23 Thunben by Danny Maurer

A youth—barely a man—bounds through the thrumming streets, utterly unmindful of the icy tendrils of wind that whip around him or the delicate snowflakes that descend like whispers from the heavens. The winter solstice looms just a week away, yet the bitter cold seems to amplify rather than diminish his joy. He greets every passerby with a bright smile and a warm nod, as if his exuberance could chase away the chill that envelops the city.

His long, dull-brown coat flutters around him, a modest garment lined with soft rabbit fur that protects him from the harsh elements, while the edges of his dark-blonde locks dance playfully in the frosty air. Each step he takes sends a flurry of snow swirling about his boots, leaving a trail behind him, as he weaves deftly through the throngs of bundled figures huddled against the cold. He absently excuses himself for his behavior, but no one pays him much attention.

“I’ve found it,” the midling enthusiastically repeats to no one in particular.

Reaching his home on the outskirts of the old city center, the midling pauses for a brief moment, drawing in the crisp, refreshing air that tinged with the scent of pine and smoke from nearby chimneys. The weight of the world seems to lift as he stands before the weathered wooden door to his home, a portal to warmth and familiarity.

He lets out a quick, exhilarated breath, his heart still racing from his earlier adventure. With one swift motion, he pushes the door open, the hinges creaking in greeting. The moment he crosses the threshold, his bangs cascade down over his eyes, momentarily obscuring his vision. But the excitement bubbling within him is too potent to contain, and he brushes the hair aside with an eager flick of his hand.

The small home is nothing more than a single-room dwelling, yet it exudes a cozy charm that wraps around the occupants like a well-loved blanket. Aside from a modest table and a pair of mismatched chairs, two lumpy mattresses rest in opposite corners, each covered with quilts that tell stories of warmth and care. The flickering warmth of the fire in the hearth casts a soft glow, illuminating the space and chasing away the shadows that linger in the corners. Several stained rugs, each with its own history, adorn the worn wooden floor, adding splashes of color and comfort to the simplicity of the room.

“What’s all the noise about?” comes a familiar voice, rich with warmth and curiosity. The midling’s mother glances up from her work, her hands deftly knitting a vibrant scarf from a myriad of colored yarns that twist and twirl together, creating a lively pattern that seems to dance in the light. Her hair, a deep shade of gold like her son’s, frames her face, and her bright blue eyes sparkle with the same spirited energy that radiates from him.

“I found the Clavis Saeculum, Mama!” the youth exclaims, his voice brimming with exhilaration as he hangs up his coat on a timeworn hook. He shoves his worn gloves into one of the many pockets, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the electric thrill of discovery.

His mother looks up from her knitting, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she stitches together a riot of colors into the scarf. “That’s nice, Thunben,” she replies, her tone laced with mock enthusiasm that barely conceals her amusement. “I’ve got to finish this scarf today. Can you tell me about it later?”

Thunben sighs, his earlier excitement momentarily deflated by his mother’s busy schedule. He crosses the room, his heart still heavy with anticipation, and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into a warm embrace. He leans in just enough to plant a gentle kiss on her nose, his favorite little gesture that always brings a twinkle to her eye. “Okay, later,” he concedes, a hint of a smile creeping back onto his face, the warmth of her affection rekindling his spirit.

With a determined bounce in his step, Thunben strides to his corner of the room, a small sanctuary filled with the remnants of his childhood. He leaps onto his well-worn mattress, the fabric creaking softly under his weight, and sends a wooden toy sailing through the air. The little figure—an intricately carved knight—somersaults gracefully before landing softly on the floor, as if it, too, is caught up in the exuberance of his youthful energy.

He retrieves the toy with a chuckle, but his attention quickly goes to a thin piece of parchment tucked away inside his thin robes. With nimble fingers, he pulls the parchment out, his smile widening as he admires the paper. As he slowly unfolds it, he treats it as if it were a relic of some bygone age.

Staring at the parchment, Thunben’s heart races as he softly reads aloud the passage he carefully copied earlier from a dusty old book tucked away in the city’s archives. His voice trembles with excitement, each word spilling from his lips as if it were a magnificent discovery unfolding for the very first time.

“One piece of the Clavis Saeculum can be found in Theron Valley buried deep within a mine. I know not where the other pieces were hidden as I was entrusted with only this segment. As I am nearing the end of this life, I write this for the one who was destined to find the Key.”

The words resonate deeply within him, each syllable igniting a spark of adventure in his imagination. “The one who was destined to find the Key…” he repeats, letting the phrase linger in the air, heavy with meaning. A sense of destiny washes over him, filling him with an intoxicating blend of purpose and wonder. Could it be that he was meant for something greater?

Thunben furrowed his brow, his mind racing as he contemplated the mysterious origins of the passage he had just read. The words were poignant and infused with a deep sense of urgency, yet the identity of the writer remained shrouded in secrecy. It was as if the author had deliberately chosen to remain anonymous, their name lost to time, perhaps to protect the knowledge they imparted or to keep their legacy veiled in mystery.

As he continued to ponder, he recalled where he had discovered the passage. It had been tucked away inside a tattered journal belonging to none other than The Timeless Man—a figure of legend in their world. Whispers of his existence filled the air of taverns and marketplaces, tales spun by storytellers who claimed that he had survived the Iracundia, a cataclysm that had changed the world forever.

Thunben’s heart raced at the thought. The Timeless Man was rumored to be still alive somewhere in the world, a beacon of ancient knowledge hidden in the shadows of history. The idea that this journal contained insights from such a legendary figure sent a thrill coursing through him. Perhaps he wasn’t just reading a passage; he was connecting with the essence of a man who had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, who had weathered storms both literal and metaphorical.

Theodopolus, Thunben’s master, had often woven tales of the Clavis Saeculum into the fabric of their lessons, each story a thread in the rich tapestry of legend and lore. These were not mere fables, but rather echoes of a past that had been passed down through generations—stories that had once ignited the imagination of Theodopolus when he was but a boy, just like Thunben now. His master had instilled in him a sense of reverence for the Clavis Saeculum, a mystical artifact known also as the Key of Ages. The knowledge of the Clavis Saeculum was almost entirely an oral history, shared in hushed tones around campfires. Thunben had listened with rapt attention, his heart racing with each twist and turn of the story. The allure of the Key of Ages had become a childhood obsession for him, a vibrant flame that flickered brightly in his mind and guided his every choice.

In his relentless pursuit of knowledge, Thunben had scoured the city’s archives at every opportunity. He spent countless hours combing through ancient texts, old maps, and forgotten manuscripts, searching for any mention of the Clavis Saeculum. He felt an undeniable connection to the artifact, a pull that seemed to transcend time, and he was determined to uncover its mysteries.

Today, however, was different. Today, his efforts were finally rewarded. As he sat amidst the warmth of his home, the parchment in his hands felt like a trophy, a testament to the hard work and passion that had consumed him. The passage he had copied from The Timeless Man’s journal was more than just words; it was a sign that the journey he had dreamed of was at last beginning to unfold. This was the day that Thunben had waited for in his sixteen years of life—a day where the line between dreams and reality blurred, where the stories he had clung to would spring to life before his very eyes. He could feel the weight of destiny resting on his shoulders, the thrill of adventure igniting a fire in his chest.

Thunben carefully folded the precious copied parchment and slid it into his leather-clad scroll case, ensuring it was safe and secure. The weight of the parchment, filled with the promise of adventure and discovery, felt like a comforting presence against his side. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he settled down onto his mattress, lying back and gazing up at the ceiling. A smile crept across his face as he took in the familiar contours of the wooden beams above him. The excitement coursing through him was almost overwhelming, a vibrant energy that buzzed like electricity. To calm the manic energy surging within, Thunben took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scents of wood and warmth that filled his small home.

To focus his thoughts and channel his excitement, Thunben began to chant a simple spell he had learned from Theodopolus. With each rhythmic word, he felt his mind steadying, the chaos of his emotions gradually transforming into a serene clarity. As he spoke the incantation, small motes of color began to float in the air above him, shimmering like tiny stars in the dim light.

The motes danced playfully, swirling and coalescing into a vibrant ball of energy. Thunben’s heart soared as he directed the spell with his mind, announcing his intentions to the magical sphere. He tossed the glowing orb from one ceiling beam to another, watching in delight as it glided effortlessly through the air, leaving a trail of sparkling particles in its wake.

The spell always brought him a sense of peace, allowing him to focus amidst the whirlwind of thoughts and dreams spinning in his mind. As the ball of energy danced from beam to beam, Thunben felt the exhilaration of the day merge with a sense of calm. The spell was not just a calming exercise; it was a celebration of his potential, a reminder that he was capable of great things.

Eventually, as the final remnants of energy faded and the motes drifted back into the air, Thunben sighed contentedly. The spell had served its purpose; he felt centered and ready to embrace the challenges ahead. The ceiling above him, with its simple beams, now appeared to be a canopy of possibilities, each shadow and shape whispering of the adventures yet to unfold.

The following day, Thunben trotted eagerly through the winding streets toward his master’s house, the excitement still bubbling within him like a freshly uncorked bottle of fizz. He could hardly contain his joy at having discovered the passage about the Clavis Saeculum, and he was eager to share it with Theodopolus. He imagined his master’s expression—a mix of surprise, pride, and perhaps even a glimmer of admiration for his devoted student. The thought made Thunben grin from ear to ear.

Theodopolus had become a mentor and a father figure, guiding Thunben through the complexities of the arcane arts. The midling was nearing the end of his apprenticeship and was well on his way to creating and controlling more difficult spells. Theodopolus had guided him through complex constructs, teaching him how to imbue spells with more than just simple effects—he began to understand the nuances of intention, the importance of focus, and the power of emotion in magic. Thunben was no longer just a novice; he was transforming into a budding spellcaster with the potential to harness the very fabric of reality.

Before rounding the corner closest to his master’s house, Thunben sensed something was wrong. The wintery silence that had accompanied him on his journey abruptly shattered into a cacophony of voices as he got closer. The sounds of panic and murmurs of concern rippled through the air, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. It was hard to see past the assembled people, their faces twisted in worry and shock.

However, pushing his way through the crowd, Thunben’s heart raced. What could have happened? Had there been an accident? As he finally broke free from the throng, his breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. A caved-in pile of rubble lay where his master’s home had once stood, the structure reduced to a chaotic mound of shattered wood and stone. The familiar façade of Theodopolus’s cottage, filled with warmth and wisdom, was now unrecognizable and buried beneath debris.

Panic surged within Thunben as he took a step forward, instinctively wanting to rush to the wreckage. But four guardsmen dressed in the city’s livery stood watch, their stern faces preventing anyone from getting too close, ensuring that looters stayed at bay. Thunben felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. “No, no, no!” he muttered under his breath, his legs moving before he could fully comprehend the situation.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a guardsman barked, his ham-sized fist quickly gripping Thunben’s collar with effortless strength, pulling him back sharply. The boy’s heart sank as he struggled to break free from the iron grip that held him captive.

“Theo… Theo…” Thunben stammered, his voice trembling as the reality of the situation crashed down upon him. “That’s my master’s house!” he bawled, the words spilling out amid gasps of distress. Tears blurred his vision of the wreckage that had once been a place of safety and learning. He felt utterly helpless, a wave of despair crashing over him as he fought against the guardsman’s hold. In a moment of desperate frustration, he kicked at the man’s shins like a little boy, hoping to find a way to escape the grip that felt as solid as iron.

“Not anymore,” the man stoically replied, a soft frown creasing his weathered face. “It’s kindling now, and the old man’s dead.”

The words landed like a heavy stone in Thunben’s chest and the world around him spun into a blur. His heart sank as the weight of that statement pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket. Theodopolus had been more than a teacher to him; he had been his only friend, a guiding light in the often daunting world of magic and learning. The realization that the old man was gone made Thunben feel as though he had lost a part of himself. Tears streamed freely down his pale cheeks, hitting the snowy ground and making small dents in the trampled whiteness, turning the pure snow into a canvas of his grief. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed, caught up in the wave of sorrow crashing over him.

Around him, the crowd murmured in hushed tones, their faces reflecting a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. A few people looked on with concern and Thunben could feel their eyes on him, but he couldn’t muster the strength to care. All he could think about was the emptiness left behind by his master’s absence.

A woman, hunched over from age and smoking a slender pipe, spoke up from the edge of the crowd. “Eh there, let the boy pass. He was all the man had.” Her voice was raspy yet firm and her shawl flapped in the wintry breeze as she paid it no mind; her gaze was fixed on the scene before her.

The guardsman shook his head, his stance resolute. “Sorry, can’t,” he replied, his tone apologetic yet unwavering. “Orders, you know.” It was evident on the guardsman’s face that he was following orders, but there was a flicker of compassion in his eyes as he glanced down at Thunben. He seemed to want to help, to find a way to ease the boy’s pain, but the rules kept him anchored in place.

“Go home, there’s nothing here for you anymore,” the guardsman added softly, his voice tinged with regret. The words pierced through Thunben’s heart like daggers. The thought of leaving felt unbearable, like tearing away a part of himself. It was true that Theodopolus had been his sole anchor in this world—his teacher, his friend, his family.

Giving in to his emotional state, Thunben’s heart raced as he felt an overwhelming surge of magic rising within him. It was as if the grief and desperation he had been holding at bay transformed into a powerful force, compelling him to act. “Charodia oshelamat,” he uttered, his voice trembling but resolute.

As he spoke the incantation, he reached out and touched the guardsman’s arm. The moment the spell flowed from within Thunben’s core, it felt like a warm current of light, weaving through the air and enveloping the unaware man. The spell wrapped around the guardsman like a gentle breeze.

The guardsman’s stern gaze dissolved into confusion, his brow furrowing as the enchantment took hold. The grip of duty and resolve that had once characterized his expression began to fade, replaced by a look of bewilderment. Then, with a clang, the man dropped his halberd to the ground, the sound echoing through the air like a bell tolling for freedom.

The other guardsmen immediately rushed to their dazed companion to see what had happened, their eyes wide with concern as they surrounded him. Seizing the moment, Thunben sprang to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest as adrenaline surged through him. He hurried past the dazed guardsman, urgency driving him forward, and made his way toward the caved-in doorway of Theodopolus’s house—the very threshold he had crossed many times before which had been filled with laughter and lessons.

Crouching low, Thunben made his way through the debris, as he searched desperately for any sign of Theodopolus. The destruction was overwhelming; all around him, the remnants of his master’s home lay scattered like the dreams that had once filled the space. What remained of the walls were scorched and blackened, the charred surfaces telling a tale of violence and chaos, while chunks of plaster littered the ground like fallen snowflakes.

The air was thick with dust and the acrid scent of burnt wood, stinging Thunben’s eyes as he navigated the wreckage. He fought against the rising tide of despair, pushing deeper into the ruins, his mind racing with thoughts of his mentor. “Theodopolous! Where are you?” he called out, though his voice felt small against the backdrop of destruction.

As he crawled further, he stumbled upon a sight that took his breath away. Whatever had caused the blast was hot enough to melt an old shield which still adorned a partially standing wall. The shield had once been a proud symbol of protection, a relic of battles fought long ago, but now it was deformed and twisted, bits of the metal having flowed downward like hot wax, creating grotesque shapes against the scorched stone.

Thunben’s heart sank at the sight, a palpable reminder of the violence that had ripped through his master’s life. He reached out a tentative hand to touch the shield, tracing the warped edges with his fingers. Memories flooded his mind—Theodopolus recounting tales of bravery and heroism, teaching Thunben about the importance of courage, even in the face of danger.

Thunben’s heart sank further as he spotted a large stain of blood, dark and frozen by its exposure to the harsh winter weather. Next to it lay the burnt and tattered remains of Theodopolus’s favorite robe, the deep hues now charred to browns and blacks. An overwhelming wave of anguish crashed over him, and he felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath his feet.

“Theodopolus,” Thunben weakly croaked, his voice barely a whisper as his throat constricted with grief. The name felt heavy on his tongue, a lament for the man who had guided him through the complexities of magic, who had been more than a mentor—a friend, a father figure. “What were you doing?”

His blue eyes were bloodshot, the exhaustion and sorrow melding together into a painful haze. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but he hardly felt it; all he could focus on was the horrifying scene before him. Tears mingled with the icy breeze, and his small, upturned nose dripped as he struggled to breathe through the choking weight of despair.

Once out of his magically induced daze, the stoic guardsman regained his composure and yelled, “Come out here, you brat! I know you’re in there. Don’t you know it’s a crime to enchant a city official?” His voice boomed through the wreckage, a mixture of anger and authority that sent a shiver down Thunben’s spine. The boy’s heart raced as he realized the guardsman was now fully aware of his presence and was determined to find him.

The guardsman started moving aside boards and chunks of rubble, his movements quick and purposeful as he searched for Thunben. “I’ll throw you in irons myself!” he threatened, the edge of his voice sending a jolt of fear through the boy.

Determined, Thunben crawled through the wreckage, maneuvering under several beams that had fallen in a chaotic tangle. Each movement was filled with urgency; he could hear the guardsman grumbling in frustration as he continued to search for the boy just out of reach. The sound of shifting debris echoed through the air, a reminder that time was not on Thunben’s side.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of scrabbling through the ruins, Thunben spotted the trap door leading to the basement. With renewed determination, he cleared away the last of the debris blocking the door, pushing aside a heavy beam with all the strength he could muster.

As he worked, the guardsman’s voice grew louder, his frustration palpable. “You can’t hide forever, boy! I’m going to find you!” The threat hung in the air, but Thunben pushed it aside, focusing entirely on the task at hand.

Finally, with a grunt, Thunben managed to clear enough of the rubble to reveal the trap door properly. He reached for the rusted handle, his fingers trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He pulled it open, the creaking sound echoing ominously in the stillness. Without hesitating, he dropped down to the basement floor, landing softly on the cool ground below.

“Charodia svecha,” Thunben chanted again in the semi-darkness, drawing upon the magic that surged within him. As he focused, he plucked at the small weave that only he could see—the intricate threads of magic that connected him to the world around him. The spell-weave responded eagerly, rewarding him with a warm sensation that spread through his fingertips and into his palm.

With determination, Thunben pressed his hand against the wall and the moment he did, light burst forth in the shape of his hand. The pulsing glow of the spell illuminated the basement, casting flickering shadows and revealing the hidden corners of the room. The light danced across the surfaces, highlighting the remnants of Theodopolus’s life.

As the illumination filled the space, Thunben scanned the mostly intact basement. His eyes fell upon several old wine casks, their wooden surfaces dark and weathered, remnants of a time when celebrations had filled the air. Broken crates lay strewn about, their contents spilled into disarray, while disused furniture stood solemnly in the corners, collecting dust like forgotten memories.

Thunben’s eyes were drawn to a weather-beaten leather backpack hanging from a hook on the wall, its faded color telling stories of countless adventures. His heart picked up a beat as he approached it, feeling an unexpected connection to the familiar item. He had always admired the backpack, its sturdy design and the way it seemed to carry the essence of Theodopolus’s journeys, but he had never dared to ask his mentor if he could have it.

With trembling hands, Thunben reached up to retrieve the backpack, carefully lifting it from its perch. Dust wafted into the air as he pulled it down, a cloud of memories swirling around him. He rubbed his hand over the dusty yet smooth surface, feeling the warmth of the leather beneath his fingertips.

Above him, the guardsmen were moving charred beams with increasing urgency, determined to uncover Thunben’s hiding place. A sense of urgency gripped him, knowing that the magical light he had conjured wouldn’t last long. He quickly scanned the remainder of the basement, searching for another way out—a hidden escape that might lead him to safety.

As he moved, his foot accidentally kicked a small chest that had been partially buried in the debris. He paused, recognizing the family crest of Theodopolus emblazoned on its surface. Without hesitation, he picked up the chest, feeling its weight and significance, and shoved it into the depths of the backpack, the leather creaking in protest.

Once it was secured, he wiggled into the old leather straps of the backpack, adjusting it to fit snugly against his back. “I’m keeping these,” Thunben quietly told himself, a determined whisper that echoed in the stillness of the basement. It was a promise—not only to himself but also to Theodopolus, a vow to safeguard the legacy and knowledge that had shaped his life.

A shaft of light from the south corner of the basement caught Thunben’s eye, illuminating the dim space with a hopeful glow. He turned his gaze toward the source, noticing that the floorboards above the illuminated spot were missing, allowing daylight to cascade down alongside a sprinkle of fresh snow. The opening was substantial—large enough for him to squeeze through—and it beckoned him with the promise of escape.

As he peered up through the gap, Thunben’s heart skipped a beat. He realized he was positioned below the back wall of the house where his master’s most beloved pipe rested untouched on a shelf. It was a relic of Theodopolus’s cherished moments. Against the backdrop of destruction and chaos, the sight of the pipe brought forth a reminder of the many evenings spent in the warmth of the home as they shared stories and laughter.

Relief washed over him as he took in the sight—the pipe had survived the devastation. Although Thunben didn’t smoke, the desire to possess the pipe surged within him. It was more than just an object; it was a connection to Theodopolus, a piece of his mentor’s spirit that he wanted to keep close.

Luck was on Thunben’s side as the guardsmen, in their frantic attempts to reach him, inadvertently knocked a beam aside, causing the unsupported wall to fall inward with a thunderous crash. Thunben instinctively crouched and covered his head, bracing himself as debris rained down around him through the opening. Dust filled the air, and the sharp sound of wood splintering echoed in the cramped space.

Above him, the wall’s collapse strained the floor joists, creating a precarious situation that sent a shiver of fear down his spine. He could hear the guardsmen cursing and scrambling, their focus momentarily diverted by the chaos they had unwittingly caused. Thunben seized the opportunity, his heart racing as he waited for the clatter of wood to subside.

When the noise finally ceased, he cautiously peered through the haze of dust and debris, and his eyes widened in surprise. The beloved pipe had landed squarely on his black boot, a small miracle amidst the turmoil. With a quick motion, Thunben snatched the pipe, feeling the cool, smooth surface in his hand.

With the pipe clutched firmly in his teeth, Thunben began to climb through the opening, determination fueling his every movement. He squeezed through the gap, feeling the cool air of freedom brush against his skin as he navigated the precarious space. Each inch closer to escape brought a surge of exhilaration.

Poking his head out, Thunben cautiously scanned his surroundings to see if anyone was watching before he lifted himself up and out of the debris. Adrenaline coursed through him, amplifying each heartbeat as he finally emerged, free of the rubble that had confined him.

Once he was out, Thunben ran as fast as his lanky legs could propel him, each stride fueled by a mix of urgency and desperation. The backpack bounced against his spine with every hurried movement, a constant reminder of the memories he carried with him. Clutching the pipe tightly in his hands, he felt a sense of determination welling within him, even as doubt flickered at the edges of his mind. Over and over, Thunben told himself that Theodopolus was truly dead—a harsh truth that he struggled to accept. Each repetition was an attempt to solidify the reality he faced, a way to steel his resolve as he sprinted away from the destruction behind him.

The following day, Thunben tried to sneak back into Theodopolus’s house, but to his dismay, he found the entire structure cordoned off, encased in shimmering magical barriers that pulsed ominously with energy. The guard’s presence has increased as well; soldiers milling about with stern expressions, their watchful eyes scanning the area for any signs of trouble.

As he lingered at a distance from Theodpolis’ house, Thunben overheard snippets of conversation among the guards, their hushed tones filled with talk of summoned demons—dark whispers which sent chills down his spine. Deep in his heart, he knew that Theodopolus wasn’t the type of spell-weaver to dabble in such malevolent practices. His mentor has always upheld a moral code, using magic to protect and teach rather than to wreak havoc.

With unease gnawing at him, Thunben returned home along the familiar path, but it felt unfamiliar and fraught with tension. When he reached his street, he spotted an officer of the city guard standing at the doorway to his home, waiting to be allowed entry. Behind the officer, a pair of guardsmen were scanning the neighborhood, their vigilant eyes sweeping over the surroundings.

All three men are clad in long chainmail tunics that glint in the light, the polished insignia of their ranks reflecting their authority. The sight sends a shiver down Thunben’s spine; the presence of the city guard at his doorstep signalled trouble–trouble he caused.

“I’m looking for your son,” the officer said to Thunben’s mother, his voice stern and unwavering. “He’s wanted for enchanting a member of the city guard.” The faceplate of the man’s helmet was lifted, revealing a weathered face framed by a long mustache that twitched in the morning breeze, adding to the gravity of his words.

Thunben’s mother gasped, her eyes wide with panic as tears welled up. “He ran away yesterday after telling me of Theodopolus’ death,” she sobbed, her voice trembling with fear and desperation. “I haven’t seen him since. Can you help me find him? I’m so worried, and he’s all I have.”

The man placed a gloved hand on her shoulder, offering a gentle pat meant to convey solace. “I’m a father as well,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “I understand your grief. We’ll find him, but unfortunately, he’ll have to stand trial for the charge—and there were plenty of witnesses.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing, “But we must do our duty and search your home.”

Thunben’s mother nodded, her heart heavy with dread. Though she understood the necessity of the officer’s actions, the thought of them rifling through their belongings made her stomach churn. She felt helpless in the face of the law, torn between her instinct to protect her son and the reality of the situation unraveling before her. Thunben’s mother acquiesced, stepping aside with a heavy heart. The officer nodded with a slight tilt of his head, signaling to the pair of guardsmen, who then strode into the house with purpose.

Meanwhile, hidden from view, Thunben quietly chanted an incantation, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the unfolding chaos. As he completed the spell, he felt a rush of magic envelop him, rendering him nearly invisible, leaving only his footprints in the snow to mark his passing. With swift, silent steps, he dashed across the road and approached the open doorway, peering inside to see what the guardsmen were doing.

It didn’t take long for the men to search the small one-room home. They moved efficiently, scanning every corner and rifling through boxes and bags of yarn, their expressions serious and focused. Thunben’s heart raced as he watched, tension coiling within him; he knew he had to be careful. The stakes were high and any misstep could lead to dire consequences for him and his mother. When the guardsmen were satisfied that Thunben wasn’t in the house, they stepped back out, passing mere inches from his hidden form. Thunben held his breath, the air feeling thick in his lungs as he fought against the urge to move, knowing that one wrong sound could expose his invisible position.

After a brief moment, the two guardsmen turned their attention to the street, scanning the neighborhood with narrowed eyes, their posture tense and alert, ready for any signs of trouble. Thunben remained perfectly still, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to the sounds of the world—the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the distant chatter of other townsfolk going about their day.

“If the boy returns, tell him to turn himself in. The Archon will look favorably on that,” the officer said as he walked out, his voice commanding and resolute. As he passed by, he stared straight ahead, completely oblivious to Thunben’s presence just inches away.

In his mind, Thunben willed himself to remain motionless, refusing to blink in an effort to become one with the shadows. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead, the tension palpable as he focused on suppressing every instinct to react. The officer’s words hung heavy in the air, a mix of urgency and threat, leaving Thunben grappling with the reality of his situation.

“I will,” Thunben’s mother replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil brewing within her. She gave the men a curt bow, her demeanor masking the worry etched on her face. Previously, through the corner of her eye, she had caught a glimpse of Thunben across the street, and a flicker of hope ignited in her heart; she suspected her son was nearby. She always knew her only son was clever, capable of navigating even the direst of situations.

Her heart raced, each beat echoing like a drum in her ears, and she feared the guardsmen might hear it. With a dramatic adjustment of her shawl—a gesture to give her a moment’s composure—she felt Thunben slip past her, barely more than a whisper of movement. After a quick glance back at the retreating figures of the guardsmen, she stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her.

“They’re gone,” she softly whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she peeked through the slats of the door’s planks, her eyes straining to catch sight of the guardsmen.

“Good,” Thunben replied, his form shimmering back into visibility with a thought. “My spells aren’t very powerful yet, Mama.” He offered a reassuring smile, but it felt fragile against the storm of emotions swirling around them.

Thunben’s mother, overwhelmed by a mix of relief and fear, suddenly started to cry. “Oh, Thunben. You’ll have to leave the city now. I know that you’ll end up in a bad place if you stay.” Her voice trembled with concern, the weight of a mother’s love heavy on her heart. “What were you thinking?”

Thunben wrapped his arms around his mother in a tight embrace, feeling the warmth of her love seep into his skin. “I wasn’t thinking, Mama,” he admitted, a bit of embarrassment creeping into his voice as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It’ll be okay,” he added, trying to reassure her even as he fought back his own tears. “I’ll be fine, but I’ll need a horse to get away.”

His mother’s expression turned resolute, fueled by the urgency of the moment. She quickly moved to the woodpile next to the hearth, her hands deftly searching through the stacked logs. After a moment, she uncovered a small coin purse carefully tucked away beneath a log. “I was going to give this to Theodopoulos for next month’s lessons,” she explained, her voice shaking slightly, “but you can have it now.”

“Thank you, Mama,” he said, taking the purse from her trembling hands.

“Where will you go?” she asked, her voice strained with concern, worry etching itself deeper into her features as she searched her son’s face for reassurance.

“Theron Valley,” he declared, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He quickly gathered his belongings, which had been hastily tossed aside by the guardsmen, and stuffed them into the old backpack that had seen many adventures. “I’m going to continue my quest for the Clavis Saeculum. That’s as good a place to start as any. Theodopoulos would have wanted me to follow my dreams.”

The words hung in the air between them, a bittersweet reminder of the mentor who had believed in him. He turned to his mother, pulling her into a tight embrace once more, absorbing the comfort of her presence before he had to face the uncertainty ahead. “I love you, Mama,” he whispered, feeling the warmth of their bond.

“I love you too,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “Promise me you’ll be careful. The world is not kind to those who venture out alone.”

A blast of cold air rushed past Thunben as he opened the only door, making him momentarily hesitate. The chill cut through the warmth of the house, and he felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Peeking out into the snowy street, he glanced quickly to see if any guardsmen were in sight.

His mother shivered from the cold air seeping through the doorway, her shoulders hunching instinctively against the draft. Thunben’s heart ached at the sight of her discomfort, but he knew he had to leave. The door felt like a barrier between safety and danger, and each second lingered heavily in the air. With a final, lingering look at his beloved mother, he gently closed the door, the soft click echoing like a goodbye.

“Take care, Mama,” he whispered through the wood, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He stood for a moment on the threshold, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him. But he couldn’t let fear paralyze him. He steeled himself for what lay ahead and stepped into the cold, fresh air, a resolve building within him.

An hour later, Thunben rode through the city gates on a cream-colored gelding he’d affectionately named Theo. The horse’s smooth stride beneath him brought a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty of the journey ahead. Snow blanketed the roads, making them less traveled during the winter months, yet a few brave souls still ventured out this day.

As he followed a small caravan of heavily laden wagons covered in colorful tarps, Thunben cast one last glance back toward the city he had called home. The towering walls of Pawnsbridge loomed behind him, a stark reminder of the safety he was leaving behind. He felt a pang in his heart as he thought of his mother and the warmth of her embrace lingering in his memory.

Turning his gaze to the south, he focused toward the direction of Theron Valley. It held the promise of new beginnings—an opportunity to uncover the Clavis Saeculum and forge his own destiny. The thought sent a thrill through him; the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but it was a road he had chosen for himself.

He could almost hear Theodopolus’s voice echoing in his mind: “Dreams are worth pursuing, Thunben. They shape who you become.” With a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the reins and urged Theo forward, feeling the wind against his face.

There was no turning back now; he had made his choice. The horizon ahead would be his new canvas, waiting to be filled with adventures yet to come. Each step he took further from the city solidified his resolve, sealing the door behind him on the life he once knew. He was ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.