The Shattered Crowns

P.O.V. Mirak

Pages of books glided beneath Mirak's fingers as he read, his gaze skimming line after line with fervor. He breathed in deeply, the faint tang of dust rising from the myriad of tomes surrounding him. Some books told stories recited time and again, while others chronicled the silent struggles of forgotten heroes. Mirak flicked through another, pausing to rub at his eyes. Yet, none of them explained Harmony or the elusive Atta.

He stared at his hands, his thoughts adrift, as he reread a passage that gave no answers. Mentions of Harmony were fleeting, no more than whispers in the margins. Every author spoke of an awakening, but the details eluded him. All they said was that it was essential to becoming a Sorcerer. But what was it?

A knock at the door pulled him from his musings, followed by his mother's warm voice.

"Dear, dinner is ready."

"I'll be down in a second," Mirak called back. He shut the book gently and scampered downstairs, the scent of stew drawing him toward the kitchen. His mother stood over the small fire, stirring the pot. She glanced up and smiled at him.

"Hurry, or the stew will grow cold," she said, ladling a portion into a wooden bowl.

Mirak wasted no time, scooping the stew into his mouth. His mother sat beside him, placing a gentle kiss atop his head.

"You'll need to eat everything if you want to grow as tall as your father," she teased.

"I'm already taller than Daenys and some of the other villagers," Mirak said, puffing out his chest.

His mother winked. "Last I checked, Akash still has a good head on you."

"Mom!" Mirak groaned, his voice pitching high with exasperation.

"Hush now," she chided, fighting back a laugh. "Finish your meal, then you can go to the library. I know you're dying to." Her smile softened. "I'll be working late tonight."

Mirak grinned and scarfed down the rest of the stew, earning a stern look.

"What have I told you about manners? You need to eat with a spoon," his mother said, hands on her hips, her posture radiating motherly authority.

"But Mom, everyone else eats with their hands!" Mirak protested.

Her lips pursed as she crossed her arms, though amusement twinkled in her hazel eyes. "My father always said manners impress a girl the most." She hid her smile behind her hand. "You never know when you'll sweep in and steal a princess's heart."

She toyed with one of her long chestnut braids, her voice turning dreamy.

"Just imagine it, Mirak: you, dashing and brave, sneaking into a castle to rescue a princess. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

Mirak blinked at her, expression blank. "No. I don't want to be a thief."

"Oh, dear husband, forgive me," she said theatrically, throwing herself onto the table. "I've raised an apathetic young man. I've failed as a mother!"

Mirak shook his head, finishing his meal as she carried on her antics. Her hazel eyes met his black, warm and full of pride despite her teasing.

He stood, kissed the top of her head, and grabbed a book from the Midnight Summer Festival.

"I'm heading to the library. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No, I'll be fine. Go study. You'll need the knowledge to become a Sorcerer," she replied. Then her voice softened. "It may not mean much from me, but I believe in you, Mirak. No matter what the Sorceress says, you'll achieve everything you set your heart on. Mirak Windgust, the greatest Sorcerer of all time."

"Thanks, Mom." His voice was quiet, touched.

She cupped his cheek. "You look so much like your father. Keep that look on your face, and the girls will be chasing after you."

"I love you, Mom," Mirak said, his words sincere.

Her hand stilled, resting on his cheek. "And your father would be proud. He'd be proud of the man you're becoming."

Her tone grew wistful as she continued. "He was quite the dashing hero, you know. He used to read me poetry when we were younger." A soft smile crossed her lips, though her words carried the weight of old pain.

His father's memory lingered in the house like a fading echo. A gallant knight, his mother always said. He'd swept her away from a keep and a loveless life, only to pass away a few years after Mirak was born.

Mirak smiled gently. "I'll be back later."

"Just don't spend the entire night there. You need sleep, my little Sorcerer," she said, her teasing tone returning.

Mirak lingered at the door for a moment, glancing back at the small home. A pang of hesitation tugged at him. His mother had returned to cleaning the dishes, her movements automatic, a quill tucked between her lips as she likely prepared one of her endless lectures for the village children.

He gripped the door handle tightly, his resolve wavering.

What would she think when he told her he was leaving? Would she hate him for it?

A knot of dread coiled in his stomach, twisting tighter with every second. Maybe he should tell her now. No—if he told her tonight, it would only hurt her more. His hand drifted to the note tucked in his pocket, written carefully in High Astadish to impress her. Only a few people in the village even knew how to read the language. It had to be this way. This was for the best.

His mother's voice broke the silence. "You're still here, Mirak?"

He startled slightly, then masked his unease with a hasty excuse. "I was just thinking I should grab some food for the old man."

"That's kind of you," she said with a faint smile. "He can have some of the soup. It's good for the soul."

Mirak suppressed a snort. The librarian only let him in because of the food bribes. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he ladled a portion of the soup into a container, waved a final goodbye, and stepped into the cool night.

The quieter streets of the village felt almost eerie at this hour. Mirak's boots echoed against the worn wood of the swaying bridges as he passed through the older, less-traveled section of town. Here, the hum of machinery and the clamor of life faded into stillness.

Eventually, he arrived at his destination: a quaint, weathered building tucked into the shadows. Wicker lamps hung from the eaves, casting a warm, flickering glow against the glass-paned windows.

Mirak rapped on the wooden door, the sound sharp in the silence.

"Who's there?" came a hoarse voice from within.

"It's me, Mirak," he replied. "I've come to look through a few more books."

"Go away." The voice coughed.

Mirak raised the bag of soup slightly. "What a shame. I was going to share some of Mom's soup. She always says soup keeps the soul happy."

There was a pause, then the door creaked open a fraction. A haggard old man peeked out, his face lined with suspicion. "Soup?"

"Freshly made," Mirak said, holding it up like a prized jewel.

The old man's scowl deepened as he weighed his options. Finally, with a grumble, he opened the door fully. "Fine. Get in here. But no questions this time."

Mirak stepped inside, the familiar smell of parchment and aged wood enveloping him. The library was small, cluttered with stacks of books and loose papers.

As Mirak handed over the soup, the hermit's brow furrowed. "This isn't meat soup. It's rice porridge."

"We had no meat," Mirak replied with a shrug. "And you're the one who always says no questions."

The hermit muttered something under his breath, retreating to his desk with the food. Mirak's eyes scanned the room, landing on a pile of new books in the corner. He pulled one from the stack, running his fingers over the forest-green cover outlined in gold.

The title read: Witches, Wizards, and the Roads They Travel.

"Really?" Mirak asked, raising a brow at the old man.

"One of the merchants tossed it in without charge," the hermit replied between bites of porridge.

Mirak turned the book over in his hands, noting its light but sturdy feel. After a moment's consideration, he placed it back down. "No use for fairy tales," he muttered.

"No imagination, that's your problem," the hermit retorted. "Fairy tales have lessons, boy. They spark creativity, make you think. Unlike those pompous Sorcerers you idolize, always chasing 'hard truths.'"

Mirak ignored the jab. "You told me to read more stories, but half of them are impossible. They exaggerate everything. Sorcerers at least deal in reality."

The hermit leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Only impossible if you limit yourself to thinking that way."

Mirak opened his mouth to argue, but the words faltered. He let the matter drop, instead pulling out a smaller book from his pack. The title read: The Awakening and Its Importance in Lorian.

It was barely the size of his palm, but its contents filled him with hope. Maybe this one would finally explain what Awakening meant.

Flipping through the pages, Mirak skimmed over the opening chapters. They detailed the three laws governing Atta, the first being that every action upon it produced an equal and opposite reaction. The prose was dense, but he searched the text with determination.

Finally, he asked, "What does 'acceleration' mean?"

The hermit sighed, holding out a hand. "Let me see that."

Mirak handed over the book, watching as the older man nodded to himself while reading. "Acceleration is the rate at which an object's speed changes," the hermit explained. "Like when you run. The faster you increase your pace, the greater the acceleration."

Mirak furrowed his brow, thinking it through. "So when the book says Atta's force depends on acceleration, it just means—"

"It means the faster the change in speed, the stronger the force," the hermit interrupted with a grunt. "Pompous nobles always overcomplicate things to sound clever."

Mirak's mind raced. "Is that why Sorcerers try to keep their distance in fights? To give themselves more time to build up Atta's acceleration?"

"Could be," the hermit admitted. "But you'd need a Sorcerer to answer that for sure."

"I'm working on it," Mirak said, his scowl returning.

The hermit smirked faintly but said nothing. They settled into their usual rhythm: Mirak reading in silence, occasionally asking for clarification, and the hermit responding with curt but thoughtful explanations. Hours slipped by unnoticed.

Eventually, Mirak sighed and closed the book. "Most of these words still make no sense."

"You'll figure them out," the hermit replied offhandedly.

Mirak glanced out the window, wincing at the darkened sky. He had spent longer here than intended. Rising, he gathered his belongings.

"I should go," he said.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," the hermit muttered, though his tone was more amused than gruff.

At the door, Mirak hesitated. "When I get back, I'll explain everything to you for once."

The hermit chuckled. "We'll see, boy. Maybe when you return, I'll finally share that drink with you. The great Mirak Windgust, Sorcerer of legend."

Mirak stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing against his face. The soft crackle of torches mounted near the village's center lent a faint glow to the forested surroundings, but beyond the reach of the flames, darkness enveloped the world.

The trees swayed and groaned, their boughs creaking with the weight of the night wind. Somewhere in the distance, a lone howl pierced the quiet, sending a shiver racing down Mirak's spine. He adjusted the strap of his pack and set off, his boots crunching softly against the dirt paths as he headed home.

The village was peaceful at this hour—almost too peaceful. Most homes had dimmed their lights, and the usual chatter of villagers was absent. Mirak crouched behind a vendor's stall still set up in the marketplace, scanning his surroundings. Then, near the heart of the great tree at the village's center, he spotted her.

Winter Blackwood.

The Sorceress stood motionless, her slim figure outlined in the flickering torchlight. She was still wearing the pale dress from the festival, its silver embroidery glinting faintly. Leaves danced around her in spiraling vortices, moving unnaturally, as though responding to her silent will.

Mirak crept closer, keeping to the shadows, his heart hammering in his chest. He crouched low behind a barrel, just close enough to hear her murmuring to herself.

"It always clears my head to stand out here and draw upon you," she said, her voice soft, almost reverent.

For a moment, Mirak's breath hitched. Was she speaking to him? No. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the sky above, her hand outstretched as the leaves continued their ghostly dance. She wasn't aware of his presence—or so he hoped.

She continued, her words quiet yet tinged with a weight that sent a shiver down his spine.

"The flowing fields of Atta barely touch this forest. It's a mystery why it pools so heavily in places like Koona or Astad, yet trickles so thinly here in the south." Her hand curled into a fist, and the leaves fell lifelessly to the ground. "Perhaps this journey wasn't wasted, though. I've encountered two anomalies. One with promise for Harmony training… and the other."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, her tone sharp and calculating. "An Impresa mark."

Mirak froze, his heart skipping a beat. Could she be talking about him? His chest swelled with hope, though he fought to tamp it down. He didn't dare move.

Winter's expression darkened, her hand lowering as she turned slightly, the torchlight casting sharp shadows across her face. "Why did a possible Exalted appear now? If he holds an Annealed blade, then another would grace Lorian. But they're supposed to be extinct. Dead and gone, all of them."

She exhaled sharply, her voice laced with frustration. "I'll have to tread carefully. If word of this reaches the Tower, the other Sorcerers will call for the Exalted's execution immediately. They'd see him as a threat to their power. No matter his potential, no matter his use… they're fools. Every last one of them."

Mirak's mind reeled. Exalted? An Annealed blade? What did it all mean? Was she truly speaking of him—or someone else? His curiosity burned, but he knew better than to linger.

As silently as he could, he slipped away, retracing his steps through the empty streets. The weight of Winter's words clung to him, a knot of worry and excitement tightening in his chest.

By the time he reached his home, the village was shrouded in its deepest hour of night. The shadows of the trees loomed larger, and the torches burned low, their flickering light casting long, shifting shapes against the wooden walls of the houses.

Mirak pushed the door open slowly, careful not to make a sound. The little home was quiet, his mother already fast asleep. A single candle burned faintly on the table, its wax pooling beneath the weak flame.

He stormed into his room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The room was cramped but familiar, its shelves filled with books and trinkets he'd collected over the years. He slumped against the door, pulling the note from his pocket.

His fingers traced the edges of the parchment, the careful script he'd written in High Astadish staring back at him. He had worked on this letter for weeks, agonizing over the phrasing, perfecting each stroke of ink. This was how he'd tell her.

She would understand. She had to.

But doubt gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. What if she didn't? What if she begged him to stay? Could he bring himself to leave then?

He shoved the note back into his pocket, his jaw tightening. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd make his choice.