Some argue that Physical Casting is a separate art in and of itself, distant from the traditions of Spell Casting. The reason lies in the application. Castings such as Instant Reflex and Adrenal Surge are nearly impossible to learn and perform without the use of Rune Marks (The art of imprinting the spell's rune onto one's body).

An even bigger contradiction is Power Strike. Said to increase one's strength by two to threefold, the casting relies on the user's base strength to cast. Further study dictates zero cases of Mages and Sorcerers even carrying such a casting. Of course, there is the argument that such a requirement of strength is distasteful for casters of the like. Many Wizards much rather choose a useful spell that requires half the work and cost.

The scholar muttered as he read the words on the page, his finger trailing across the written texts. He stopped at the last paragraph, frowning a little.

"What troubles you so?" Wizard Alfred said. The aged man raised his head from the book he had been reading. Despite being well into his forties, the Wizard still had remnants of his youth left over.

"Rune Marks," the scholar responded. "The book says that since they're a requirement for Physical Castings, it classifies them as a separate form of magic. Or at least, it implies so."

"Ah yes," Alfred nodded as he laid back against his chair, his hand bringing a pipe to his lips. "Well, there's no definitive answer. Despite that particular text being written decades ago, the argument still rages on to this very day."

The scholar raised an eyebrow. "That's stupid. Why not just classify Rune Marks as their own separate technique? Like Cyrstalchemy or Convergence."

"Because…" Alfred exhaled smoke. "Some people like to argue about pointless things. Besides, many Wizards like to bring up the fact that Rune Marks can also imprint Spell Castings, such as Fireball and Ice Bolt. Which makes the practice a subsidiary of Spell Casting. Others argue that a subsidiary cannot hold castings that are exclusive to it. And so the debate rages on, centuries after Rune Marks were discovered."

"So, nothing but the arguments of old men," the scholar muttered as he looked back at the texts.

"I'm sure you can find some dusty scrolls of men arguing the same thing," Alfred said with a chuckle. "Let me bestow a modicum of wisdom to you. Forget the arguments. Focus on the magic itself. You're a budding Cryomancer, are you not?"

The scholar nodded.

"So focus on that branch. Practice with it. Learn everything you can of it," Alfred said. "Once you've perfected the art, then you can move on to others. Take it from me. I made a fool's error of trying to learn all I could in my youth."

"But you became a Wizard?" the scholar said with a hint of confusion. "Earned your pins before you even hit thirty. That itself is achievement enough, is it not?"

"The title of Wizard is one that has been bogged down over the centuries," Alfred sighed. "The pins are now given to any Sorcerer who even has an inkling of an idea of all the branches of magic. Wizards are supposed to be men of stature. Knowledge. Wisdom. Power. Nowadays, it is a fancy title for advanced Sorcerers. Even now, there is much I do not know. Much I have not mastered. That is why I tell you to study what you are good at and worry about the rest later."

"I suppose you are right," the scholar said with a nod. "Besides, I don't think I've heard of Lumen Knights becoming Wizards."

"Right you are," Alfred agreed. "Even if you were to qualify, you'd probably be turned into one of Delphine's Priests. I doubt you'd want that. There aren't many books in that church of hers."

The scholar cringed at that and shook his head. "No, I'd much rather be a Lumen Knight. Even if it is quite dangerous."

"I'll put in a good word for you when they pair you with a battle brother," Alfred said as he went back to his book. He took another puff of his pipe. "Perhaps I can arrange for you to be with the Ardel boy. Someone with the battle prowess of a brute to contrast with your meticulous spellcasting. Quite a nice combination."

The scholar nodded, his gaze moving down to his left hand. He rubbed his index and thumb together, frowning as frost naturally accumulated. He still had a ways to go before he could fully control it, but he had no worries. Youth was on his side, and so was time. Time to refine his castings and his knowledge. Perhaps even his fighting prowess.

It was a nice thought.

The real world came snapping back like a flash of lightning, awakening the young man from his sleep. He gasped as he awoke, his body thrashing about. His head flared with pain and voices, all of it rushing into his mind like a violent storm. In a fit of confusion, he clutched his head, a pained yell coming out his lips.

What was happening? Who was he? Why was he in so much pain?

The young man, no, Scholar? Wait, wasn't he a Centurion? He was an Outlander. No, scratch that, that didn't seem possible at all. None of it seemed right, yet it all made terrible sense.

Three different worlds crashed together. The blinding lights of the modern world, the endless libraries in Lumen City, the streets of Arendton and its colors. It all swirled in his head, memories clashing and personalities mixed. What was he? Was he a Centurion? A Scholar? An Outlander?

Three distinct names all spoke to him, each of them valid. Yet only one was rightfully his. The more he thought about it, the more painful his memories became. It pounded against his skull like a ringing bell, threatening to turn his brain into mush. As the confused man screamed in pain, hands began to hold him against the bed. He struggled and squirmed, trying to slip from their grasp in a panic.

He needed to go somewhere. But where? Lumen City? Arendton?

Yorktown, a voice seemed to tell him. You need to get to Yorktown.

The young man stopped his struggles, his migraines growing too great to bear. Blinding pain flashed across his brain, his body shuddering in response to it. Yorktown was important to him. But why? The Centurion side had never been there and failed to understand. Yet the Scholar and Outlander recognized its importance.

You need to get back to her, the voice called.

Her. Who? The Scholar did not know. He never had such an attachment. Yet the Outlander screamed and strained, a name standing out in the cacophony of noise.

"Emma! Put him under again!" a gruff voice called out.

"I'm trying! Hold him still!" a female voice responded in strain.

Dahlia. That was the name that came to him. Neither Scholar nor Centurion had any personal attachment to it. Only the Outlander, who begged for Yorktown's safety. For Dahlia's safety. For everyone's safety. Right then and there, a memory of his past became crystal clear, drowning out the rest of the mess that swirled in his mind. For a moment, the young man's pain vanished, his body growing still as the recollection replayed itself in his head.

"I'm sorry for putting you in a position like that, uh…" The shaman blanked a little, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"James. My name is James," the tired man revealed a sigh.

"Right. James." The shaman nodded. "You can call me Dahlia."

"Dahlia," James repeated softly, his eyes on the woman who had summoned him. She was giving him a half smile, a sort of mischievous grin mixed with amber colored eyes that glinted with curiosity.

James. His name was James.

"May you find peace in your dreams, Sleep," the woman from earlier chanted out something. Almost instantly, James felt its effects. His body went slack and his eyelids fell with the weight of rocks. Before he knew it, he had fallen back asleep.

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Screams. The smell of burnt wood. The pain of dying.

James stirred as he awoke from his nightmare, his forehead slick with sweat as he fought the covers. It ended with him upright, lungs heaving as he tried to discern reality from his dreams. He had no idea of what had just happened. In fact, he was more confused awake than he had been in his nightmares.

At least then, he had the sense of mind. Now, however, the confused man barely recalled his own name. James. That was the only piece of himself he was sure of. They called him James. Sometimes, Outlander. Other times…

"Hng!" James clenched his jaw tightly as he winced, a headache overcoming him. Just trying to recall memories was enough to beckon sharp pains. In the moment between pounding migraines, James decided to hold off on figuring out his past. For now, he needed to figure out the present.

He was in an infirmary bed, that was for sure. The room was empty and clear outside of the wooden nightstand on his right, a small wooden cup on its surface. James felt his throat dry at the sight of crystalline water glinting in the moonlight. James did not waste any time, his hands greedily grabbing the cup and bringing its brim to his lips. It was only after he gulped the water down, however, that he spotted the lumbering man standing at the doorway. In the low light of night, he almost blended with the darkness.

James reacted like any sane man. He recoiled in shock and scrambled away as he tried to find something to defend himself with. Of course, there was nothing for him to use as a weapon. He ended up nearly falling off the bed, his body shifting as he tried to keep himself upright.

The entire time this happened, the man in the darkness only watched. He had his arms crossed, eyes studying James.

"Who are you?" James spat as he sat upright. He had to do his damnedest not to shake. It was a difficult task, his hands sporadically trembling despite the lack of fear. "What do you want from me?"

The man said nothing. He instead turned around and walked out of the room without so much of a noise. James stared at the doorway, unsure of what to think of the situation.

"You were screaming in your sleep," someone said to his left. James jumped and whipped his head to the source. He didn't even see this person. They sat at the end of his bed, the chair reversed so they could rest their arms on the back support. Through the sparse moonlight that poured through the window, James could make out a young woman, her dark hair brushed back and her only eye staring at him. White bandages wrapped around a third of her head, covering her left eye and part of her forehead.

Almost instinctively, James touched his right eye, his hand feeling gauze. He hadn't even noticed that lack of sight due to how dark the night was. Now, however, the difference was glaring.

"Lukas just wanted to make sure you weren't being killed," the woman muttered as she watched him. She was dressed in foreign clothes, a light black cloak wrapped around her torso. Her left hand was holding a piece of wood, her right wielding a small dagger that whittled away pieces and chunks.

For some reason, James felt as if he should have known this person's name. Yet, his mind came up blank. Who was she? She was definitely familiar. A much more welcome sight than the man he had just seen earlier. As James pondered, he couldn't help but rub his fingers against the spot where his right eye was. Something dreadful told him that he'd never be able to see out of it again.

"No, you're never going to get used to it," the woman said, answering the question that had appeared in James' head. "Not entirely."

"What is this?" James asked in a weak voice. "Who are you?"

The stranger paused, her interest in the piece of wood lost for a moment. "You don't remember me?"

James shook his head, despite the darkness. "No. I have no idea who you are. Hell, I don't think I even know who I am."

The woman went silent at that, hands clenching the dagger and wood. For a few tense seconds, James suspected that he had said something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Despite the dread that pooled in the pit of his stomach, the woman gave a soft sigh.

"Get some sleep, James. We'll talk when that sickness passes."

For some unknown reason, James did not feel satisfied with the answer. He wanted to protest, to argue. He needed answers, and most of all, he needed to go to Yorktown. For what reason, he still didn't know. The only thing he was certain of was that he needed to get back there, specifically back to a person. Dahlia.

"Sleep," the stranger said, a bit more insistent this time. "You need it."

James set his jaw at that, teeth grinding as he tried to come up with an excuse or argument he could use. Yet he could also feel how his bed called to him, the exhaustion in his body apparent in the way he struggled to keep his single eye open. Before he knew it, he had already laid back on the mattress. He instinctively pulled the covers up to his chest and with it came the comfort of sleep.

Sunlight, or at least its warmth, illuminated the only window in James' room. Naomi watched the rays of gold as they grew from a faint trickle to a flood of morning light. She sighed and stood, her gaze falling over the sleeping man.

James looked like hell. His hair was cut short not long after he was found, as its length had proven difficult for healers to work on his lost eye. His beard was still there but was left in patches due to the scars on his face. Those would heal but a couple were bound to be noticeable.

Naomi still didn't know exactly what had happened on that ship. From what the necromancer had managed to tell her, it was supposed to be a peace talk. A negotiation of sorts. He couldn't give any more details, since it appeared like the man had some sense of amnesia. He didn't even know his own name.

'This has strange written all over it,' Naomi thought as she walked to the side of the bed. She placed her knife on the bed stand, looking over at James with a deep frown. He was paranoid, that was for sure. And an amnesiac as well. Just like the necromancer. What had happened on that ship?

Naomi stepped out of the room as she contemplated the possibilities, her arms crossed as she racked her brain. Once the door closed, however, Naomi's line of thinking went out the window. Outside James' room, was a tall man who waited patiently in the hallway. He wore the golden band that signified him as a Jarl, his eyes glinting with expectancy.

"He's still not healthy enough," Naomi said to Lukas Villtur. The Jarl gave a grunt of indifference to that.

"Then I suppose we'll have to wait," Lukas muttered. "Do you suppose he'll even listen to me?"

"It's like the necromancer's situation," Naomi said. "I don't think he even remembers who he is. Maybe if we give him some time to readjust, he'll get his memories back."

"What if we tell him who he is and the situation his clan is in?" Lukas asked, not a hint of consideration in his voice. "Surely we can shock him back to his old self."

Naomi shook her head at that. "That probably won't even work honestly. Even if it did…" The Outlander hesitated. "If we dump it all on him at once, there's no telling what might happen to his mind. We need to tread carefully here. For sanity's sake."

"James needs to remember. He should know as soon as possible," Lukas grunted. "They are his people."

"They're his family," Naomi refuted. "If he were to know that they were under siege… after everything that happened? He'll lose it."

In the weeks since James had been here, the situation had devolved. Clans were suspecting that the Jarl was already dead, rumors of his fall echoing within certain circles. Not just that, but word had recently come telling of an armada of savage looking longships surrounding the island Yorktown resided on.

Trade had been cut off and it was assumed that Yorktown was to be raided in the coming month. Time was not on their side and Naomi knew that there was no way of saving the town from such an invasion. Not without an armada of their own. Of course, James had no idea of the situation his town and clan were in. Naomi couldn't fathom what his reaction to the news would be, should he recover his memories in the coming days. Hell, she worried it'd break the poor bastard, sending him into either madness or suicide.

Lukas was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting as he avoided eye contact. The Jarl was difficult to read. Even after nearly a month, Naomi still couldn't pin down his expressions and intentions.

The Outlander had met with the Jarl not long after her meeting with James, their meeting serendipitous in the way that both were interested in the same things. James Holter himself. Naomi didn't know the full extent of what Villtur wanted with James, but she could fathom a guess.

'Dragon's Graveyard. He believes James is the key to his success in the upcoming Endeavor.'

It was a strange logic to bring Holter along for the Endeavor, given their brief history. Why trust and save a man who had just forced you into a truce? Then again, Naomi could vaguely understand the reasoning. Lukas was a rational man, despite appearances and his outbursts. There was a sense of intelligence behind those brutish eyes of his, intelligence that told Naomi that he was willing to do what he could to come out on top. That his plans involved him making important allies.

And apparently, that plan involved James being alive and well. As much as Naomi wanted to distrust the Jarl, there was nothing he said or had done to indicate he would betray her or James. Regardless, Naomi kept her guard up whenever she was around him. She had more than her fair share of betrayals.

"I'll give him a week more. After that, we will tell him," Lukas said finally.

Naomi didn't argue. She really couldn't. Instead, she was relegated to watching as the Jarl turned and walked off. She sighed as he disappeared behind a corner, leaving her alone in the hallway. Naomi rested against the wall, hand against her blindside as she thought to herself.

'How did I end up here?' she wondered. She had been living a relatively peaceful life in the mountains of Naki months ago, her only worry being the pesky eagles that usually tried to get at her food stores. Such a minor inconvenience, one that was dwarfed by the massive pile of shit that the Outlander had stepped into.

Marauders, Lumen Knights, Beholders. Not to mention fractured ley lines and the talk of strange zombie-like creatures. Naomi had found herself amid a conflict that far outweighed the capabilities of a lone Outlander such as James. It was a miracle he had been able to make it this far.

'Did Thien really throw him into all this without reason?' Naomi thought. What had been Holter's quest? What was he promised in return for stepping into this mess?

'Maybe I'll ask him when he's in better shape.'

Naomi nodded at that as she walked down the hall, a yawn escaping her. She needed some sleep first. Perhaps after that, she could think more about this.

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