The ship bobbed with the waves as it set off into the distance, leaving Firnix alone on a shingled beach in an isolated corner of the world.

  Oberon Island.

  Grand Warden Cerrejon had sent him on a mission to find evidence of a mythical lake on this island to bring back to the Wardens. But the lake had only been described in millenia-old inscriptions on tablets of stone. This was really just a veiled exile. And even if the lake did exist, the chances of a lone noncaster successfully exploring uncharted lands were slim.

  They expected Firnix to die.

  Cerrejon was probably pleased to have found a way to get rid of him without upsetting propriety. Many others would be happy to see him gone, too.

  But Firnix had tirelessly prepared before this voyage, studying up on the creatures of the Glimmermoss Forest and carrying as many useful essentials, items, and accessories as he could in his bulging hemp knapsack.

  He fiddled with the straps as he turned from the vast sea to the land ahead.

  If only the lake did exist, he could find it and return to the Wardens in Fraela. Not for the riches, which he hated, nor for the people, who hated him.

  It was all so he could continue searching the First Library for a way to erase Soulcasting from the world.

  There was, at least, one silver lining to being on this island. He’d spent much of his youth as a Warden in the library, studying the life sciences, and marveling at the beautiful species that populated each ecosystem in Arla. Being powerless himself, he’d never had the confidence to go out and explore these species first-hand, but now he had the chance to meet all sorts of beings he’d only ever seen in books before.

  Just like the fascinating specimens standing tall before him: the greatwood trees of the Glimmermoss Forest. Even if he craned his neck enough to fall over backwards, he couldn’t see their canopy. And their trunks, they must’ve been one-hundred-fifty feet in diameter, a sight boggling to view in real life even with his prior knowledge. And their leaves—

  “Stare at that tree any longer, boy, and you’ll have me fooled thinking it’s your long-lost lover.”

  Firnix jumped, scanning between the trees to see who’d spoken.

  “In fairness, I haven’t seen any foreigners since Roshi and Syra. Is that normal where you’re from?”

  Then he saw them; three people standing in the shades of the forest just ahead. Two were men covered in ankle-length red cloaks with hoods shadowing most of their features. The third was a short girl with shoulder-length silver hair, silver eyes, and a bright red branching scar along the edge of her right cheek. She wore a blouse of blue and silver fabric.

  What attracted Firnix’s attention the most was the symbol on each of their foreheads: a circle with strange lines and shapes in it. But they weren’t tattoos, or at least no tattoos like any he’d seen. They were each red-and-black, and somehow felt wrong, like they had some influence on the world beyond what he could see with his eyes.

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence these islanders found him immediately after he set foot on the island. They must’ve been watching the ship. Firnix’s skin crawled. For how long? And why?

  There was no way to tell yet, so he uneasily settled for his default salutation.

  “Greetings to the people of Oberon Kingdom,” he intoned, bowing to his waist.

  Bowing had served him well the past nine years. As everyone in the Wardens reserved nothing but scorn for his presence, obsequious respect eased the tension.

  Bowing also hid the naked fear on his face.

  The three Oberon natives exchanged glances. One of the cloaked figures, with a square gray beard, scowled deeply. The silver-haired girl frowned.

  Firnix cleared his throat, hoping he hadn’t done anything wrong. Was bowing a rude gesture down here?

  “Oberon Kingdom doesn’t exist anymore,” the silver-haired girl said, sounding confused.

  “It doesn’t?” Firnix asked, now equally confused.

  “No need to talk. Let’s bring him back and be done with this.” That deep voice was from the bearded man.

  “I humbly request—”

  The bearded man was suddenly right in front of him, his forehead mark flaring. A spike of what looked like marble jutted out of his palm, leveled at Firnix’s neck.

  He took an involuntary step back, legs unsteady.

  That was Soulcasting. It felt like a wet blanket had been stuffed against his face. A bead of sweat traced a path all the way down his cheek before he could breathe again. So not even this corner of the world was safe from Soulcasters, those wielders of inhuman powers who spread injustice and violence no matter where or who they were.

  He remembered his manners; if the Soulcasters among the Wardens were any indication, those with power always had an appetite for respect. He dropped to the foliage on the ground.

  “I apologize for any slight,” Firnix whimpered, although he couldn’t think of anything he’d done that could be construed as an insult.

  The bearded man grunted. “Get up. Just don’t ask any questions, no blood spilled. We can make this quick. You’ll get your Gift and I’ll get to bed before sundown.”

  What gift? he wanted to ask. What happened to Oberon Kingdom? And what did I do to deserve all this?

  But he knew when not to speak, which included situations involving an irritated Soulcaster. He still wasn’t sure what their intentions were for him, but he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t anything for his benefit. If there was some way he could detach himself from them, he’d have to take it.

  “Where are you from?” the girl asked. “The Borderlands?”

  “Does it matter, Syra?” The bearded man said before Firnix could answer. “He came from the northwest, anyway, so it’s definitely not the Borderlands. Here’s a better question for you, boy. Why are you alone? Should we expect any other visitors from that ship?”

  Firnix looked back at the ocean. The ship the Wardens had arranged was just a speck now. It was headed to Tafa, then back to Fraela, and it would continue to voyage between the important commerce centers of the world. It would never return to Oberon Island for him.

  He really was alone now.

  Why did that have to cut so deep now, in the presence of these strangers?

  “I’m doing field research,” he said. It was a simpler explanation than admitting he’d come to find a mythical lake he’d read about in an ancient tablet. “Studying the endemic species of this island. No one else is to join me.”

  “Fine,” the bearded man said gruffly. “Only one makes things simpler. Let’s get moving.”

  “But it’s a little disappointing,” the girl added.

  The three strangers walked into the forest. Firnix followed on their heels, feeling like a mouse clutched in a raptor’s talons.

  A few minutes into the walk, and Firnix felt he had a good read on the three Oberon natives.

  The bearded man was talkative and commanding, and as affable as a poked bear.

  The other cloaked man hadn’t said a word, and seemed intent on keeping it that way.

  The girl seemed an odd one out. She had asked him all manner of questions, from what his homeland was like, to what his gold-colored leaf-shaped earrings were made of, to what kinds of Soulcasters he’d met. He gave short, evasive answers to keep his focus on figuring out an escape strategy.

  “...and that’s why I’m reminded of crottle whenever anything bad happens,” she was saying as he tuned into her voice. “What about you?”

  “I would love to answer the question,” Firnix began, not understanding what the question was, “but if I may ask one of my own first?”

  The bearded man glanced sidelong at him, but said nothing: permission to continue, coupled with a warning not to overstep.

  “What is it?” she chirped, sounding inexplicably excited. “Is it about these?” She pointed to the black-and-red mark on her forehead.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  So she was aware it was noteworthy. “Indeed.”

  “Let me nip that in the bud. Don’t tell him about Umbras, Syra,” the bearded man said.

  “Jeol, he’s going to get one less than an hour from now, so what does it matter?”

  The bearded man, Jeol, glared at Syra. He opened his mouth to say something, but his forehead mark flared brightly, glowing faintly red-and-black, and he shut his mouth without speaking.

  Firnix had never seen anything like it. Were these Umbras some ardor-based mark? Some form of Soulcasting? It seemed like it had prevented Jeol from saying something. The Umbra could have been a restrictive tool of some kind. Like for servants. Or, if they were really taking him to get one, maybe even the general populace. He shivered, wishing more than ever he was back in Fraela. If he let himself get bound by an Umbra, he may not ever get to return.

  Soulcasters could outpace him with ease, so running off like an unleashed pet wouldn’t ever succeed. He’d need to rely on all he had: his knowledge of the forest and its inhabitants. He hadn’t been willing to risk his life to get away before, but now that he’d confirmed these people weren’t exactly planning on welcoming him by way of a filling meal and a pouch sagging with gold coins, there was no other choice. He needed to escape, no matter what. A tentative plan formed in his mind.

  He’d need the help of a verdant snake; a native of Oberon Island’s forests. Verdant snakes were venomous and ferocious, but could be handled with care if occupied with digestion. Theoretically, at least.

  If he could pacify one, and keep it under his cloak, he could reveal it at just the right moment. Its bite wouldn’t likely kill a Soulcaster, but it could create an opening for a getaway. Or rather, a chance of a getaway. But against the overwhelming might of a Soulcaster, even a chance was all he could hope for.

  Even with a plan in mind, it took a few minutes to work up the courage to make the first move. One snake. I can handle one snake.

  One snake is better than a Soulcaster. And at that thought, he was finally able to convince himself. That marble spike, those Umbras, power beyond what any human deserved. They always used it for evil, always. If Soulcasters didn’t exist, he wouldn’t have been alone then and now. He would be growing herbs for his parents in a small village, laughing at his sister’s jokes and complaining about the hot weather and the lizard on the thatch roof, and nothing more. But Soulcasters existed then, and they existed now, alongside him, and he had to get away at all costs.

  Mouth dry, he made an excuse that he needed to answer the call of nature, to which Jeol grumbled loudly. Eventually, the man relented and gestured for him to take care of his business behind a nearby greatwood tree.

  These trees were massive enough to give him full privacy to quickly rummage through his knapsack. He pulled out a finger-thin vial of dark red liquid: flying frog blood. He only needed one drop of it to spill, as that would have enough scent to attract a nearby verdant snake — two or three if his luck turned a blind eye. That was why he needed to be very precise in letting out as little of the liquid as possible.

  As he uncorked the vial, Jeol’s shout froze his fingers in their work.

  The man was approaching with anger etched into every line on his face. “Can’t ever trust a hostage out of sight! What infernal liquid is that?”

  Firnix didn’t have time to find an excuse. He hastened to get one drop to spill to the underbrush by his sandals.

  Jeol arrived faster than expected and slapped the vial out of his grasp. It shattered against Firnix’s leg, glass shards tinkling and frog blood splashing over his robes and feet.

  Dozens of drops of it.

  ***

  Flying frog’s blood was potent, used in all sorts of potion-making recipes and folktale remedies. Firnix had personally sourced his vials of blood from hours spent in the cold and damp break of spring searching for flying frogs that had passed away at the bottom of frozen-over ponds while overwintering. Each vial was likely worth a gold coin on the market.

  “I’m afraid I don't believe it. Haven’t seen a verdant snake in years,” Jeol was saying. They’d returned to Syra and the other man, whose name Firnix had learned was Duri. He’d spent the past few minutes explaining the impending danger of verdant snakes converging on the vicinity of the frog blood spill.

  Jeol was scowling as usual, Duri was blank as usual, and Syra seemed more fascinated than bothered at the notion of venomous snakes approaching their location. He’d come to learn that, too, was as usual.

  “What were you doing trying to call snakes on us, anyway?” Jeol demanded. “Trying to get clever?”

  Firnix shrunk, unable to meet the Soulcaster’s furious gaze.

  He could handle a single verdant snake, but not a whole horde of them. He might’ve just doomed everyone here.

  “How long until they come?” Syra asked.

  “It should be sometime within half an hour,” Firnix said quietly. His body had spent itself in terror; his throat was hoarse from the vomiting. It took all he had to stay upright. “The first one could arrive any minute now.”

  Jeol grunted. “If these snakes are coming at all.”

  The first shot out of a bush a second later.

  A gust of wind shot out from Duri’s outstretched palm. The green snake was as long as his forearm and wide as a fist, but Duri’s ability sent it flying like a feather caught in the breeze.

  That wind. That was Soulcasting.

  Jeol wasn’t the only Soulcaster. Firnix should’ve felt relieved, since that meant better protection against the coming snakes.

  White marble began to grow around the four, rising slowly from the ground.

  “I’ll make a dome around us,” Jeol said. “Since the boy’s a beacon for these pests, we need to stay put. Duri, keep blowing them away. Syra, don’t do anything dumb.”

  Leaves and flowers rustled as more snakes arrived on the scene. Duri reacted fast, blasting wind at every snake that appeared no matter from which direction. Jeol stood still as a statue, sweating from the effort of raising the marble walls. The walls were curving inward over the group of four. Jeol had to be a Medial Soulcaster, at least, to be capable of making an element from outside his body.

  Firnix wasn’t thrilled to see them finding a solution so quickly, though. He’d spilled frog blood to get a snake into his robes for later, not because he thought the Soulcasters would be taken by the serpents. He needed to let a snake into his robes before the dome closed. He watched Duri and kept his ears trained on the surroundings, waiting for a moment where a snake could approach from the man’s blind spot.

  Up above, a faint hiss caught his attention. Duri would likely blast the snake away before it dropped from its perch on the overhead branch.

  So when the snake did drop, and Duri turned in response, Firnix did three things in quick succession.

  First, he exclaimed loudly about being frightened of all of the snakes. It wasn’t as hard to sound fearful in this situation as he’d thought.

  Second, he stumbled against Duri’s arm, redirecting the gust of wind it was sending out so it would careen off, away from the dropping snake.

  Third, and most difficult, was what he did with his hands. As the snake dropped unimpeded by Duri’s wind, it fell right into Firnix’s grasp. He made sure to position himself such that its head was pointing in the opposite direction, so it wouldn’t find him as a target to bite. He clasped its jaws shut with one hand, and stuffed its slimy, squirming body into his robes with the other. He kept the hand over its jaw as he stepped away from Duri with an apologetic smile.

  The man only gave a passing glance around, and after being satisfied he must’ve sent the snake flying away, wordlessly turned to face the next approaching snake.

  With his free hand, Firnix fumbled with his knapsack to look for one of his other frog blood vials. Jeol and Duri were too preoccupied to notice, but Syra caught sight of his action.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Rummaging through my knapsack,” he said slowly, voice quavering. The adrenaline pumping through his veins did him little favor when groping for an excuse.

  Where’s that vial? His careful organization of his knapsack’s contents had been muddled by his earlier attempt at procuring the first frog blood vial.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to summon more snakes with your Soulcasting.”

  Firnix almost froze at the casual accusation. “Pardon, venerable lady, but these snakes were not attracted by Soulcasting. It was a mistake, in any case. I did not want this situation to happen at all.” His hand closed over something cool, like a glass’s surface. No, that wasn’t what he was looking for. Too big. He kept searching.

  The snake in his robes hadn’t writhed free of his grasp yet. But it was only a matter of time. I need to hurry!

  “I guess there’s a lot about the world I have to learn, huh?” Syra continued, oblivious to his struggle. How is she so calm? Is she crazy? Or does she have that much trust in the Soulcasters? “I hope you’re not doing anything bad though. I know it’s a bit forceful, but you’re about to be part of the best community in Arla. We’re all on the same side!”

  “This doesn’t seem like a pleasant welcome to the island,” Firnix responded absently, most of his attention focused on the feeling around his hands. He sighed in relief as he finally found the vial of frog blood. He didn’t lift it out of the knapsack just yet; if Jeol happened to see it, he’d know Firnix was pulling a second of the same vial out. He struggled to loosen the cork with his one free hand. His fingers were cold and jittery, making them frustratingly uncooperative for the task.

  “Maybe, but you’ll be glad to have an Umbra soon, I think. Everyone on the island has one, so no one’s broken a law for many years. Uh, except me. My Umbra doesn’t work.”

  “Is that so?” Firnix cast a nervous glance at Jeol and Duri, who were thankfully still busy Soulcasting the snakes away. The dome was more than half complete already.

  He needed to put the vial, with a slightly loosened cork, into his robe’s inner pocket with the snake. The smell of the blood would just barely escape, turning the vial into an unparalleled delicacy the snake would immediately swallow. That would pacify the snake and occupy it for a few hours to a few days, as long as it wasn’t roughly disturbed.

  He just needed to loosen the cork a bit more!

  He tried asking a question to keep Syra’s attention away from his hands. “Why do you work with the others if you’re not bound by their laws?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I became a Soulcaster to get strong and help make the world a better place.”

  His fingers twitched. So she was a Soulcaster too. What were the chances he’d be waylaid by three Soulcasters? They must’ve had an aggressive plan in place to incorporate any visitors into their ‘society’.

  A society subjugated by Soulcasting. He couldn’t imagine anything more horrible.

  “Do you really think Umbras make the world a better place?” he asked.

  To his surprise, she seemed hesitant.

  “I should,” was all she said.

  “Enough chatting!” Jeol grunted. “Duri needs to hear the snakes. Keep quiet.”

  Firnix realized he’d gotten caught up in the conversation. He refocused on the task at hand, loosening the cork halfway up the lip of the vial.

  That should do it.

  Concealing the small vial in a loose fist, Firnix drew it out of the knapsack and into his robes. He dropped it into the pocket with the snake and felt it squirm harder with the hand he had clasped around its jaw.

  Tentatively, he let go, and could only hope by the Goddess Auri’s grace that the snake wouldn’t decide to bite him.

  But no pain bloomed in his chest. His robes rustled for a moment before settling back down. The snake was calm.

  It had swallowed the vial, just as he’d hoped.

  The dome approached completion, blocking out the sun’s rays filtering through the sky.

  “So we have to wait until dusk, then?” Jeol said, glaring at Firnix.

  “Yes, venerable gentleman Jeol.”

  “I’m going to get a headache,” Jeol muttered.

  Firnix slumped against the base of the dome.

  Verdant snakes couldn’t be tamed; like most snakes Firnix knew, even if one raised them from birth like a mother, they’d still bite them like a mouse if they weren’t watching. His only advantage now was uncovering the snake to occupy these islanders for enough time to make a getaway. So he waited in the cold dome, hoping he could keep the secret of a live snake in his robes until the time was right.