It was past midnight, and the adults were still talking in circles—asking the same questions again and again, just dressed in different words. The answers hadn’t changed, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Rishmond, Cantor, and the rest of the group had returned with Torg about half an hour after sundown. Late, but not so late that anyone had begun to panic. Halmond and Beritrude were clearly unhappy—stern voices, stiff posture—but not furious. That changed the moment the children introduced them to Torg.

The reaction was immediate. The kids were rushed inside, herded through the door while Torg was left standing alone on the raised porch. Halmond took up position in the doorway like a sentry, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the golem—never mind that the children had already spent hours with him on the journey back.

Rishmond took the lead, recounting the story they’d all agreed on before leaving the chamber of the Goddess Denisisie beneath the sea. He told how they’d found an odd crystal jutting out of the sand just as they were preparing to head home, and how curiosity had led them to spend over an hour digging out the small golem.

He did his best to keep the story grounded and believable, while the others chimed in with occasional details—Cantor gesturing wildly, Drak interrupting more than once, Toby offering quiet corrections. The adults had to pause the retelling several times, either to clarify some part or to calm the excited chaos of six kids trying to speak at once.

“So I can talk to it? And it’ll understand me—and talk back?” Halmond asked at one point, his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Rishmond replied. “His name is Torg.”

Halmond turned to the golem, narrowing his eyes. “You! Torg! What are you, and what business do you have here?”

There was something off in his tone—guarded, maybe even anxious. Rishmond and Toby had never heard that edge in Halmond’s voice before.

Torg spoke for the first time since they’d arrived.

“Hello. I am Torg, servant of the Goddess Denisisie. My business here is to find my mistress. In pursuit of that goal, the Wizard Rishmond and his team have brought me here to seek the aid of the Wizard Tybour, who Rishmond believes may be able to help me locate Denisisie and the other Gods.

“It is my understanding that you believe the Gods to be gone from this world. That cannot be true. The Gods promised they would always remain for the sake of mortals.

“I was buried in the sand on a beach, unable to move or call out. I do not know how I came to be there, but I have been inactive for over 300 turns. I mean you no harm. In fact, I can no more harm a mortal than I could fly.”

Halmond turned in the doorway and met Beritrude’s eyes. Something passed between them—silent, weighted. Then Halmond spoke, his voice low with disbelief.

“A servant of the Goddess Denisisie...”

Beritrude shifted her gaze to the teen-agers. She held out a hand, palm down—a clear signal to stay put—then stepped forward to stand beside Halmond.

“You’re here to search for the Gods?” she asked Torg. Her voice was soft, strained. “Do you know what happened to them? Where they went?”

There was no suspicion in her tone, only a deep yearning. The return of the Gods was more than anyone dared hope for. Life, for the most part, had found balance in their absence—but their presence had once shaped the world. Most mortals still carried that absence like a wound.

A few more cautious questions followed, and then, after a long pause, Torg was invited inside.

Beritrude offered him a seat and refreshments out of habit. Torg declined both with gentle politeness, explaining that as a construct, he had no need to sit, eat, drink—or even breathe.

Halmond, still visibly on edge, left the house and crossed next door to alert the neighbors. Within minutes, a rider on a fast horse was dispatched to the castle with urgent instructions: summon the First Mage Tybour, Ele Walsing, and any other Wizards available. Something ancient had awoken—and the realm needed to know.

Tybour arrived first, stepping through a portal that shimmered into existence just above the roof of the house. He landed lightly in the front yard, his cloak billowing with calculated flair, and entered the room as he always did—radiating confidence, brimming with energy, and fully expecting to take command of the situation.

He went straight to Rishmond without so much as a glance at the golem standing in the center of the room.

“My boy!” he boomed, throwing an arm around Rishmond and pulling him into a fierce, back-cracking embrace. “I knew you were destined for greatness!” he declared, as if this moment were the inevitable result of a prophecy he himself had authored.

Then, still grinning, he turned to Cantor, took her hand with exaggerated elegance, and kissed it with a flourish. Cantor’s face lit up crimson, and she quickly looked away, caught between flustered embarrassment and shy pride.

Tybour moved to Halmond next. Their greeting was all forearms and shoulder claps—soldierly and boisterous, like old comrades reunited after war.

Tybour greeted Beritrude with kisses on both cheeks, then pulled her into a warm embrace. “Beautiful as ever,” he said with a grin, gazing into her eyes.

She smiled back with a fondness that spoke of old memories and mutual respect.

Only then did Tybour’s eyes land on the golem.

Torg stood still in the middle of the little family room, his crystalline body gleaming faintly in the firelight. The only movement was his head, which had been tracking Tybour since his arrival with quiet, mechanical precision.

“Tybour,” Rishmond said, stepping forward with practiced courtesy. “This is Torg. Torg, meet the First Mage of Malminar, Tybour Insuritor.”

“A pleasure,” Torg said in his clipped, crystalline voice. “Wizard Rishmond has spoken highly of you. He believes you are the most suitable Wizard to assist me in my mission to locate the Gods and restore their attention to the mortal world.”

Tybour blinked, caught for a second off guard by the golem’s articulate speech.

“Yes. Well. Yes, of course,” he said, straightening his robes. He bent slightly to meet Torg at eye level, glancing sideways at Rishmond with a curious smirk. “Did he tell you the story of the Blessing?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

“We believe the Gods sealed themselves away from the mortal realm,” he said, his voice dipping into the familiar tone he used when giving lectures or speeches. “They were trying to rid us of the Demons once and for all. Something went wrong. The Demons remain—trapped, yes, but still present behind their barrier. And the Gods... are gone from Rit.”

Tybour turned back to the golem, his face still just inches away from Torg’s crystal features.

“We’ve been here over 300 turns,” he said, voice low, probing. “While you were buried in sand, I believe?” He lifted a brow. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Torg replied without hesitation. “It has been three hundred forty-one turns, four months, and eleven days, to be exact—based on both my internal timekeeping and the information provided by Wizard Rishmond. I have been inactive for that entire period.”

The golem tilted his head slightly.

“However,” he continued, “you have stated that no God has made contact with mortals in your lifetime. With respect, that means you have not witnessed their dedication or integrity firsthand. The Gods do not make mistakes. Nor do they lie. Ever.”

“Hmmm...” Tybour murmured, still standing over the golem, eyes narrowed in thought. “Then where might they be? Why don’t they answer us? Are they just... busy?”

He didn’t sound angry—more like a parent gently chiding a child for being late to dinner. Rishmond frowned, puzzled by the subtle sharpness in Tybour’s tone. It seemed oddly dismissive, even mildly rude, especially given Torg’s politeness.

Torg, however, showed no sign of offense.

“I cannot speak for the Gods, Wizard Tybour,” he replied calmly. “I can only share what I know to be true—and what I believe to be likely until proven otherwise.”

He paused a moment before continuing.

“Time does not flow the same for the Gods as it does for mortals—or even for me. I may be nearly immortal, but next to a God, my existence is brief and bounded. Yours, Good Wizard, is even more so.”

Torg tilted his head slightly, his tone remaining matter-of-fact. “No offense intended. It is simply truth. What feels to us like three hundred turns might be but a blink in the existence of a God.”

He looked up at Tybour with steady, unblinking eyes. “I cannot begin to fathom the full scope of their purpose, nor what might drive them to cease contact for such a span. But I trust there is a reason—and that it is not one born of indifference.”

“Tybour?” Rishmond asked hesitantly.

“Yes, Rishmond?” the First Mage replied, still watching Torg with a glint of curiosity.

“Do you see the flows of magic inside him? Inside Torg, I mean. And that dark blob—like obsidian—in his head? With the silver sparks shooting off it, like tiny fireworks?”

Tybour nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. Quite clearly, in fact.” He turned to look at Rishmond, brows raised. “Is that not what everyone sees?”

Rishmond shook his head. “No. I can see it... and so can Bollen. But none of the others can.” He glanced at his friends, then gestured toward them. “They don’t see any of it.”

Tybour’s expression sharpened with interest. “Fascinating.” He turned toward the adults. “Halmond? Berti?”

Both shook their heads.

“I see the golem, sure,” Halmond said. “But nothing inside him. No sparks, no blob, no... flows.”

Beritrude echoed him. “Same here. He looks... normal. Magical, yes. But not like that.”

Tybour folded his arms and regarded Rishmond with a thoughtful look. “Well now... That is interesting.”

Tybour shifted his attention fully to Torg, his tone becoming more analytical, the curiosity in his eyes sharpening.

He began asking questions—what materials Torg was made of, how his magical systems operated, what sustained his awareness, and whether he required external energy to function. Torg answered each one willingly and thoroughly, providing technical explanations in his clipped, formal voice.

But when Tybour’s questions turned to the golem’s origins—how he had been made, who had constructed him, what spells or techniques had forged his crystal body—Torg hesitated.

“I do not possess that information,” he said plainly. “I know when I was created—three hundred seventy-one turns ago. I was formed for a singular purpose, as instructed by the Goddess Denisisie: to aid Her in her great works. Secondary to that is to maintain Her sanctuary when she is gone and deliver worthy mortal Wizards to her should they come to my attention. My knowledge begins the moment I was activated. The process of my creation lies outside my awareness.”

Tybour frowned slightly, fingers stroking his chin. “No embedded memory of your own construction? Not even a framework?”

Torg’s head gave a slow, mechanical tilt. “No, Wizard Tybour. I was not designed to know such things. My function is to serve, to seek, and to report. I assume the nature of my creation was deemed irrelevant to my purpose.”

The little house had quickly been overwhelmed. Neighbors, Wizards, scholars, and curious onlookers all tried to squeeze into the cramped family room, jostling for a glimpse of Torg and a chance to hear his story firsthand—or, more often, to offer their unsolicited opinions about what ought to be done and by whom.

It didn’t take long before it became obvious that the space simply couldn’t hold them all.

That’s how, at midnight, they found themselves gathered in the town’s meeting hall. Dozens of important people milled about, voices rising in overlapping waves—debating the fate of the Gods, the nature of the golem, and what course of action should be taken next. Torg stood calmly amid the chaos, the eye of a growing storm of speculation, theory, and bureaucratic excitement.

Just after midnight, several local families arrived at the meeting hall carrying trays of food and pots of hot drink, eager to contribute to the gathering that had blossomed into a full-blown midnight assembly. The gesture was welcome—especially for Rishmond and Toby, who were finally able to sit down and eat after hours of excitement, questions, and standing on ceremony. Both were starving, and both were grateful for the brief lull in attention.

Among the offerings was a pot of acradious brew, its rich, earthy scent cutting through the room’s hum of conversation. Rishmond watched as Tybour poured himself a steaming cup, then proceeded to add a generous spoonful of sugar, followed by an equally generous splash of cream. Across the table, Haningway and Halmond took theirs black, grimacing in amusement.

“Sweet tooth, Tybour?” Halmond asked, raising a brow.

“I thought you were a grown man,” Haningway added with a smirk.

Tybour took the ribbing in stride, sipping with exaggerated satisfaction. “Some of us appreciate the finer things,” he said grandly, earning chuckles from both men.

The meeting hall buzzed with voices, and the crowd continued to grow. Only minutes after the group had settled in, the Mayor of Retinor arrived—his presence announced by the parting of townsfolk and the subtle straightening of a few backs. He wasted no time, repeating questions the Captain of the Guard had asked just moments earlier, much to the quiet exasperation of the kids.

Both men were Altemen and seemed particularly interested in Torg’s stated destination: the Glittergreen Mountains of The Reach.

“And why there, exactly?” the mayor asked, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

Torg answered with his usual calm. “The Goddess Denisisie was to travel to the Glittergreen Mountains in search of a holfin crystal.”

The mayor pressed further. “What kind of crystal? Size? Shape? Purity? Magical resonance?”

“I’m afraid I do not have those specifics,” Torg replied. “Only that it was called a holfin crystal, and that it was important.”

That didn’t seem to satisfy the mayor, who scribbled a few notes and exchanged a look with the captain. Rishmond had the distinct sense that things were about to become far more official—and far more complicated.

Over the course of the night, every Researcher from the Malminar Council of Wizards had made an appearance. Some still lingered in the meeting hall, hovering near Torg or debating in quiet clusters, while others had already been dispatched—sent on urgent errands to retrieve old texts, comb through records, or investigate arcane details tied to Torg, Denisisie, or the time leading up to the Blessing.

Their mission was clear: find anything—anything—that might have been missed in the last three hundred turns. An overlooked detail, a misinterpreted sign, a forgotten prophecy. The hope was slim, but urgent: that somewhere in the ancient scrolls and magical archives lay the key to discovering where the Gods had gone—and, more importantly, how to bring them back to the world of mortals.

For the first time in centuries, there was a real chance the silence of the Gods might be broken. And every scholar in the room knew it.

Torg had answered question after question without pause, never once showing frustration or weariness, even when the same points were asked repeatedly in slightly different ways. His patience was unwavering.

Rishmond, on the other hand, found his own patience tested more than once. Several times throughout the evening, the relentless interrogation brought him to the brink of snapping—ready to tell some overeager scholar or minor official to back off and give Torg space. But each time, he managed to keep his cool.

By the time they’d relocated to the meeting hall, it seemed Tybour had made up his mind about the golem. Torg had earned his trust. More than once, Tybour stepped in when questioning tipped toward aggression, gently but firmly diffusing tensions and redirecting conversations. His presence—and support—had clearly shifted the tone.

After the initial inquiries from Halmond, Beritrude, and Tybour about how the group had discovered Torg, no one pressed the kids for further details. Rishmond, Cantor, and the others were left alone. Their version of events had apparently been accepted as truth.

Over the last half hour, the mood in the hall had shifted. The barrage of questioning had wound down, replaced by quiet discussions among clusters of Wizards, scholars, and officials. The crowd had thinned—many of the curious townsfolk having returned home once their curiosity was satisfied. The debate and planning were now left to those whose job it was to worry about such things.

Torg stood at the center of the stage, unmoving in posture but still alert, exactly as he had stood all evening. Beside him sat Tybour, cross-legged on the wooden boards, speaking with the golem as though they were old friends catching up. Their conversation was low and calm, just beyond Rishmond’s hearing.

He was too far away to make out any words—and with so many Wizards in the room, casting an eavesdropping spell would have been a very bad idea.

So he simply watched. Watched as the First Mage of Malminar sat shoulder to shoulder with a being crafted by a God, speaking like equals, like collaborators. And though he couldn’t hear the words, Rishmond could feel the weight of them. Whatever they were saying, it mattered.

Discussion of the journey ahead had taken place earlier in the evening, back when the excitement was still fresh and the room brimming with energy. After hearing Torg speak at length about Denisisie’s preparations—the planned pilgrimage, the Blessing, and what she had intended to accomplish—Tybour had committed quickly.

“This,” he’d said with quiet conviction, “is our best lead since the Blessing itself. If we’re ever to find out what truly happened—and find a way to bring the Gods back—this is where we start.”

Rishmond had taken that as his cue.

He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to convince Hal and Berti that he should be allowed to go as well. After all, he had found Torg—well, they had, he admitted, gesturing to his friends—but it was he who had formed the bond. Torg himself had backed Rishmond’s claim, calmly expressing that the boy had been instrumental to his reactivation and that there was a special connection between them.

But Torg’s support, while appreciated, didn’t sway the adults.

Hal and Berti had said no. And they had meant it. Their decision stood, firm and final, even when Tybour himself agreed that Rishmond should come along. “He may be young,” Tybour had said, “but he’s already proven more capable than many seasoned adepts.”

Still—no.

And then there was Toby. Not only did he not want to go, he’d sided with Hal and Berti. He’d listed, quite reasonably, all the things Rishmond was supposed to be doing instead: schoolwork, fishing season, basic magical instruction. "You’re still in your first year,” Toby had said flatly, “and you barely keep your books dry.”

That had stung. Not because it wasn’t true—but because it had come from Toby.

Rishmond had said nothing at the time. Just nodded and sat back, chewing on the frustration like a bitter root.

The adults had made their decision: none of the children who had helped discover Torg would be permitted to join the journey to the Glittergreen Mountains. The reasoning was straightforward—age. It didn’t matter that they had risked the descent into the cavern, or helped dig Torg from the sands. In the eyes of the council, they were still just kids.

When Tybour raised the point that, among the Tribes of Uhl, boys undertook their passage into adulthood at thirteen turns, he was quickly silenced by a chorus of disapproval. Comparing the traditions of “uncivilized” tribal cultures to the expectations of a “civilized” nation like Malminar was, apparently, not a winning argument.

Of the entire group, only Cantor managed to secure permission to join the expedition. Her father had been hesitant—more out of habit than true resistance—but she was nearly of age to make her own decisions anyway. In truth, he was relieved to see her showing interest in something serious, something “adult,” as he put it. He had long feared she would waste her potential lingering in the streets with the neighborhood kids. This, at least, had purpose. Direction.

As soon as her father gave his blessing, Tybour accepted her into the expedition without hesitation.

Rishmond nodded again, eyes drifting to the far side of the hall where Cantor stood in quiet conversation with her father. She looked different somehow—older, maybe. Or maybe it was just the way she stood, squared shoulders, chin slightly raised. Like she belonged.

She caught him watching and gave a small smile, uncertain but warm. He smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He turned his attention back to Tybour, who was already discussing provisions with Haningway. Rishmond stayed quiet, listening to words that barely registered. Salt marshes, storms, road conditions. Things that didn’t matter anymore—not to him. Not if he wasn’t going.

Cantor was going.

Cantor.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud of her—he was. She’d argued her case, stood her ground. She’d earned her place. But it still stung. He was the one who’d found Torg. He was the one the golem had first spoken to, the one who could see the magic inside him. And yet… here he was. Left behind.

It wasn’t fair. But worse than that—it felt final.

He glanced back at Toby, still asleep on the bench, blissfully removed from it all. And then at Cantor again, now deep in discussion with Haningway, nodding like a soldier taking orders.

Something inside him twisted, a tight little knot of resentment and longing and shame.

He wasn’t angry at Cantor. He wasn’t even angry at Tybour. Not really.

He just hated the feeling of being small again.

“Rishmond,” Cantor said softly as she approached. “I know you want to go. And I know I shouldn’t be going without you.”

He looked up from his seat, not trusting himself to speak. He tried to keep the disappointment from showing in his eyes, but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

Cantor glanced at the sleeping form of Toby beside him, then leaned in, her voice low and trembling. “Look... I’ll stay. If you’re not going, I won’t either. It’s not right, Rish. You’re only two months younger than me. They’re not being fair.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

Rishmond felt a tightness in his chest. She meant it. She would give up this chance—something huge, something historic—just to stand beside him.

But he couldn’t let her do that.

“No,” he said quietly, eyes lowered. “You have to go. So at least one of us is there.”

He looked up, and met her gaze. Tears welled in her eyes, barely held back.

“We should’ve waited two months,” he said with a crooked smile that didn’t quite make it to his heart.

Cantor gave a soft, painful laugh. Then she squeezed his shoulder—firm, lingering—and nodded once.

Then she turned and walked away.

He watched her go, feeling both proud and hollow all at once.

Over the course of the long evening, a company had slowly taken shape—those who would accompany Tybour and Torg to The Reaches and the Glittergreen Mountains.

Haster Unto, the Altemen Captain of the Guard—and one of the snake-kin native to the Glittergreen Mountains—had been selected to guide the expedition and represent the Altemen. Major Able Haningway, naturally, would go as Tybour's second-in-command, along with most of the Phoenix Company: the elite unit of Wizards and soldiers under Tybour's command.

VanLief Aerickson had volunteered as well. An experienced explorer and a Researcher for the Malminar Council of Wizards, he was well-respected and more than qualified to be part of such a mission. Bit by bit, the roster filled out. It seemed the expedition was nearly complete. Tybour and Haningway would make the final selections in the morning, before the party departed Retinor tomorrow afternoon.

Rishmond stepped quietly away from where Toby now slept curled on a wooden bench, arms folded, head tilted back. He climbed the edge of the stage and made his way toward Tybour, who was still seated beside Torg, now speaking softly with Haningway.

“Hey,” Rishmond said, trying to keep his voice even, casual. “Should be a good trip, yeah? Did you decide if you’re going by sea or overland?”

It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask—but it was the one he could ask.

Tybour looked up and smiled faintly. “We’ll go by sea. Safer than the Salt Marshes this time of year. The rains have come early—whole place is likely a sucking mess of mud, biting insects, and demon-spawn beasts. We'd lose days.”

He leaned back on one hand, relaxing a bit. “We may hit a storm or two, but nothing the Company can’t handle. The Merion tribes tend to stick to the north—Dragor Island, Iffe—we won’t be anywhere near there. After we land, it’ll still be a march across the wilds, but the Altemen keep their roads in decent shape.”

Rishmond nodded, doing his best to seem interested in logistics while the weight of not going pressed heavier with every word.

“Rishmond,” said Tybour, his voice low and somber. “I… you know I—” He paused, searching for the words. “If I could’ve convinced Halmond…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere just past Rishmond’s shoulder.

“You know I want you along. If there were anything—anything—I could do to change their minds, you know I’d do it.”

Tybour shifted, finally turning to face the boy. “You can’t blame them. They haven’t had you around that long—just three turns, and that’s not enough for them to know what I know. Don’t hold it against them. You know they love you.”

He let out a slow breath. “This is a big deal, Rishmond. A real lead. A real hunt for the Gods. It’s the kind of thing people write ballads about.” He stopped, realizing too late he might’ve only made things worse.

“I know,” Rishmond said, barely above a whisper. He stared down at his shoes, unwilling to meet Tybour’s eyes. “I know...”

He didn’t blame them, not really. But he wished they saw it the way he did. This wasn’t just a trip—it was history in the making. A chance to stand beside Tybour, to matter, to be the person he knew he could become.

“They think it’s dangerous,” he said quietly. “But it’s not. I can feel it. People go to the Glittergreen Mines all the time, and they don’t have you, or Haningway, or Phoenix Company soldiers to protect them.”

He sighed. “I know they mean well. I know they’re just trying to keep me safe. But I wish… I wish they saw it from my side.”

There was a quiet shuffling sound, and Rishmond looked down to see Torg approaching. The little golem reached up, touching his waist with a gentle tap of crystalline fingers.

“Wizard Rishmond,” Torg said, looking up at him, “am I to understand that you will not be accompanying me to the Glittergreen Mountains?”

Rishmond blinked. It occurred to him, for the first time, that no one had actually explained any of the plans to Torg. They’d questioned him, studied him, built an expedition around him—but they hadn’t asked.

“That’s right, Torg,” Rishmond said softly. “I can’t go. My parents—Halmond and Beritrude, the ones you met earlier—they said no. Others did too, but… they’re the ones who matter.”

Torg tilted his head. “Why do Halmond and Beritrude get to decide what a Wizard of your talent can and cannot do?”

Rishmond gave a short laugh—more bitter than amused. “Because I’m seventeen. Still considered too young to make my own decisions. And… I respect them. They’re just trying to look out for me. They want me safe.”

“I see,” Torg said, his voice calm, curious. “At what age do mortals gain the right to make their own decisions?”

“Eighteen,” Rishmond replied. “Two more months.”

He hesitated, then added, “It’s not just the number, though. I’ve only lived with Hal and Berti for a bit less than three turns. Before that, I… well, we weren’t a family yet. Now we are. And that makes them more careful. More protective.”

Torg was silent for a moment, processing. Then he nodded slowly.

“Flesh and blood reasoning is complicated,” he said. “But I will do my best to understand.”

Rishmond smiled faintly, the sadness still clinging behind his eyes. “Yeah. It is complicated.”

“I would like to hear more about your arrival here,” Torg said, voice calm and curious, “and what your life was like before you came to be part of a family with Hal and Berti and Toby.” He said the names slowly, as if testing their weight on his tongue. “I do not know if that is pertinent to the current issue, however.”

Torg’s head tilted slightly. “I cannot go on this journey without you, Wizard Rishmond. My mission—set by Denisisie herself—was to await… discovery by a Wizard of sufficient strength and skill to awaken me. I am to serve that Wizard until my Mistress ends that service.”

He paused, a faint pulse of light flickering through the crystal beneath his chest.

“I will do everything in my power to remain within one mile of you, Wizard Rishmond. If, for any reason, I am taken farther from you—or you from me—I will do everything in my considerable power to return to your side.”

Tybour stood abruptly, eyes wide. “Say that again, Torg!?”

“Very well. I would like to hear more about your—”

“No, no!” Tybour waved a hand frantically. “Not that part. I didn’t mean start over—I meant the part about not being able to go without Rishmond. About the distance. Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

Torg’s glowing eyes blinked once, slowly. “My mistress left me with strict, binding instructions. I must serve the Wizard who awakens me—until she herself ends that bond. I did not bring this up earlier because no one asked. Nor was I informed that Rishmond would not be accompanying me.”

He looked up at Rishmond, voice as even as ever. “If I am taken more than one kilometer from him, I will resist. If forced, I will escape. I will always return. Without Rishmond, the journey is not only inadvisable—it is impossible.”

Tybour slowly turned to look at Rishmond, his expression torn between admiration, exasperation, and no small amount of concern.

“Well,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “This throws a wrench in the works.”

He stepped closer, dropping his voice so only Rishmond and Torg could hear.

“Are you sure there’s no way around this?” Tybour asked, glancing between them. “Not that I want to go without you—I don’t. You know I don’t. You’re my friend. And one of the strongest Wizards I’ve ever met.”

Rishmond blinked, surprised by the sincerity in Tybour’s voice.

“But,” Tybour continued, “if I don’t ask, someone else will. We’d better know before they do.”

He motioned Torg into a quiet huddle.

“Torg?”

“I know of no workaround,” Torg replied matter-of-factly. “I cannot be reprogrammed. While I may be physically restrained, doing so would undermine the mission. I must remain free to search, investigate, and act on behalf of my Mistress.”

He paused for half a second, then added with unmistakable certainty: “Even if I were restrained and taken from Rishmond, I would resist. And I would succeed in escaping. No force you have would stop me.”

Tybour let out a low whistle. “Well,” he murmured. “That is definitive.”

Rishmond watched as Tybour slipped into that familiar expression—the one he always wore when deep in thought, chewing through possibilities and outcomes like puzzle pieces in the air. But it was Rishmond who spoke next, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Torg,” he asked, “what if I ordered you to go?”

The question was quiet, fragile. But even whispered, it broke through Tybour’s concentration. He looked up, eyebrows raised.

Torg’s head tilted, a mechanical gesture of gentle confusion. “That would not work,” he said plainly. “No more than you ordering me to harm another mortal, or yourself. Or allowing you to come to harm.”

He paused, his voice soft but unwavering. “The Goddess Denisisie is… very clever. She anticipated many outcomes. My behavioral parameters are bound tightly to her will. I do not know why she insisted it be the Wizard who awakened me—but you are that one. I must act as instructed.”

Rishmond and Tybour both exhaled together, a shared breath of relief.

Tybour rubbed his chin. “Someone’s going to try it, though,” he muttered. “To change your bond. Or to change who you serve. Some clever old Wizard will get the idea. An illusion, maybe? Make someone look and sound like Rishmond?”

“Wizard Tybour,” Torg said, “I very much doubt any illusion cast by the Wizards I have met could fool me. Golems perceive the world as it is, not as others wish it to appear. Illusion magic depends on the desire of the subject to believe the falsehood. I do not possess that desire.”

Tybour grinned, and Rishmond knew the look all too well. That spark of mischief lighting his eyes, the same one he wore whenever he was about to break a rule—or prove someone else wrong.

“Well then,” Tybour said, voice gleeful, “we need a plan. Do we tell the Council now? Or wait until the ship’s out to sea, and Torg just walks off it and makes his way back to you? That would certainly make an impression.”

His grin widened, just a hint of malice in the curve of it—nothing cruel, just the giddy anticipation of poetic justice.

Rishmond frowned. “That could get Torg hurt. Or someone else. Or damage the boat. I don’t like it.”

Tybour kept grinning, but gave a small nod. “Yes, I know. You’re right, of course.”

He sighed—dramatically—and stood up straighter. “We’ll bring the Council reps back. And Halmond and Beritrude. Plans will have to change.”

He reached out and tousled Rishmond’s hair with a fond smile. “Looks like it’s you and me on a quest after all, eh?” His eyes sparkled with the thrill of rebellion and possibility—the same way they always did before the two of them did something the Council wouldn’t approve of.

Rishmond tried to smile, but the nerves still churned in his stomach. “Berti won’t like this. Halmond won’t either. And they’re going to think this is just one of your games, Tybour. Like you made it up to get your way.”

“Not to worry, my young friend,” Tybour said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. His tone was jolly now—giddy, even—excited by the looming adventure and the prospect of proving his instincts right. “Our good friend Torg will set them straight.”

He turned and gave the golem a wink. “We’ll convince them. Together.”

Torg, for his part, nodded slowly. “I will state the truth. That should be sufficient.”

“Haningway!” Tybour’s voice cut through the hall like a command bell, crisp and resonant—the kind of voice good soldiers cultivate, one that carries across chaos and clamor without raising to a shout.

Haningway looked up from where he stood speaking with the Mayor and VanLief Aericksen, the latter a quiet, reserved man with a mostly bald head ringed in short gray hair. Rishmond recognized him immediately—one of the Council’s most respected Researchers, a man whose opinion carried weight with both the Crown and the Wizard Council.

At Tybour’s call, Haningway politely excused himself and moved briskly toward the stage.

Tybour turned back to Rishmond and Torg. “Let me do the talking unless someone asks you directly. Torg, when we bring the others here, I want you to explain what you just told us—not word for word, but the essence. About your bond with Rishmond. Why you can’t be separated. You understand?”

“Yes, of course,” said Torg, his voice calm and mechanical.

“Rishmond,” Tybour continued, voice dropping slightly, “stick to the truth as we know it right now. Don’t embellish, don’t over-explain. If something needs clarifying, I’ll do it. Got it?”

Rishmond nodded. “Got it.”

“And try not to look so pleased with how things have turned out,” Tybour added, grinning. He gave Rishmond a wink.

“I’ll do my best, Ty.” Rishmond took a breath and consciously relaxed his features, schooling his face into something closer to neutrality.

Haningway reached the stage with a curious look already forming. One eyebrow arched as he glanced at the trio—Rishmond, Tybour, and the little golem standing with perfect posture between them. Years of serving under Tybour had taught Haningway that surprises were the rule, not the exception.

“Sir?” he asked, voice flat but laced with subtle amusement.

“Gather the Council members still here,” Tybour said. “And Halmond. Beritrude too. Bring them here to the stage.” He gestured to the open space in front. “There’s been… a development.”

He emphasized the word like it was a proclamation.

Haningway’s brow climbed even higher, his head tilting slightly in that skeptical way of his. “A development, is it?” he repeated, with a mild lilt of sarcasm. “Anything I should know before you summon the nobles like a king gathering his court?”

Tybour gave a crooked smile. “You can make fun of me afterward, Major. Just wait till you hear it.”

There was no offense in Tybour’s voice. He relied on Haningway’s skepticism to keep his ego from running off the rails—no small task, given how often it tried.

Haningway gave a theatrical sigh and turned to go. “Very well. But if this is another incident like the ‘Screaming Mirror of Ulmendar,’ I’m giving your next speech to the Council my edits first.”

Tybour chuckled. “This time, I promise—it’s worth it.”

Haningway stepped off the stage and moved efficiently across the hall, murmuring to the Mayor, then to VanLief, and finally to the other remaining members of the Wizard’s Council. Word spread quickly, and within minutes, the remaining officials, Wizards, and interested parties had drifted toward the front of the stage.

The gathering was quiet, orderly, but not particularly tense. Everyone present knew Tybour—some better than they’d like. The atmosphere wasn’t one of alarm, but rather of polite, almost amused curiosity. There was an unspoken consensus among the gathered crowd: this was just Tybour being Tybour.

Again.

Most assumed it was a last-minute maneuver—a flash of dramatic flair meant to justify letting Rishmond join the expedition after all. Not many were truly opposed to the idea, but few were excited about it either. The real issue was well understood: Tybour and Rishmond together were dangerous.

They didn’t mean to be, necessarily. But when paired, the two had a tendency to throw caution to the wind and dive headlong into trouble. They were brilliant, powerful, and bold—but they were also impulsive, relentless, and prone to... well, incidents.

The Wizards' Council had long since agreed, informally but firmly, that keeping the two apart was generally safer for everyone.

And so, while the crowd assembled out of respect for Tybour's title and curiosity about his latest "development," most wore expressions of mild skepticism. A few stifled yawns. The expectation was for some flourish, maybe a heartfelt speech, certainly a bit of overdramatized pleading—and then perhaps a quiet, reluctant concession.

No one expected what they were actually about to hear.

Once Tybour was satisfied that most of the remaining crowd had gathered—and that the key figures were close at hand—he stepped forward and addressed the assembly.

“We’ve just learned,” he said, voice carrying with practiced command, “from our new friend Torg, that it will be impossible to successfully embark on this journey without Rishmond.”

A murmur spread through the room like ripples in water—half skeptical, half resigned. Someone near the back muttered, “Tybour, come on…”

Undeterred, Tybour continued. “Torg is under command from the Goddess Denisisie, and that command binds him to serve the first Wizard able to wake him from his long slumber. That Wizard, as you all know, is Rishmond.”

He let that settle a moment before going on. “There are rules—unchangeable, divine parameters—set by Denisisie herself. Chief among them: Torg cannot be separated from Rishmond by more than a mile. If separation occurs, he will do everything in his considerable power to return to Rishmond and continue his service. This bond cannot be broken except by the Goddess herself—an impossibility, until she and the other Gods return.”

“Come now, Tybour,” said the Mayor, stepping forward with a look of tired disbelief. “You expect us to believe that? You and Rishmond have been pushing for this from the start. And now, conveniently, the golem reveals this critical limitation—privately, with no witnesses?” He crossed his arms. “Enough is enough. The decision was made. Rishmond stays.”

Tybour didn’t flinch. “Ask him yourself.”

He stepped aside, gesturing to Torg, who stood at attention, eyes glowing faintly in the warm light.

“Go ahead, Torg.”

“I have been set this task by my Mistress, the Goddess Denisisie,” the golem said in his measured, crystalline voice. “I am to serve the first Wizard capable of waking me until I am released by Her. As part of that service, I must remain within one mile  of that Wizard. If separated for any reason, I will use all power at my disposal to return to his side. Only death or Denisisie’s direct command may sever this bond.”

Torg’s gaze turned toward the Mayor. “I see you have cast a spell to detect falsehood, Mayor. You can confirm I am telling the truth.”

Rishmond’s heart skipped. The spell. He hadn’t noticed, but now he smelled the lilac and cotton and tasted them on his tongue. A lie-detection enchantment. He swallowed, trying to suppress the rush of fear—if anyone circled back to the story of how they found Torg, the truth might unravel. He forced himself to focus. Now isn’t the time. No one’s asking about that right now. Stay still.

VanLief Aericksen cleared his throat. “Is there any way around this?”

“We asked,” Tybour said. “Doesn’t seem like it. But by all means—ask your own.”

A short beastman in the crowd—furred and sleek, otter-like in build, with delicate spectacles perched precariously on his nose—piped up. “A mile seems... excessive. Why not something closer? If proximity is about protection or effectiveness, wouldn’t thirty feet suffice?”

Torg answered without pause. “The distance allows for flexibility in service—retrieving goods, tomes, supplies—without requiring the Wizard to travel personally. I can traverse most terrain swiftly. One mile ensures both convenience and safety. I’ve served Wizards in the past under similar constraints. I assume my Mistress intended the same balance now.”

VanLief nodded slowly. “And can Rishmond, as the one you serve, order you to disregard the proximity rule? Perhaps instruct you to complete the search for the Goddess without him?”

Torg turned his head toward VanLief. “No. The divine command supersedes all mortal instructions. If Rishmond gave me such an order, I would refuse. I would inform him of my limitations and wait for his adjustment or cancellation of the command.”

VanLief raised an eyebrow. “So there are other limitations, then? Can you summarize them for us?”

“Certainly. I cannot harm or kill a mortal unless that mortal seeks to harm Rishmond or is beholden to a Demon. I cannot allow Rishmond to come to harm through inaction. I cannot reveal secrets entrusted to me by Denisisie—even to Rishmond. I cannot follow any command that would violate the parameters set by my Mistress.”

He paused, then added, “You already know the one regarding distance.”

“Good to know,” VanLief said, nodding thoughtfully. “Thank you, Torg. I have no further questions—for now.”

A heavy silence followed, the kind that settles when even skeptics begin to reconsider their position. And at the center of it all, Rishmond stood, quiet and composed, doing everything he could not to consider the Mayor’s spell again.

The crowd at the foot of the stage broke into a dozen overlapping conversations—some debating what the revelation meant for the mission, others already calculating how the logistics would need to shift. Ideas flew quickly: magical solutions, legal exceptions, political workarounds. But none seemed to land.

Then Beritrude’s voice rose, clear and commanding, slicing clean through the noise.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Everyone!”

The conversations ground to a halt. There was something in her tone—measured, firm, and unmistakably final—that drew every eye.

“There appears to be only one solution to this new problem,” she said.

Rishmond’s breath caught. His heart leapt in his chest. This is it, he thought. She’s going to say it. She’s going to let me go.

Beritrude’s voice rang out over the quiet.

“The only solution is that this expedition be delayed until Rishmond is old enough to go.”

The hall erupted instantly.

Objections flew from all sides—Wizards, guards, scholars, even the Mayor—all trying to make themselves heard. The air swelled with overlapping protests. No one wanted to delay the search, not after waiting over three hundred turns for even the hint of a lead.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tybour’s voice, now magically amplified, cut through the noise like a blade. The room fell silent again.

“Let’s discuss this rationally and calmly,” he said, his tone measured, diplomatic. “I’m sure Beritrude is not seriously suggesting we delay the search.”

“Oh, but I am, Tybour,” she replied, coolly.

She didn’t use his title. She spoke his name as if she were scolding Rishmond for leaving his boots muddy in the entryway. And the room felt it.

“Three hundred turns have passed since the Gods left us. One more will not change the world. Life continues. Malminar is safe. It is thriving. But Rishmond is too young for a mission of this magnitude.”

She paused, scanning the faces before her.

“And you, sir,” she added, “are far too reckless to be trusted with his life. The small adventures I’ve permitted him to take with you—against my better judgment,” she shot Halmond a withering look, “were near to home and always under the watchful eye of someone more responsible than you.”

A hush spread through the room.

“You are a great First Mage,” she said, “and a dear friend. But you are not a guardian. You command soldiers, not children.”

Tybour took the blow with a wince and a smile, brushing the sting aside like wind on his cloak. He stepped forward, posture open, voice softening with respect.

“As much as it pains me to hear that,” he said, “I can’t argue with your point. You’re right—I’m not a protector. I’m a battlemage and a war leader. Reckless? Often. Impulsive? Occasionally. But what if I don’t try to be Rishmond’s protector?”

Beritrude raised an eyebrow, wary.

“What if,” Tybour continued, “I place that responsibility in the hands of someone you trust? Someone who already has Rishmond’s trust. Someone who has earned it.”

He smiled. “Would you feel differently if Rishmond were in the care of Bantore?”

The name landed like a quiet stone dropped into a still pond.

Beritrude paused. Her mouth half-open, mid-rebuttal. She hadn’t expected that. And for a moment, she said nothing.

Bantore. Halmond’s old comrade. The man who had stood with them through the loss of their son. Who had watched over Rishmond and Toby like a quiet, steady shadow. The man who had walked away from Tybour's command when the cost of glory became too steep.

If there was someone who could be trusted to keep Rishmond safe… it was Bantore.

“He won’t go,” Beritrude said finally, her tone less certain than before. “He’ll agree with me. He’ll say Rishmond is too young. He’ll say waiting one more turn won’t hurt anyone.”

Tybour's smile widened just a fraction, not smug, but knowing.

“We’ll ask him,” he said simply. “If you’re right, then we wait. But if he says yes…”

Beritrude crossed her arms. “You think you can charm everyone, Tybour. But Bantore doesn’t play those games.”

“I’m not trying to charm him,” Tybour replied, stepping back to give her space. “I’m just giving him the chance to decide for himself.”

A sudden commotion at the entryway rippled through the hall, voices dropping to murmurs and heads turning as the doors swung wide. A tall, official-looking man stepped briskly into the room, his voice loud and authoritative as he declared:

“His Majesty, King Egry Malminar!”

Gasps followed the announcement, and all conversation halted.

The King’s personal guard entered first—soldiers and Wizards alike clad in brilliant red and gold, their gleaming armor and embroidered robes marking them unmistakably as the elite protectors of the Crown. They moved with quiet precision, eyes scanning the room, clearing a path through the gathered crowd with silent efficiency.

King Malminar followed directly behind them, regal in flowing robes of crimson and sunburst yellow. His crown caught the light from the hall’s lanterns, flashing with fire. At his side walked a towering beastman—a giant of a figure with deep red fur, broad shoulders, and a fox-like face. His thick, muscled arms swung with an easy grace, and his head was tilted down, listening intently to something the King was saying.

Haningway trailed behind the procession, expression unreadable, though his posture was stiff with tension.

The crowd parted instinctively as the entourage advanced, making a clear path toward the stage. Whispers followed their progress—none expected the King himself to appear, not here, not now. But none dared question it aloud.

The royal party ascended the steps at the side of the stage, the guards remaining below, forming a silent perimeter. The King, the beastman, and Haningway crossed the platform in a slow, deliberate line, until they stood before Tybour, Rishmond, and Torg.

The room held its breath.

King Malminar’s eyes swept across the trio, lingering for a long moment on Torg, then shifting to Rishmond. His gaze was sharp, curious—not unkind, but assessing.

“Well,” the King said at last, his voice calm but resonant. “It seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

As one, everyone in the hall—save the King himself—dropped to one knee, heads bowed.

“Rise, my friends,” King Malminar said, his baritone warm and effortless, reaching every corner of the room. “Let us continue this discussion, so we may solidify our plans and set this exciting expedition in motion.”

He stepped forward, the great beastman at his side, and surveyed the stage with calm authority.

“First Mage Tybour and Major Haningway have kept me well-informed of developments,” the King said. His gaze moved to Tybour and Rishmond, a fond smile touching his lips—until his eyes landed on Torg. The smile faded. For a moment, his expression became unreadable, something weighing behind his eyes as he studied the crystal golem in silence. Then he turned his attention to the gathering below the stage, which had grown with the crowd that followed him into the hall.

“I believe I understand the conditions and the complications now before us,” he said. “Where are Halmond and Beritrude Bar?”

“Here, Your Majesty,” Halmond called out, stepping forward from just below the stage. Beritrude stood beside him, her arm wrapped protectively around a now-awake Toby, who looked wide-eyed at the royal presence.

“Ah. Good to see you both again,” the King said with easy warmth. “I know this is informal and sudden, but the matter at hand is... unique in importance. And that must be Toby, yes? Rishmond’s little brother.” He gave a slight bow of his head toward the boy. “I apologize that, for all the times I’ve met Rishmond, I’ve never properly met the rest of his family. Circumstances seem to have remedied that tonight.”

He smiled, gently. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

His tone shifted, becoming softer—sincere.

“I understand your concerns, as parents, regarding Rishmond’s involvement in this journey. And as a parent myself, I sympathize. I also understand—from the First Mage—that your concerns lie not in malice or stubbornness, but in a desire to keep your son safe. That you may question Tybour’s ability to place Rishmond’s safety above all else. And frankly…” He gave Tybour a sideways look. “You’re not wrong. Tybour is... enthusiastic. Courageous, yes, but possessed of a boldness that can at times run ahead of caution.”

He turned toward Beritrude. “Have I understood your concerns correctly, Beritrude? May I call you that?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Beritrude said, her tone respectful but steady. “You may, of course. And yes, Your Majesty, you’ve understood perfectly. I don’t doubt Tybour’s affection for my son—I doubt his caution.”

“Then what about this proposed compromise?” the King asked, gesturing to the towering red-furred beastman beside him. “That this good man accompany them both—with the express purpose of safeguarding Rishmond, to the exclusion of all else? Would that offer you peace of mind?”

Beritrude instinctively pulled Toby a little closer and turned to Halmond. The two leaned in, speaking quietly over their son’s head. When they finally looked up again, it was Halmond who spoke.

“Your Majesty,” he said carefully, “one man to look after Rishmond—especially when Tybour is involved—may not be enough. If anyone could do it, it would be Bantore... but could we request one more?”

The King inclined his head. “By all means, Mr. Halmond. Whom would you ask? And how shall we find them to press them into service?”

Beritrude didn’t wait for her husband’s answer. “Illiar,” she said firmly. “If Illiar went along, we would feel assured.”

Rishmond blanched. “But... I... She can’t!” he sputtered. “Not her! She’ll boss me around and—” His voice trailed off as he realized every important person in the room was watching him.

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“You’re forgiven, Rishmond,” the King said with a faint, knowing smile—the kind of look only fathers knew how to give: a mix of amusement and understanding.

“Who is Illiar?” he asked, turning to the group.

It was Bantore who answered, his deep voice deliberate and steady. “Illiar is my daughter, Your Majesty. She and Rishmond know each other well. Over the past turn, she’s taken on the role of an older sister. She believes it is her duty to curb his... more adventurous tendencies.”

A few scattered chuckles murmured through the crowd.

“I agree with the Bars. Having her along would ensure Rishmond has someone watching over him with a personal stake. She’ll accept the assignment willingly.”

Rishmond bowed his head, cheeks burning. His stomach twisted. Illiar? Really? She’d lord it over him the entire way. She always had to be right. And worse—she usually was. She was beautiful, frustrating, clever, impossible. She made him feel... strange. And confused. And cornered. And somehow he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He slumped slightly. This was going to be the least fun great adventure in the history of great adventures.

“Well then,” the King said. “Does that satisfy the conditions placed before us?”

Beritrude and Halmond both nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty,” they said in unison.

Beritrude gave Tybour a look that could have frozen molten steel. Tybour, in turn, responded with his most disarming grin, as though trying to melt it right back.

Rishmond missed the rest of what followed. His mind was too full—visions of Illiar scolding him on mountain paths, rolling her eyes, charming his friends, correcting him in front of Tybour.

He barely noticed when Tybour stepped beside him and gently pulled him aside.

“Hey.” Tybour kept his voice low. “Cheer up.”

Rishmond glanced at him.

“We’re gonna make the most of this journey,” Tybour said with a wink. “Babysitter squad or no babysitter squad. You and me—we’re still in this together. And just imagine how famous you’ll be when we bring the Gods home.”

Rishmond couldn’t help but smile, the weight in his chest lifting just a little. If anyone could still make this trip exciting—make it legendary—it was Tybour.

Together, they could handle anything.

Even Illiar.