Dawn broke over the Sylcyne Forest, golden rays of light breaking through the leaves to bathe a clearing. Within this clearing lay a cabin, though to call it a cabin was to diminish its splendor willfully. In reality, the massive structure looked more akin to a nobleman’s retreat.

  Stone encapsulated the outside of the building forming a protective barrier, the smooth nature of the stone hinting at powerful magic being the cause. From the outside all that could be seen was stonework but if one were looking from the inside out they would see pleasing wooden paneling. The reason for this was simple. There were two separate walls, an inner and an outer wall with an almost four-inch gap of air separating the two. Little runes etched into the inside portion of the stonework acted to warm the space or cool it down as needed.

  A porch ran the length of the mansion, ringing it like a noble lady’s dress at a ball. It had an attic and two round roofs, one above the attic and the other below it covering the West wing which was separated from the main building by a short hallway with windows.

  Glass panes let the light in, the windows pointing to the wealth of the inhabitant. This far to the north glass was hard to come by after all. The house faced North as though daring the fierce snow to try and drown it in white. It was summer, however, and heat and light held sway in the Sylcyne Forest.

  The strengthening light from the East cast a bright glare into the eastern section of the house, that being the kitchen. The kitchen’s utensils, metal gleaming in their holders, were simple and elegant as befitted the occupant. The kitchen had a stairway that led into the cellar and basement but the light did not reach that far down the circular stairway.

  From the kitchen, one could reach the greeting room and be treated to simple grandeur. Solid wooden doors enclosed the entrance but the gild work and runes etched into its surface would prevent anyone from misunderstanding their extravagance. Paintings hung on the wall depicting various cityscapes and natural scenes of beauty.

  The west wing of the mansion-like cabin held a large bedroom, furnace room, and even a ritual room. Such was the cabin of the Archmage Calamvor situated, though it did him little good at the moment. The Archmage himself was in the ritual room and at first glance, he seemed fine.

  Noble features, hair whitened with age, and face wizened with experience. He had kind eyes though at this moment his pupils were dilated due to pain and fear. His grand ritual had succeeded and the pinnacle of his arcane career now sat in front of him, gleaming in the center of the room.

  Calamvor couldn’t check on his creation. His back was to the wall both literally and figuratively. His mind struggled to work but he knew that he needed to move the small gemstone somewhere else. His vision dimmed for a moment as the pain became unbearable. When he next opened his eyes his gaze found a mouse holding the little glowing gemstone.

  “Yesss,” he hissed in pain, scaring the little rodent who began to run off with its prize. “Guard it with your life little friend, take care of it.” Calamvor groaned as the pain peaked, his torn and destroyed Spark trying desperately to keep him alive a moment longer.

  “Take…care…of…my…” The words didn’t come. The Archmage Calamvor died, far away from anyone who would mourn him, far from those who knew of his accolades and sacrifices.

  Deep beneath his cabin, however, where the mouse had carried it, past the living room and past the kitchen. To the far eastern wall where, in between the arcane wards and enchantments that ran the length of the building, lay its humble nest.

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  There it lay its treasure in prime position, the tiny shining Artificial Core, the pinnacle of Calamvor’s genius and career. It lay as a jewel among the mouse’s other treasures. A thimble here, an enchanted, though partially broken, sewing needle there.

  The mouse in question was grooming itself, quite pleased at having stolen its shiny prize right out from under the giant’s feet. It was, perhaps, more intelligent than others of its species despite having no stages of Ascension. The Artificial Core sat, with no thoughts as of yet, and indeed no Soul to speak of.

  That changed when its creator finally died. A small portion of the man’s soul, a tiny hint of his torn and battered Spark’s essence, came to rest within the core. It was enough to ignite instinct but nothing else. However, it also gave the one thing that sets sapient beings apart from others—the ability to become more.

  The Core of course could not read any of this, even as the arcane script blazed a path across its newly Sparked depths. It simply acted on its new instincts. Whether it was the remnants of the Archmage’s Spark that it drew from or from the deep intricate tiny, tiny, sigils carved with great care in its depths, the Core began to breathe.

  It did not breathe air as it had no lungs. No. It breathed the Maker’s air, the very breath of life.

  Aether.

  In and out, instinctually, as it had no real mind of its own yet. Then it began to take deeper breaths and shallower exhales. Gradually it filled its reserves until they were about to overflow and then it released its breath in a torrent of magical might, albeit quite a very small one. And there, at the bottom of an Archmage’s cabin, in the middle of one of the most dangerous forests in the world, a tiny Dungeon Core claimed its first room and its first servant