Pitiful Mage

Jacob rubbed his neck, absently running his fingers over the now cool iron binding him. His blood still boiled at the injustice but holding onto the anger would bring him pain. The collar seemed to sense whenever he thought of breaking his vow, burning him in accordance with the severity of his insubordination. Living with the pain was one thing. Dealing with the embarrassment of being the only indentured mage attached to the Fourth Infantry, and the weakest of any mages, was another matter.

There was not a moment that passed where Jacob didn't wish his dreams of a magical world and of amounting to something were nothing but that: dreams. This was not the world he had envisioned. Too much darkness lurked behind every word said, every person he had met. There was not one truly happy person, except for maybe the Angelica that had once resided in Leafburrow. The new mage was certainly changed by her loss.

Come to think of it, the same darkness hung onto him like a favorite cloak. First it was revenge that had been his fuel, and now it was hatred. Muted as it was, the emotion was his lifeblood. Without it, he might've given up entirely. There was a certain belief he held that kept him going. "As long as there's a tomorrow, there's a chance that it'll be better than today." Apparently, that day wasn't going to be for a long time.

For months, he'd worked at improving his earth magic, hoping that growing accustomed to the unresponsive and heavy molecules would help him uncover a way to destroy his shackle. It was to no avail. His available power limited him in his practice, and most of his mana was spent doing the few things he could for the military.

Building temporary foundations was something he was forced to do, usually just consisting of flattening the earth beneath a structure. Each time he did something like that, it nearly wiped him out. The other mages of the Fourth could easily do the same twenty times over. It had made his cheeks burn in embarrassment in the beginning, but he'd grown accustomed to the laughter of the soldiers. Now, he was indifferent.

That being said, he did enjoy beating the soldiers at weapons training. Among the Fourth, an average infantry battalion of five thousand men, there were only a handful of officers that could best Jacob in a straight spar during mandatory training. His prowess there did little to offset his status as the puniest mage, but it was cathartic for Jacob.

"Oi, scum!" a corporal, James of Northridge, called. Jacob turned to look at the arrogant officer, quite confident that he was the "scum" the man was summoning.

"How may I help, sir?" Jacob asked, plastering a false smile on his face. It was so natural by this point that he could have a promising future in being a used-car salesman if he ever made his way back to Earth.

"The latrines need to be cleaned again. After that, the supplies needs packing. The Commander wants us out of camp by the end of the day; we're meant to go on a training trip to the north," James commanded, pointing the mage towards his most hated building. Oh how it reeked. Jacob nodded his assent, moving to his admittedly shitty task. He chuckled at his own joke despite the task.

Jacob had long abandoned caring after his hair. He tied the brown locks back with a string, trying to avoid having it hang into the refuse. The opportunity to take a bath was a fleeting thing at camp and even more so once they left for the field.

Commander Adan Ericksson was a cruel taskmaster. He worked the Fourth to the bones, trying to create the most effective fighting force the kingdom could field. His plans might have worked, too, if it weren't for the poor quality of the recruits. Most were criminals given the chance at redemption through military service. The mages, too, were second-rate at best. Those that were stuck at the Fourth instead of the First, Second, or Third graduated near the bottom of their class at their respective Academies. Jacob wondered what a real mage was capable of, absently.

The Ericksson family was highly influential, the Duke Ericksson holding the ear of Benjamin. His son Adan, fifth in line for the duchy, was far less capable than his father and much tougher. The heir, from what Jacob had heard, was a great commander with an exalted position, nearly as revered as the Duke.

That didn't matter all too much to a rural infantryman, Jacob supposed. The best years of his youth would be spent toiling with conscripts, forced to do as his superiors bid him. Finished with his tasks, Jacob went to fetch his armor and his sword. The two items were the only luxuries granted to him by the king, perhaps as a reminder that everything he owned was because of him.

The reminder worked; Jacob was furious at himself for not being stronger. He'd rushed to eliminate the bandits and now he paid the price for his insolence. His frustration grew as he marched to where the rest of his "comrades" gathered. He didn't know how to get stronger; he'd reached almost as far as he could go with bladework alone. It was his magic holding him back, but none of the mages were friendly to him. Even if they were, his special brand of magic was far different than the others'. Perhaps they wouldn't be able to help anyway.

The Commander began his speech, a thing of tradition before every march. "Today, we leave to inspect the Writha Pass. The march will be long, carrying us past Steelshade and to the eastern border of Delreya. If I hear so much as a peep about misconduct from your corporals, I will make a public example of you. March!" he ended with great gusto. Jacob was far less excited than the man, but he was interested in the border. Maybe the journey would enlighten him, or something like that.