Sweet Surprise PDF

**Sweet Surprise** A ruler had more burdens than Acrid could have imagined. Every day had just enough time in between its hours to finish what was needed for that day, and tomorrow had a new set of things to do. It was a never-ending cycle of mundanity. Though it was not without its fun, and this w...

**Sweet Surprise** A ruler had more burdens than Acrid could have imagined. Every day had just enough time in between its hours to finish what was needed for that day, and tomorrow had a new set of things to do. It was a never-ending cycle of mundanity. Though it was not without its fun, and this way of life was far more desirable than the simplistic life she, Pilh, and Chrys had on the cabin in the mountains of Evengarde, the suffering servant had expected a different kind of life to come with the position. The incompetent sovereigns, kings, and emperors they had faced in the past seemed to have everything but boredom, that they had enough time to spare making their subjects’ lives insufferable instead of these tedious travails. Then again, maybe that’s why they are labeled incompetent. The heap of papers threatened to slide off her grasp, and so, with a sigh, she readjusted the clutch of her arms and lifted the pile ever so slightly. Then a prick of sunlight bounced from the paragraphs of cultivation accounts and reflected into her retinas, making her give a much-needed rub to her weary eyes. The light had come from a large window that overlooked the palace garden from the third floor, and down there, the vegetation had started to bloom in its royal green. When their group first arrived, the garden was as barren as the desert outside with sand as its grass and pumice as its flowers. Under the white cottage in the middle of the garden was the goddess chatting with Chrys. Pilh was the one seated, and across the table was the wide variety of tea that the Tyrant had left behind. Chrys had helped prepare the assortment of powder and Pilh tasted each one. *They seem to be enjoying themselves*. Acrid was unsure if she thought that out loud. Pilh’s true self only seems to come out when she’s with Chrys, where she cares not for appearances or comportments and truly acts like the young goddess that she is. There was a special relationship between the two, one that Acrid could not so easily pierce. The First was always more important than the Second, and now that she’s buried running the castle, Acrid did not have so much as the time to even attempt to bridge that gap. Acrid sighed. *Whatever*. She had far more work to do. She scanned the area once more, making sure nothing was truly amiss, and then she went about her way. Readjusting the clump of papers once more, she walked to the end of the hall and just when she turned the corner, she almost bumped into a fellow House member. It was Apotheo, who had a bloated leather chanery strapped to his back, and three large books piled on top of his forearms. Acrid helped him rebalance and stepped back. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t paying attention.” “It’s fine, Acrid.” He said, his head extended to the side as the tower of books stood between them. His eyes locked into the papers the girl was carrying. “Are those the reports? I can take them off your hands.” “No, it’s fine,” Acrid replied snappily. As much as she wanted to have someone to do this for her, she would not give it to the man almost tumbling from his own monumental workload. “I insist, Acrid.” Apotheo dropped the books and extended his hand, “I’m on my way to the rear office anyway.” He was not budging. “But,” she said worriedly, “You already have so much to carry, I can’t burden you with more.” Apotheo chuckled, “Oh please, *Acting Queen*,” he said with a joking tone, “You have far more burdens than I. But still, to make it fair, you’re on your way to the library, right?” Acrid paused. She was on her way to the kitchen but she would have passed by the library on her path. “Yes, I am. You want me to take these books there?” “Yep. These three right here,” Apotheo pointed to the large books he just dropped on the ground. They seemed to be an index series for flora. The topmost one in particular had an endearing design of a golden rose on its cover. “Pilh had taken these for her alchemy research, and she told me to put them back. You can just put them on the desk and I’ll arrange them when I come back.” Acrid nodded, but still worried for the man as he took the papers from her hands. The chanery at his back was almost his size. Through a gap on the top cover, Acrid saw that it, too, was filled with books. “How about those? I can take them too.” Apotheo waved his hand. “No, no, no. These are for Lee, he asked me to bring these to his room.” “Oh.” The two stared at each other for a while. Acrid as the *Acting Queen* and Apotheo as the *Royal Assistant*. Their sleep-deprived eyes, the things they were carrying, the places they were to go. They shared a laugh at their all-too-similar circumstances. “We need more people, huh?” Acrid joked, to which Apotheo snickered in response. “Well then, I'm off.” said Apotheo as he positioned the papers tightly in his arms. He gave a short bow then trailed towards the opposite hall, and disappeared as he ascended to the observatory. Acrid turned back too, and went on her way. The library doors were small in comparison to the throne room’s, which was the size of a giant. Acrid reached for the knob but it jittered in response. Locked. Even here, Apotheo was very diligent. She retracted her hand and channeled a spell, the air around the knob started to whip about in an arctic glow. The mage didn’t mean to make it that powerful. She carefully wafted the energy into the keyhole, and when she pinched and twisted the air next to it, the door clicked open. Perfect. It had a small entrance, and so the library itself was small as well. It was the size of a typical study in a noble’s home, and it only had four bookcases where not so many books lay on their shelves. The previous rulers were clearly not the literate type. There was an empty reception desk beside the exit, the lack of an attendant or librarian saddened the Acting Queen. Though, per Apotheo’s instruction, she started to pile the trilogy neatly on the edge of the countertop. Then Acrid saw the book she set down first. It was the book with a golden rose, and it had the title “Southwest Floralettes”. It was an interesting name for a book that seemed to be a biography about flowers. It wasn’t long until Acrid found herself flipping the pages unconsciously. She had practically no use for this, for information about a flower’s certain parts, of their history, location, or their discovered uses and effects. But she had a strange curiosity even she herself could not pinpoint. Maybe it was like a child being enchanted by the pictures of many different flowers, or maybe it was understanding a little bit more of that goddess’s world. In her unexplainable fixation, the latter made a bit more sense. Then a particular flower caught her attention. Murkvelles, a Transvaal-iris flora with wide, paper-thin petals which were some pigmentation between black and indigo. Its stem was long and thin, usually covered by the larger petals, making the flower look shorter than it is. Murkvelles are feared by natives as beds of these florae, when approached, can completely incapacitate an adult, with extreme nausea, directionlessness, and loss of life. This flower likes to grow under bushes or trees, where it is crowded and spaceless. Unlike regular flowers that perish when there are too many competitors. “Multiple figures account it as the source of Dark Magic.” an all too familiar voice hummed. Acrid glanced behind her, and, indeed, it was Pilh, leaning on the doorway. Acrid was irked that she couldn’t feel the goddess’s presence. Was she too absorbed in reading? “Madness, possessions, among other things,” Pilh continued, her eyes swinging across the room as if she recounted those examples from her own memories. “There is no definite proof, but there is place to accuse them of sister Eurydice’s death. Fitting for the source of Dark Magic, no? Dark Magic can be used to resurrect the dead, and play with one’s or other’s souls. It was one the higher deities enjoyed. Perhaps it was even the one used to create humans.” “That’s impossible.” Acrid retorted. Though the higher deities were indeed capable of harnessing that power, with the laws of life, it is impossible. There are many types of domains in the world, but only a select few can be conjured up and be called magic. Such as the domains of fire, water, and air. Other domains — heavenly domains — are impossible to attain unless you were born with the gift. Darkness was supposedly one such domain, but the mage was all too suspicious to if it even has a domain. “Not the poisonous aspect, but of the so-called Dark Magic.” Pilh gave a high chuckle. “The world is not so prim as we think it is.” She said. Perhaps such a concept was hard to grasp for a goddess like her, considering she has not one, but two, heavenly domains. Acrid frowned. She finished the last few lines of the page, particularly searching for any accounts about it being affiliated with the domain of darkness, and when there was none, she returned the book to its pile. She turned to face Pilh, who had a dissatisfied pout on her face. She extended her hand and swerved it in a specific pattern. Acrid recognized the movement for object summoning. Pilh let out a burst of energy, the room flashed for a second before dimming down, and on her hand was a glass capsule with a lone Murkvelle, with petals darker than mahogany. “Acrid, amuse me for a moment.” “What do I have to do?” “Simply watch,” she said softly, but with undisputed power. “And perhaps, learn too.” The goddess placed the glass on the countertop. Then, she clawed her hands, materializing Acrid’s magic through her fingers. The human gulped, goosebumps forming on her arms. The replica was too uncanny to ever get used to. Pilh then called upon a domain and summoned a wave of fire that was not too hot to burn the wooden structure of the library. “You are able to read this, yes?” Acrid realized what she meant. The distinction between herself and most other mages is her ability to read magic in its simplest form, and this has allowed her to conjure up every possible domain at her young age, when prodigal sages only have three domains at best. “Yes, I can.” Acrid replied. The concentration point of one burst of fire and another was crystal clear, how they interconnect to give the flame its shape and direction. Pilh retracted the flame and held out her other hand. “How about this?” She summoned a circling gust of wind. The spread points and the far too wavy interconnections were clear too. Its structure was one Acrid had already memorized to a fault, considering it is *her* wind. “Yes, I see it too.” “Wind, by nature, cannot be seen by the naked eye.” Pilh pointed out, “What you see is its domain, yes?” “Yes, Pilh. We already know this, right? I can see the structure of magic, and, in that, I can learn it easily.” “Then,” Pilh opened the glass capsule and clutched the Murkvelle inside. And in an instant, she scorched the flora and an almost transparent cloud puffed into the air. It spread throughout the room, making the atmosphere a little damp. Acrid turned to Pilh. What was the point of spreading a potential poison in the air? But Pilh had that knowing smile, as if she found something out. Acrid glanced at the almost transparent cloud again. If not for its slight purple tinge, it would be completely transparent. No. It *was* transparent. Or it's supposed to be. What Acrid saw wasn’t the cloud itself, but the unrecognizably shaky, plenty, and scattered concentration points and the unrecognizably jolty, zigzagged interconnections. A structure she had never seen before, a magic never before conjured. “You can read it, no?” Pilh chuckled from below the dissipating smoke. “For your reference, I was not able to see a thing.” She said to drill down her discovery. Acrid could see the darkness. She could read the darkness. She could learn dark magic. “If you can read it, then it must be true. The domain of darkness does exist.” said Pilh as she marched in front of her. “You truly are something else, Acrid. That must be why our fates are connected. You, and Chrys as well, possess these gifts that may soar you above the deities.” She held Acrid’s hands, the human’s arms pale and shaky from the thought. “Gifts are meant to bloom, Acrid. And so will you.” Acrid barely heard the goddess. Her ears were deafened as a fundamental truth she believed about magic was shattered right in front of her. She couldn’t tell if she was overjoyed, or if she was distressed, or if it was both, or if it was none. All she could think about was how the horizons have opened, and there is no way to tell if that was a good or a bad thing. In the end, Pilh had ordered her to investigate the forest in the outskirts, to explore by herself, and Acrid, who could barely breathe, numbly agreed. Acrid’s goddess remade the world time and time again. Everything Mother Tokki taught her, from the stories of deities and the fundamental laws of magic and reality, to what to say, to do, to think, everything was picked apart and redefined by the title-less goddess, Pilh. Annoyingly so, the sorceress might add, as the fringe goddess’s tone and mannerisms pestered her patience more times than not. But Pilh had always been right, no matter how outrageous her plans are. She would always have her way, and everything would work out as she envisioned it. She was a mystery, an enigmatic being. Logic and reason cannot explain her. And as the greatest mystery in existence, she was, then, capable of illuminating every other mystery in this world. She would always have the answer. And after a certain point, Acrid had accepted that. If Pilh said so, then it must be correct. It might be fickle of her, to leave everything she has learned in her life behind to blindly follow this goddess she’s known for only a little over a year. But it was comforting. Reassuring, that the one who leads you is leading you to a world where everything would work out. That’s why, even in her dazed state, Acrid still marched to the outskirts of the kingdom. It was a moat away from the castle walls, far enough that the giant windowsills of the halls were comparable to a normal manor window, far enough that she would look like an ant to anyone looking her way. Acrid did not like travelling. Her legs were thin and her body was weak. Without her magic, she would just be a sickly little girl who would perish after one unfortunate tackle with a wild boar. The assortment of rocks beneath would bruise her soles and the overgrown blades of grass would cut her skin, and the chirping birds and clicking cicadas threatened to attack her at any time. The bugs might win that battle. But despite her abhorrence, Pilh told her to come here, to look at the speckled flowers, or maybe the healthy dark-mahogany that housed a critter or two, or maybe the overly scattering shrubs bearing apple-sized berries. Acrid took a bite of the plump fruit, its flesh was soft, and rich, and sweet, reminiscent of the strawberries in Tokki’s garden that the other goddesses praised for its unrivalled quality. As the sweet juice of the berry filled her mouth, she was transported to a warm memory. Innocent frolics in Tokki’s garden, gathering baskets of fruit that would be given to the villagers or to Tokki’s sisters, and how they’d sneak out one or two of the most voluptuous produce and secretly eat it together. The image was fuzzy, yet quickly growing distant. She savored the feeling for a little longer, then she tossed the remaining fruit towards a clearing in between two trees, where a family of squirrel descended from their tree homes and feasted on the gift. Acrid let out a refreshed breath, and hummed. Perhaps the goddess had also told her to collect bright white magnolias and weave a crown with them. Perhaps the goddess had also expected for her to wear it like a tiara, and run majestically, imitating some sort of awesome princess that dashes with the wind. When her energy inevitably lowered, she dropped down on a blanket of plain bermuda. Her body melted on its soft embrace. Then she wiped drops of sweat trickling down on her face, and there she realized, that in between puffs of air, her cheeks would smile. Her face went red for a moment, and she covered her eyelids with an arm. She sighed, her smile a little wider than before. “Did Pilh send me here to get a vacation?” she murmured, before bursting into a laugh. Impossible. It was preposterous to think the goddess would do something so silly. Acrid giggled again, “Right.. Why would she do that?” She told herself, knowing full well that her goddess would really do something like that. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, and Acrid’s eyes slowly closed. Gently, she drifted to sleep. Everything was too new, too fast, and a nap in the forest was well-deserved. When she woke up, it was a little past center noon. The day was two or three hours away from sunset. She stretched her body awake, the energy rushing back into her limbs. With a clearer mind, she revisited the real purpose of this trip: to understand Dark Magic. The first step would be to find a Murkvelle, and the next step is still unknown. She ran her fingers through the tufts of grass, tracing the unfamiliar pattern she saw in the library. The shape was erratic and every segment sharp and zigzagged. The points connected randomly, as if they never intended to connect in the first place. When spells don't interlock properly, their incantation would fail, and nothing would come out. This was a hard-fast rule in magic, but Dark Magic seemed to defy that limitation. Acrid stood up, brushing down her dress. She'd have to see it again if she wanted to learn more about it. She scanned the area. Murkvelles were never found in gardens but were not at all rare in the wild. Her eyes settled on the shadows beneath a dead trunk. “There they are.” She said, as she approached carefully. They were a bed of Murkvelles, bundled together like a dark cloud. Acrid plucked the least intimidating one, a thin, hand-sized flower that still emanated an ominous aura. She held it out to her palm, took a breath, and summoned a small flame. The blaze engulfed its petals, which released a light, dizzying toxin. Acrid looked around, eager to find the strange magical patterns she had seen in the library. But as the fire died down, and the flower was a pile of ash, there was nothing. “What..? But I-” Acrid plucked another flower. Maybe she made a mistake somewhere. She incinerated it, this time from the root upwards, and still, nothing showed up in the puff of smoke. Confused, she tried again, eyes squinted for any sign at all. And still, nothing. Frustrated, she grabbed the last stem and burned it on the spot, and to no avail. “Is it missing something? But back then…” She paused, recollecting her thoughts. Does it have to be a domesticated Murkvelle, like the one Pilh kept? But that makes no sense — flowers found in the wild should have more magical properties than ones kept in a jar. A twig snapped. The resounding crack reminded her of the forest. The birds chirped no more, nor did the insects with their high-pitched orchestra, and the breeze that wafted through the leaves had disappeared. Since when had the forest been silent? **“Dark magic doesn’t come from nowhere.”** The voice, low and amused, sounded from behind her. Acrid bursted a gust of wind, pushing herself and whoever that was a distance from each other. She landed on her heel, prepared to lunge towards or away from the intruder. Adrenaline rushing forth, she faced the stranger hidden behind the shrubs. His silhouette was dark and indiscernible, except for the cloth wrapped around his head, and his small eyes. Acrid planted her feet and channelled a powerful water attack to pierce through his skull. With the spell almost complete, the man suddenly hopped out of the shadows, empty hands in the air. “Mercy, mage!” He called out with a smile. “I mean no harm! See, I’ve no weapon.” It snapped Acrid’s focus. The ball of water swelled, and the fool seemed incapable of dodging or stopping it. The spell aimed at the man’s head as it drew back. To holler him out of the way or to force him out would be too slow. The spell was forged in a second and activated in the other – there was no time to cancel it anymore. She thrusted her hand and scrambled around whatever pattern she could, before slapping her own hand up to the sky, hoping to at least redirect the attack. The spell launched at that moment and the blurb of water, unsure of its shape, bulleted towards the man. But as the point of impact would come not a second later, it suddenly curved upward. It erratically expanded into a cloud, then exploded in the middle of its transformation. Droplets fell from the skyward crater, subjecting the two to a momentary rainfall. Acrid stood wearily, out of breath from the last-minute adjustments. Her eyes drifted to the now-visible man who was a hair’s breadth away from death. He wore light clothing fit for the desert rather than a forest. He seemed younger than a middle-aged man yet older than Acrid, and his robust body indicated he was a fighter at least. There were two sickle-shaped blades and a small pouch strapped on his hips. He had a bright and wide smile. The man whistled in celebration. “Mage, what spell was that?” he said excitedly, contrasting his naturally low voice. “That looked wonderful! And powerful!” He turned his blue eyes to Acrid, who was pleasantly surprised to look at someone with a rarely similar color. He slowly approached. “That was water, right? But it became fire in the end too, right? How is that possible?” The man then laughed to himself as he came closer. Acrid remained rooted, her wariness slowly turning into bewilderment. Whoever he was didn’t have any bad intentions. Rather, he was less of a threat to her than he was to himself, almost killing himself when he jumped into her attack, defenseless. She shot him a glare, hoping he’d take the hint. He paused. “Eh? Are you not the talking type?” His brow furrowed as he studied her frowning face. Then his eyes dropped to the mage’s drenched dress. His face lit up. “I see what it is now,” he declared, removing his headwear and handed it to Acrid. “You want to wipe dry, right? Here, take this. Just use it, it’s fine!” He kept chuckling to himself. This idiot. Acrid sighed, her irritation mixed with amusement. “Are you always this… silly?” she said, snapping her fingers, forming a steady wind between them. “Not al-” he began, but his retort quickly shifted into a genuine shout of fear as the steady blow had become strong gusts, buffeting him from all directions. He wobbled about like a jester, falling forward only for the wind to push him back, his face paling. “You would make a fine court dancer.” Acrid observed curiously, watching the man’s desperate attempts to regain his footing. Part of her wanted to see for how long this would last, but as her clothes dried, she decided to end his suffering. With another snap of her fingers, the winds dissipated and the man fell to the floor. He raised his head slightly, “Mage, what was that for?” he grumbled. His eyes still spinning. Acrid frowned, enjoying the confused look on his face. She let the silence linger for a little more. Then when she was satisfied, she pinched the hem of her newly-dried dress and flapped it around. He stared blankly. “Seriously..?” Acrid sighed as she sat in a shade behind him, on a square of grass that looked comfortable. She kept an eye on the man but allowed herself to watch the swaying branches and wandering clouds. The man groaned as he finally pushed himself up, to sit in front of Acrid, underneath the sunlight. He gave her a sheepish smile, “Maybe I went too far. My name’s Liquid, Ms. Mage.” “Liquid.” She repeated, recalling the disaster earlier. Ironic. But more importantly, before all of that, he called out to her on the Murkvelle bed. He knew dark magic, even more so than her. Acrid had to know. “What brings you here, sir Liquid?” Liquid held up a palm as soon as she finished. “No, no. None of that. Before I tell you more of me, tell me something of you.” he said, arms crossed. “Also, none of that sir-sir. Call me as is: Liquid.” Acrid hesitated. Her name was too valuable to give away so easily, especially with the number of enemies her goddess might have. In a predictable twist, Liquid could be one of them, and now she’d have endangered herself and Pilh. “No, Liquid,” she emphasized, “Tell me what brings you here.” He shook his head. “I cannot converse with one whose name I don’t even know.” “I’m sorry,” she said, the Murkvelles lurking in her mind. “I can’t tell you.” “Then we can’t talk.” Something as simple as a name is a token of one’s trust, and as such, a token of their entire person. That token may not be valuable for one’s self, but it was valuable to those closest people to them instead. Given to the wrong hands, these tokens can be used like silver, like currency, to get what they want. Unpleasant memories flooded her mind. The memory of an orange autumn, a sunset warmer than the rest, an idiot child, an unassuming adult, a friendly conversation, a said goodbye, a displaced trip back home, a voice unheard, a broken gate, a ravaged garden, a goodbye unsaid. Acrid shook the past away and refocused on the man before her. Acrid could keep quiet, she *should* keep quiet, but Liquid’s relaxed, almost mocking, demeanor urged her to speak. He knew that she wanted something from him, and he was dangling it right in front of her. She studied him carefully — his face, his foreign clothing, his unique weapons — for any clue about him or where he came from. Nothing rang a bell. Her inexperience with the different cultures of the world left her dry. The impasse stretched on, only crawling forward through the faint pecks on the trees and the fluttering of wings. Acrid’s earlier frustrations with the Murkvelles gnawed at her. On her own, she might not discover anything. Her fingers dug into her dress, a scowl hidden beneath her hair. She peered into Liquid again — his relaxed posture, his expectant gaze. He knew he had something that Acrid wanted, and he enjoyed his position far too much. *You truly are something else, Acrid.* Pilh’s words echoed in her head. Was hearing those words again worth putting them in danger? Once, and it may be forgiven. But making the same mistake twice… Acrid would never forgive herself. And yet her goddess’s words chimed around. *Gifts are meant to bloom. And so will you, Acrid.* The forest seemed to hold its breath as Acrid steeled her resolve. Her heart pounded as she opened her mouth, her tongue felt so heavy. “Acrid.” The word, the token of her trust, of her entire self, hung so impossibly loud in between the two. The silence made her skin crawl. Liquid’s relaxed posture stiffened almost indiscernibly. His darker blue eyes widened, and his face returned to its normal, joyful look. “Finally cracked, eh?” he said, his laughter a little too forced. “Acrid, huh? Quite a fine name you have.” But there was no hysterical laugh or any of the sort after. Instead, he sat there in a formal stance and could not quite look at Acrid in the eye. The atmosphere turned awkward. Acrid did not expect such an innocent reaction. “Umm..” “Ah,” Liquid scratched his chin. “Sorry. Acrid, I didn’t expect it to be so… so hard, you know?” he said, forcing a chuckle. When he looked at her, he met her unstable stare. “Oh, could it be you’d rather not me use it?” The question floated in the air. Acrid prided herself on reading people — not quite as good as Chrys or Pilh but definitely at the same level as them — and Liquid’s modesty disarmed many of her doubts. His eyes, too, were clear and steadfast, a far cry from a liar’s eyes. “No, it’s fine.” Acrid said with a tight throat. She watched him carefully still, with eyes bored wide. A sign, any sign at all, that he was an enemy and she would strike him down right there. But as the seconds passed, and nothing but the man’s shy breaths and desperate fidgeting presented itself, Acrid’s uncertainties winded down. He was genuinely awkward. Liquid could not possibly be an enemy. Perhaps but a silly traveler who happened to cross paths with her just as she visited the forest for the first time. Acrid breathed, breaking the silence between them. “So, about what you said earlier…” she began, “About dark magic, what was that about?” Liquid’s eyes lit up like a child seeing the sunlight from underneath an empty well. “Dark magic? You want to learn that?” Acrid nodded her head. “Yes.” Liquid thought for a moment. Then his face slowly turned disapproving. ”Why? Do you want to use it? It’s not exactly—” The mage leaned closer, their heads threatened to collide. “Yes.” She insisted, her serious eyes compelled him to continue. Liquid recoiled, startled. He pulled back as yellow strands prickled his eyes. “Okay, okay,” He said while motioning the girl away, “Acrid, just calm down.” He begged. Acrid withdrew and sat back in her seat like an apprentice. Her arms placed upon her lap and her hands clasped inwards. Her eyes eagerly burned a hole through Liquid’s face. The man sighed and took one of his sickles. He expertly spun it around his fingers. “I’m not a mage, you see. So I cannot use dark magic. But,” The weapon revolved in the air, and with a swift hand, Liquid gripped its handle. A purple ether lit up, revealing markings on the metal. The symbols identical to what Acrid saw in the library. “These weapons were bestowed dark magic, by my goddess.” Acrid’s curiosity paused. Him having a goddess caught her by surprise, even if it was not so bewildering for a warrior to be serving one. Liquid did not seem to be that kind of man. She spotted him staring into the blade, with stern eyes of respect and a hint of longing. Eyes she was all too familiar with. Liquid’s weapon sliced through the wind, the whoosh lugged her out of her thoughts. Liquid continued to speak. “Dark magic, by itself, is not a power. It is more like…” He seemed to be at a loss. “An anti-power?” he added while darting an apologetic gaze. “I cannot explain it any better than that. It is like,” he scrambled. “It affects things that cannot be touched, cannot be felt. Like the train of thought, like life or death, or even magic itself. Do you understand?” Acrid gaped blankly. After a succession of slow nods, she hummed even slower. “Yes,” she meant, “Tell me more.” Liquid cleared his throat. “Err, dark magic is more of an enchantment to weapons, like mine. I have seen mages with enchanted staffs but,” he scanned Acrid again and confirmed that she did not use any of that, “I have never seen dark magic itself being cast as… well, magic. It added poison tips on daggers, it cursed helmets and breastplates, but it is never used, directly.” Liquid met the mage’s expectant stare. She clearly reveled in the idea of dark magic despite his lecture of it just not being possible for her. “I cannot,” he started, “I cannot imagine dark magic being channeled… as a spell.” He expected the mage to be discouraged, but when he checked her response, she instead had a focused aura and a subtle excitement. Her hands were fidgety and her toes restless. “Can I see it?” she urged. “How you use it?” With a sigh, Liquid decided that he was in too deep to go back. He primed his weapon and searched the surroundings. *Should I tap a tree and show the rot? Should she cast a spell instead and I dissolve it?* Many ideas flowed in but none felt truly light. But when his blade emanated a flash, he felt something click. He closed his eyes. He had to focus to follow its trace. Acrid watched as he pursued an invisible target. His centered outlook told her to keep her mouth closed. He looked silly yet his movements were calculated and graceful, like slow dance. It was admirable, as is every other veteran in their craft. Perhaps Liquid was a talented warrior too. He tilted his weapon. He seemed to have his target cornered. He slid the blade into the air, so slowly that a butterfly could land on it. Then he stopped it mid-air as it seemed to hook onto something. *Did it catch something invisible?* Acrid watched in excitement as Liquid carefully sliced through- A scream pierced through the forest. It was painful, ear-shattering. It was hers. Acrid fell stomach-first and her back contorted involuntarily. The pain throbbed, spinning her head into a dizzy mush. It was painful, excruciating, but Acrid welcomed it. It was novel — not a physical blow, but rather one to her soul. Despite the world blurring down, Acrid could still make out Liquid’s face. His expression was furrowed and panicked, as he squandered beside her hesitating to speak or touch. *It was an accident.* She wanted to say, the wordlessness must be sending him into a panic, but her throat would not open. Acrid drifted a hand to his cheek and gave a labored smile. “It’s fine,” she managed to say. It seemed to calm him down a little, his drawn-back gasp now a subtle smile at least. It calmed her down too, as the burning sensation slowly faded. “Was that Dark Magic?” the mage’s eyes sparkled again. Liquid was taken aback. “Err, yes. That was. I did not mean to sever something like that though..” “What did you sever?” He wiped his brow. “I don’t know. But it seemed something deeply connected to you.” “Really?” Acrid mused. “What could it be?” So this was Dark Magic. It can attack in unseen ways. “Do mages have such connections?” “No, but-” Liquid snapped his fingers and pointed to Acrid. His eyes were lit up. “Do you have a goddess?” Acrid cleared her throat. Why must it go there? “I do.” she said. “Heavens. She must be quite old.” Liquid commented, “Ah, no offense.” Acrid shook her head. “She is young for a goddess.” Liquid’s mouth was agape. “Oh, it’s just that you must have gone under the traditional rites. I thought only the old deities did that.” he said, “Only that ritual’s connections can be sensed by dark magic. Modern rituals do not create as solid a connection.” “Is that so?” Was all Acrid could say, the concept not fully grasped just yet. The man leaned against a tree, his eyes still swirled in worry. He panned his forehead with the edge of his hand, as if the entire ordeal gave him a fever and he was rechecking his temperature. “Are you really not hurt?” he said, almost murmuring, his hair tangling strands when he curled them with his fingers. Acrid perked her chin at him, made sure they locked eyes, and with a mesmerizing tilt, she smiled at him in a way that surprised even herself. She was sure, especially with Liquid’s stunned look, and his almost reddish-pink cheeks, that she smiled like how Pilh would; a hypnotizing, silencing smile that left the unprepared breathless. And a thought glided by, a devious, almost evil thought. Something to take advantage of her sudden plot. “Where are you from, Liquid?” she asked, this was something she needed to know from the start, and with how the foreigner was in front of her, he might just answer. And he did. Small but blaring traces of guilt and enchantment compelled him so. “I’m from Poro,” he said monotonously at first, unsure of why he was saying what he was saying, but he reverted to his energetic tone quickly. He felt nothing amiss. “It’s a small town at the tail-end of the northeast. A border town actually.” Northeast. The mage had only known of it from books, as the land that was almost completely frozen by the snow that befalls it every day. That no home within it has ever not been coated with white powder on their streets and on their porches and rooftops. That every Northeastern had to replace their deer-kin coats every year because of the leather hardening and cracking apart. “It must be cold there.” she said to Liquid, whose face suddenly jolted awake. “During Winter, yes, the winds become harsh, but mostly, in all the other months, it is snowing, yes, and it is cold, but a warm type of cold. Not hot enough to melt the patches of snow, but hot enough to stop them from piling on and on.” The man rambled from there, going from their festivals, to their folkstories, to their quips, and to anything that had even a slight connection to his town. Acrid nodded as if she understood the man’s gabs. Though she did try to discern the meaning loosely plastered on his talk, what mattered more was the cute smile he wore when those soft and personal descriptions came out of his mouth. Acrid wondered if she could also rattle so dearly about Q’ara one day. The thought made her a tiny bit thrilled. In the middle of his talk about a particularly agitated moose that almost jeopardised their yearly thanksgiving, he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Wait,” he yipped, sights disappointingly slugged towards his sole audience, “I’ve been rambling, right?” “Aww, you noticed?” Acrid made sure her tone was extra. But she couldn’t stop a giggle or two from escaping. “But I was enjoying the story about the little ox, and how it almost ran over the elder chieftains.” Liquid slammed a palm on the tree trunk, determined to protect the real identity of the land animal. “Were you even listening?! It wasn’t an ox, it was a-” he stopped again, noticing a familiar trap. “Ahh, I’m gonna end up rambling again, Acrid” he grumbled, throwing hands over his face. Acrid laughed, a little at first, a little again, and unstopping, an unadulterated bawl. The mage had tried to compose herself, really, she did, but Liquid’s combination of innocence and stupidity was far too entertaining for her to bear. Only much later did the spring inside her heart made itself known, a feeling of bliss that she has not had in a long time, even alongside her newfound goddess. “Wait, wait,” she stammered, wiping tears off her lids. “You said Poro was a border town. What nation does it border?” “Well…” Liquid said, seemingly taken aback, “Really, only one kingdom rules over the Northeast. After all, I think only my goddess is able to conquer those harsh calamities. I’m surprised you do not know of it, Acrid.” Was her geography really that bad? “If you talk of it like that, then I’m surprised too.” Liquid snickered, and let out a proud grin. “I’m from the glorious, glorious kingdom of Vahraya. Though, just at the border!”