Their descent was lengthy. As the sea wind turned, the smoke of funeral pyres drifted over the highland forests. It coated them all in a thin soot that stung the eyes and prickled the nostrils. An unholy scent, welcoming them back to Nerithon.

Watchfires blazed atop the city's walls by the time they reached its gates. A tonnage of eighty-strong legionnaires were garrisoned in the gatehouse towers, tasked with overseeing the ebb and flow of citizens from its ruined gates. But they were late, and the curfew was in effect. An iron portcullis barred the way for their company. A caravan of travellers had pitched their tents at the path's edge–refugees and merchants come from the Philoxanian mainland at news that Nerithon had been liberated. But they were late to arrive today, and must await the morning call. However, Skippii was not so patient.

"Legionnaire," he beckoned to a watchman beyond the portcullis. "We are of the Second Cohort, open up."

The watchman approached with a scowl. He held the torch over and behind his head, casting light on their company, bobbing his head to peer through the bars. "You sure about that?"

It was true that they were dressed more like sell-swords than uniformed legionnaires–unarmoured and uncloaked. Their packs were heavy, and they were dirty from travel.

"I'm sure. My name is Skippii Altay. Now raise the portcullis."

The watchman grinned derisively. "Yeah, and I'm the Imperator's cousin."

"Who is it?" another watchman asked, approaching from the gatehouse.

"Scavengers," the first responded. "Ahh, but that's alright. We value your service all the same, but don't go thinking you'll get a premium for selling us back our own gear."

"Finder's fee," the other said. "That's it."

"We're not scavengers," Skippii snorted. "I am who I say I am. Now open the portcullis."

"Prove it," the watchman said, a challenge in his voice.

"Do you see these gates," Tenoris said loudly. "They were sundered by our very champion, with his magia alone. You would deny him entry to his own city of conquer?"

Each of the watchmen stared at them dully, unimpressed. Skippii wondered how many such tales they had heard this week. Their word alone would not open the path. He drew a breath and raised his hand to the watchman's torch. There before him was a droplet of power, and he ushered it into him. The flames bent, as though stricken by a sudden wind. The watchman flinched as the heat brushed his cheek. But within moments, it was gone, and glowing within Skippii's palm.

He held the light to the portcullis' bars, illuminating their shocked faces. "Proof enough? Or do I have to blow this gate apart for a second time?"

Worldlessly, they hurried to turn the cranks. The bars creaked as they rose, alerting all nearby. A few bold travellers came to stand at the edges of their group, hoping to slip in with them.

"Don't even think about it," Drusilla said cooly, and none tried.

A group of watchmen came from the tower to greet Skippii's procession. Curiously, they saluted his passing.

"Will one of you send a message?" he asked.

"Of course, scorcher," a man responded. A bracelet of renown was upon his wrist, raised to his temple in salute.

"Send a message to the Ninth Legion's chief staff. We have returned with the temple's library–all that we could carry. Send aid for the hermit, and scribes for its tomes. We shall be in our tower."

Beyond the gates was a shallow courtyard, from which four paths ventured. Their companeight made to take the leftmost path towards their tower lodgings, when Eirene gasped.

"I remember this place," she crooned. "The streets. The bricks. Oh, but there used to be a tree here–a small plum tree–which all the children would pick. There was never a ripe fruit on it, except at the top branches which we could not reach."

She smiled and twisted her head. "That way. We must go that way."

Following her guidance, they took a central path deeper into the city. The streets were empty and dark. Skippii drew a little of his magia and let it pool in his palm, casting the cobblestone in a soft glow. A dozen men approached, marked as legionnaires only by the red cloaks on their backs. Women accompanied them–birds of many a feather. Some were older and tanned, widows most likely; others were young and pale, daughters of the Urkun invaders. Wine vases were carried between them, and the men shouted boisterously, clasping their prizes about their waists and singing.

The air grew tense as they drew near. The Fifth legion–who now occupied Nerithon–had a bad reputation for brawling, even amongst themselves. Skippii raised his fist in salute, letting the Guiding Light there shine brightly. Their eyes widened–those who noticed–many were too drunk and concerned with their company to look his way. But there would be no trouble while his magia was apparent. Drunk and unruly, the Fifth were, but not fools.

"Take a right ahead," Eirene said. "Down this alley. Yes. Yes, I remember this courtyard. A teahouse, it was. And here there were vines. Grapes in the summer that climbed up the walls. Oh, and this way. A pond was here to keep the crabs fresh which the fishermen caught. We would pinch them as children, and oh, they would pinch us back."

Her voice lilted with passion. To Skippii, the dim moonlit walls seem suddenly more vibrant than he had ever seen them before. Through a maze of streets they wound, one-man abreast, and came to the steps of a house nestled at the rear of a reclusive cul-de-sac.

Eriene grew silent, but she sat up straight atop the donkey, eyes bright as the stars themselves. Tears welled inside. "I never thought I would see this place again. My home. I never dreamed…"

In the shadows of a window, a woman's pale face peered out. Caution was in her eyes, like a cat whose nemesis had encroached on her domain. She locked eyes with him then quickly closed the shutters. A latch fitted into place. Skippii sighed and lowered his bundle of tomes and tablets to the ground.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Good a place as any for a library," he said.

"It's suitable," Cliae said. "Isolated. Makes for peaceful study."

Skippii approached the door alone and rasped on the wood, he held his breath for a response.

"Phila," he spoke the Philoxenian word for 'friend' softly. But there was no response.

"Cliae." He turned and summoned his chronicler. "Translate for me: We are with an elderly woman. She is Philoxenian. She needs rest, and this was once her home. We intend to make it so again, but they will not be forced to leave. Let them know we mean well."

"Should I say that we are from the legion?" Cliae asked.

Skippii paused. "Say the Ninth. But, it won't make a difference to them… Just tell them we wish to speak. Open the door."

He heard hushed voices from the other side. One rose shriller than the rest–a young woman's voice, dripping with fear. But the woman who opened the door was matured–a light tan held soft features, punctuated by a strong nose. Her oak-brown hair was tied in a neat ponytail. Her green eyes were unwavering as she caught Skippii's and held them; a woman who had faced many perils of late, and grown used to grim men on her doorstep.

"Phila," he said.

She narrowed her eyes and kept the door half-ajar. Cliae exchanged a few words with her. She spoke in an abrupt, low voice. Her hand trembled slightly on the door frame and she bit her lip, looking away. But finally, she relented. The door creaked open. Eriene was dismounted and helped up the porch's steps, and was first to enter the home.

"What of the occupants?" Tenoris said. "Where shall they go?"

"They can stay, can't they?" Cliae said.

"But what room will there be for our library?" he queried.

"We'll figure it out," Skippii said. "Besides, Eirene will need someone to look after her when we leave the city. These people seem as good as any."

"Hey, fellows," he shouted to the remainder of his companeight. "Leave the packs there. Just us three will go in. I don't want to intimidate them."

Orsin nodded along. "Don't think we'd all fit in there anyway."

"Fancy a drink?" Drusilla said.

"Round two?" Orsin answered. "Not sure I can stomach it."

"Can't keep up?" Kaesii jested.

"Oh, that's a joke," Orsin said. "You fell asleep the other night after two cups."

"I was comfortable and content," Kaesii said. "It was not a competition then, but if it is to be one tonight, I shall surely win."

"What coin are you even buying all this booze with?" Skippii asked lightly.

"The Brenti just give it to us for practically free," Orsin said. "They get a kick out of watching legionnaires drink it."

"Vegetable spirit," Drusilla said. "Awful stuff."

"We're like sport to them," Cur added.

"Okay," Skippii smiled. "But at least one of you should return to the tower and await the Imperator's staff. They'll be looking for us there."

"I shall go," Arius said, but as he turned, he froze. Skippii had seen that expression in him before–the acute glare of predator eyes, focussed on the darkness of an alleyway nearby. Skippii peered that way and saw the silhouette of a man in the shadows. They were being followed.

"Who are you?" Skippii announced. The figure was dressed in a dark robe, like that of the Coven. A staff was in one hand, and a cloak pulled deeply over their head. They did not flee, but neither did they come forward.

Skippii raised his hand and let the light shine from his palm. A beacon rose like the sun on the narrow cul-de-sac, illuminating it as daylight. The figure did not shirk away as he expected, but came forward quickly now. Arius strode to meet him, as did Kaesii and Drusilla, spears raised to meet his coming.

"I knew what I had felt was true." His voice rang like an old bell, peeling into Skippii's soul.

"It is you, there is no mistake." He strode forward and casually parted their spears with the tip of his staff. Kaesii shuddered and pressed forward, but Arius extended an arm to stop him. The wise veteran read clearly that which his fellow had not. An aura of command festooned the figure. He was no common acolyte, no servant of the dark gods. Removing his hood, he looked beyond the legionnaires at his fore and flank and beheld Skippii.

Shock struck him like lightning. There was the face of an old friend.

"Thales," Skippii barely breathed. "How are you here?"

"I would ask you, but all the city is rife with rumour." Thales smiled until his mouth reached his ears and he bore his teeth. "Skippii Altay. Firebreather, they're calling you now. Scorcher, liberator of Nerithon. Is it true? Adrene's little Skipster turned into a hero of legend."

Leaping down the steps, Skippii lifted Thales into an embrace and squeezed his old tutor tight. "Thales, my good senior. How are you? How did you find me?"

"Senior no longer," Thales said, pulling away and grasping Skippii's arms. He was shorter than in memory–or rather, Skippii had grown much since their last meeting.

"May we talk?" Thales asked.

"Of course."

"Where is private?"

Skippii glanced back towards Eirene's old home. "I have an errand here. But join us. I think you'll find it to your liking. Books. Dozens of them. Old. Older than the stories you used to tell me."

He patted Thales on the chest, but found it to be much less firm than he remembered. In fact, the old man's frame had diminished over the years. He was once lean as a legion's auxiliary, but now showed the shadow of starvation in his eyes and cheeks.

"You must eat," Skippii said sincerely.

"I am okay," Thales said. "I am well. Tell me, I cannot wait any longer. What are these tales of you? Of a magia awakened? Is it of the Gods? Are you astral now, bound to the pantheon?"

"I am not," he said.

Thales sighed. "That's a relief. May we go inside?"

Neither got any rest that night. Sitting beside a stranger's fireplace, their conversation rushed like a flash flood, but by morning, had petered out to a pleasant rainfall. Skippii explained the awakening of his magia and all the events proceeding. Thales listened, ever with a smile on his face. Before long, Tenoris drifted off and snored in a large padded chair, while Cliae retired to the chambers chosen for Eirene.

Frequently, he and Thales meandered from topics of seriousness to the gay, and shared memories of their time in the Third Legion. They laughed as Thales told a tale of Skippii's mischievous revenge against a legion superior who had reprimanded him for a crime he had not committed–of how he had stolen the scabbard of his gladius in the night and filled it with the mud of a latrine so that when he came to sheath his sword in the morning, it covered him in filth.

Tears came to his eyes as joy filled his heart, and he inspected his friend's new face for a long time. The grooves of age, deeper than before, and the shallow cheeks–the scabs on his wrists.

"What happened?" Skippii said with a look. The dust of years had cleared, and each could tell the other's thoughts as clear as day.

Thales raised his chin and prepared his statement, as precise and philosophical as ever. "We fight the same enemy, you and I. Only, your war has proven far more successful than I could have hoped. In all the cities of Philoxenia, I have allies. A cabal against the Urkun khanate. When the Fifth Legion arrived here…" He squinted. "Eighteen months ago, we tried to reclaim the forum. And we did. We slew the khanate and his guard, but we were wrong in our estimations. Nerithon did not rebel with us. They feared a greater power than the legions. We could not rally enough to turn the tide, and so the storm died. I was taken in chains. But death did not find me swiftly."

His voice grew quiet, but he would not lower brow to the shadows of daybreak. "I felt your coming one day, two weeks past, or more. It had seemed like more than a dream. I sensed you through the very earth. I am glad it was not madness, come to steal my mind. But more than that, I am glad to meet someone after so long who shares this gift of mine."

Leaning into the fire, Thales picked a thin, smouldering log from the pile.

"Stop, you'll burn yourself," Skippii said.

Thales lifted the branch to his face. The embers shone beneath his fingers, but his flesh did not burn. With a breath, he sucked in their light. And with an exhale, he blew upon the log. An icy mist claimed the branch, quenching its fires, bejeweling it in a crystal frost.

Skippii's jaw dropped. His heart froze.

"You are not the only one who can draw upon the essence of the world," Thales said. "Though, you are the most powerful of our age, if my reckoning is correct."

"You are a Primordial heres?" Skippii stammered.

"No. Only you are that. I am merely a man who knows many secrets. Would you like to learn them too?"

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