, I would just be sure not to fail. Simple enough.

  I dug through the bandit's things, pulling out a few sheets of paper. It took me a few minutes to write out a letter in small, neat handwriting. I had to avoid any identifiable clues as to my identity, which proved a unique challenge since I also needed the recipient to piece it together. In other circumstances, it might be an intriguing challenge.

  When I finished, I picked up my newly acquired treasure, sent a message to Fortunatus, and walked out of the camp and back into the forest. I might not be above looting their bodies, but I would be damned if I spent the night in their camp.

  The following morning, we set off for Hillsvale. I came upon the town several hours after sunrise. It was a wide town built on the predictably uneven ground of the plains. The outer perimeter consisted of homes and farms, but I walked past those and headed for the settlement's heart.

  Multiple shops, two inns, a hotel, and several towering homes just shy of mansions cluttered the central street, forming the 'heart' of Hillsvale. Dozens of people walked along the sides of the road, dipping into and out of shops.

  I was sure Hillsvale would grow into a city someday, but that day was decades off. Thankfully, it was more than large enough for my purposes.

  My first stop was a shop catering to luxury goods. The thin, excitable man behind the counter looked ready to fall over in shock when I pulled out an entire backpack full of jewelry, carved sculptures, and intricate paintings rolled up within hollow, protective tubes.

  If the shopkeeper had questions about where I had acquired such things, he kept them to himself. I suspected the bulk of this was greed, as I made only paltry efforts at haggling. Despite that, I left the shop far wealthier than I had entered.

  I started down the street with my pack refilled with traveling supplies and rations, only half-hoping to find what I needed. Luck was on my side, and I soon spotted a small building emblazoned with the image of a bird with wings spread beside the door.

  Nobles considered non-magical couriers beneath them. Spells could ferry messages vast distances instantly, and only a mage could safely carry valuable and potent arcane treasures. I would prefer to use magic myself, but I was far closer to a beggar than a chooser.

  The woman behind the counter was all smiles as she informed me delivering my letter would take at least a month, if not longer. She had a limited number of birds trained to carry letters, as she so helpfully informed me, and there was a waiting list already.

  I had the brief satisfaction of watching her polite smile break into absolute shock when I offered to pay five times the standard rate. Suddenly, my letter was her utmost priority, and I left the shop with multiple promises that my message would be delivered within the week.

  For a moment, I debated staying within the town. I had passed a tavern, and the prospect of a warm meal, a soft bed, and a proper bath tempted me like nothing else.

  Then, the cold burn of steel slicing my flesh rose in my memories. I barely broke stride as I walked out of the town, leaving behind the fantasy of comfort in favor of the open road.

  Fortunatus and I set off on a path to the northeast. I had a destination in mind, and the bandits had 'donated' a compass and map to help guide my way. Those two, along with the supplies I had purchased in Hillsvale, would make the trip far easier.

  I pushed us hard, using the opportunity to practice my magic further. Aether Body had reached a point where I could maintain it almost constantly, so long as I did not draw too heavily upon my mana. For most, that might be good enough, but I wanted to do better than just 'good enough.'

  Each day became a blur. I pushed myself to run as long as possible, drawing Aether through my body in smooth, clean rivers. There were little imperfections, places where the flow caught, and times when my focus waned, but I pushed onward. Slowly, day by day, I ground down those flaws into nothing, feeling mastery inch ever closer.

  Summer had begun to wane, though the days remained oppressive under the sun. I continued traveling by night and, by some minor miracle, the assassins never found me. If they knew where I was, they had chosen not to attack me.

  I reached my destination about ten days after leaving Hillsvale. It was a small campsite, a clearing carved out along the side of the road for traveling merchants, mages, and so on. I had visited it with my friends a year prior, and returning had a certain bittersweet nostalgia.

  As it turned out, I was not the first to arrive. A party of about a dozen men and women stood there already. They wore fine armor of the sort I had never seen outside of a ducal house's private guards. Horses munched on grass nearby, and a few tents had already been set up.

  Yet none of them drew my attention as much as the oppressive mana signature. It hung over the camp like a blazing sun, powerful enough to verge on a threat simply by existing. I had sensed that energy before and noted with some irritation that it felt at least two stages more advanced than I remembered.

  The owner of said mana signature sat in the center of the camp. His golden hair was longer than I remembered, the ends curling in a deliberately carefree style. His face was a little sharper and his build wider, as if he had taken to exercise in the past year. He wore finery of white and gold, the kind of attire you would wear to a banquet, and I idly wondered how he had kept it so clean.

  The man's gaze landed on me, and I saw amber eyes behind classes sparkle with amusement and interest in equal parts. A grin came to his face, and he stood with the casual confidence of a person wholly in control of the situation.

  Flynn Sion placed both hands on his hips, planting himself upright as he smiled at me. "And here I was thinking you'd never show up."

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