The fickle

Chill was seeping through the ominous bedchamber. Hypaxia curled up on the lavish vinyl canapé. Her chamber's roof was high enough, and where it wasn't stone, it featured high-ceilinged glass—a herald of frost. Sleep evaded her. Walking to her bed to warm her shivering body within the bedsheets, felt like heaving a boulder.

Clythia waved her hand, and the log on the fireplace shimmered with fire, but they went out as if doused by an invisible wind. Her attention fully snapped to the log; she reached within herself to summon the fire again. She could feel her magic whirling in the back of her mind... distantly. This time, the fire crackled for a few seconds more before giving in. Baffled, she leapt to her feet. She gave it all the energy she could muster to perform one of the easiest magics—even a two-year-old could perform it without effort. Yet again, her magic faltered, and the flames winked out. What is going on? Alcohol muddled one's ability to perform magic, but not something as simple as this, and she had only had one glass of wine at dinner, which counts as nothing.

This had never happened to her, or to any witch or wizard she knew. The blight—whatever parasite was unleashed upon Zyvern—was leeching the essence of magic. But she was the most powerful witch in Zyvern; if this happened to her, it certainly would happen to—.

"Ark?" Clythia called out. Her door creaked open, and a middle-aged man poked his head in. She waved for him to come in.

General Arkansov was in his nightly attire, a baggy trouser and a loose shirt. Considering the cold, a large woolen cloak was draped over his shoulders. As he sauntered, his strapped sword at his waist glinted with the light of the torch in the corner of the chamber. The creases around his eyes and the scattered whites in his hair were the only telltales of his age. That put aside, he looked like a sculpted warrior hero. Clythia was sure he would turn heads wherever he went in his youth, with that grace and body, that prospect might remain. Her father's general, and now hers, stood before her.

Clythia let out a long sigh, some of her frustration ebbing away with it. "Have you... have you encountered difficulty with your magic?"

He tilted his head, brows furrowed. "I do not know what you mean, my lady. Is everything alright?"

Clythia ignored the question. "Are you sure?"

"I haven't faced any difficulty so far. Is it the blight you are worrying about? I'm sure the sovereign will fix it when the time comes. It's only two years away, my lady."

"Light up the logs," Clythia said, masking her frustration with a cold stare.

The general waved his hand, and the flames came to life. For a minute or two, the crackling of the smoldering logs was the only sound that filled the chamber. She felt the general eyeing her and the flame in confusion. Once she was certain the flames remained until only ash remained, she faced the general.

"I do not think we have that long until the sovereign gives us answers."

Does this have anything to do with the sovereign to begin with? The sovereign had a reputation for upholding their end of the bargain. They don't retract their word. The paradise and the peace of Zyvern were the price of the Tithe the seven rulers paid every fifteen years for two hundred millennia. Yes, there was some war every now and then, but resources were never the reason. If the sovereign got what they wanted from the rest of the world and vice versa, who is responsible for this disturbance?

"Sorry, my lady, I know the winter is deadly. Do you want more fire?" He raised his right hand, and the flames grew brighter and danced fiercely.

"No, no." Clythia shook her head. "That's unnecessary. My magic... my magic is acting up." Staring at his perplexed look, she added, "For the past few months, my magic has been brash. Sometimes I can't control it, and it acts on its own accord; sometimes it's a struggle to do anything with it. If people were facing the same difficulty as I—has anyone reported such a thing?"

"Not that I'm aware of." the general said. "Though I have heard the Clutsweeds are performing the ritual of Eternal Youth since last summer."

"The Eternal Youth ritual doesn't require magic beyond your own." she said, turning her focus to the crackling logs.

The Clutsweeds partake in the ritual of Eternal Youth every fifty years. But they do not need to use people's magic. The ritual required intent more than power. The witchdom generally wasn't fond of immortality. After a while, even paradise gets dull. Why the Clutsweeds are intent on prolonging misery? Well, they are a horde of secluded cultists, who think they are better than everyone else. They might feel entitled to cling to their insignificant lives too.

"Eternal Youth is volatile. The exact nature of its consequences is not fully understood. There is a chance they purposefully or accidentally—probably the former—steal someone's magic. Someone as powerful as you."

"No," Clythia said with more force than she intended. "One needs to use the Krakas to steal magic. The rite of Eternal Youth doesn't require Krakas as a medium."

She was a bit disappointed that Arkansov took her as naïve. True, he had more years on her, but she had been exposed to the dark and forbidden magic Arkasov might faint from if he discovered. Her life had been training after training; as the successor of DavinSaw, she was trained by her ancestors and Sravask Academia in every magic there is to know in Zyvern. No ruler is keen on unwanted surprises; it could be the end of them. Her preparation made sure to avoid the price that could be paid because of ignorance. And yet, for the first time in her life, she hadn't the faintest idea why her magic was erratic.

"Maybe I need to reignite my magic. I need to access the Tome," Clythia said more to herself than to him.

"Tomorrow is another day. Rest; it has been an exhaustive day for you, my lady. I'm certain you will find the solution," Arkansov said.

Accompanied by the general, she was dragged from meeting after meeting with lords and ladies of her continent. Famine was a far-fetched myth, but the yield of crops had decreased dramatically, which spiked the prices of everything. At least, the magic of her subjects was intact, for now. They were scheming ways to fertilize their lands. But all knew the reason behind the shortcomings nowadays was the blight.

She wondered how other continents were faring. Rumor has it Cravax's Well of Blood decreased both in quality and quantity. The vampires that slithered their way into her kingdom were whispering about how the best blood available nowadays was mice's blood; human's was unaffordable. Despite her warning to their king, Morven, his vermin kept flocking to her kingdom for potential meals. No stirring was noted from the other kingdoms. To its credit, the human kingdom, Zalax, was as quiet as the other five.

Clythia let out a sigh. "I will restore the stability of my kingdom. By any means necessary. If the Tome doesn't work—"

"It will work," Arkansov interrupted.

She shot him a glare. "If it doesn't work..." Arkansov waited to listen to her plan and was disappointed when she said, "Good night, general."

She stalked to her bed and swarmed into the warm satin sheet. The general closed the bedroom door as he left.

The stone stairs of the dungeon had grown so cold they seemed frozen over as dawn broke, and the air carried a bone-chilling draft that made it difficult for Clythia to stop her teeth from chattering. She leaned against the walls as she took the narrow steps to where the Tome was located in an iron-barred cell, like a dangerous prisoner who won't see the sunlight before its bones remained. If it were sentient, the freeze would have been punishment enough.

As Clythia approached, the bars slid open with a hollow creak, sensing her presence. Warm, humid air brushed past her, carrying the scent of wheat fields bathed in hot sunlight, the fresh waft of paper from a newly opened book, the earthy aroma of mud after the rain had ceased, and the rich scent of ripe fruit, all swirling together to envelop her senses. She opened her eyes, unaware of when they had closed. Perhaps the Tome wouldn't mind the freeze if it were sentient, for it was warmth itself.

The Tome lay cracked open in the middle, supported by an oak dais, with ancient hieroglyphics sketched on its parchment. The characters danced on the weathered parchment like ink in water. She stretched out her palms and rested them on either side of the pages. A hot, sizzling sensation passed through her palms and arms, the ink leaving the pages, wading through her veins, leaving trails of dark lines where her bluish-green veins had been. She inhaled deeply as the ink, with its searing warmth, reached her head.

A tornado punched through her gut. She was thrown back to the other end of the dungeon; her back collided with the stone, leaving a sharp pain up her spine. Clythia slumped on the floor headfirst, narrowly missing a hit on her head by her supporting hands. She grunted in pain and blinked; her eyelids strained under an invisible weight, and they shut close.

A low buzz sounded between her ears. She forced her lids open; it took her a moment to take in her environment—the darkness, the frosty stone beneath her, the chilly air around her; how she was pushed by a force across the dungeon. It was a miracle the pain in her spine was no longer there; she would have doubted the pain if she wasn't in the exact spot she fell. How long had she been unconscious? A rat scuttled away from her side as she raised herself. She was wary of getting too close to the Tome. As she took a few steps forward, she stopped before the now-closed bars. The Tome remained on the dais, undisturbed, its ink swirling as always.

Magic, the only reality she had ever known, the only permanence that echoed in her life, the only solace she hadn't shied away from, was now betraying her. She felt it in her bones; her powers were like distant crashing waves that required silence to be heard. Too far to call, too far to reach the surface. Soon, they would go to the deepest pit she couldn't retrieve from. She took a step back, dread and fury twirling within her. Whom could she blame now? Was it really the blight? The general had no problem with magic, none of her subjects strained under the shackles of powerlessness. The most powerful witch of DavinSaw and beyond, Clythia, couldn't light a flame, was rejected by the Tome like a heretic. A heretic never had the privilege of absorbing magic. It was the call of the ruler, as the ruler was the root of magic. And now the root was dying...

"No!" Clythia said out loud, the stone walls echoing her protest. This would not be the end; before her magic ebbed through the void she couldn't summon, she would pay the price like the witch she was.

Adrenaline coursing through her, she didn't propel herself as she climbed the stairs out of the dungeons and latched the trap door. The grey clouds had begun to lighten, turning a soft white as the sun behind them started to shine through. Servants were up and swarming around for their daily duties. They gave her a deep bow as she passed them. Her face was hot as she glared at the brooms that cleaned the tiles of the throne room, obeying the wand of a servant, who gave Clythia a wide smile. Out the window, shears were trimming the grass evenly, the gardener whistling his usual morning song, 'The Cacti', with his wand stretched out. The gardener's whistles in the mornings were a sweet wake-up call; now they sounded like the sound of crunching glass under a boot.

"Quiet!" Clythia seethed. The gardener jumped, his face pale, he held his tongue.

She took a few turns until she reached her chamber. She changed her nightgown, the human way, which took more minutes than necessary, all the while mumbling and cursing. Her dark, curly, long hair was a mess, usually, all it took was a thought to change her attire and keep her hair in line. She couldn't summon a servant; it would raise too many questions. With magic at her disposal, physical effort was done only when absolutely necessary—like walking, working out, or weapon training. To hide her disheveled hair, she draped on a woolen cloak, covering half of her face, and grabbed a dagger from her drawer.

General Arkansov was standing at her door. Clythia pushed past him. The sounds of his boots told her he was scrambling behind her.

"Where are you going, my lady?" Arkansov asked.

She turned to him so swiftly that he narrowly missed crashing into her back. "If you tell anyone about last night," she lowered her voice as a servant passed them by, "about my magic, if I hear even a whiff of it, I will take my time carving your skin off you, death won't embrace you, as I will let you feel the coldness of living without your skin as long as I wish." She tapped her index finger on his chest. His throat bobbed.

"You have my word, my lady."

"Now transport me to the edge of the Dadigon Forest," she said, opening her arm. The general wrapped his hand around her. They vanished into thin air.