Kipling sat on the rooftop, his legs dangling over the side of the building.

He pulled magic from his shade and crafted an elegant twirl of fire, which became a dragon. It danced across the sky like the wolf, snake, and wolverine he'd created in the minutes before. The dragon sprinted up, leaping up invisible steps...until finally, when it couldn't climb any higher, it erupted into a flurry of colourful sparks.

There were ooh's and aah's from the crowd below, and Kipling smiled. It felt good to show his magic rather than hiding it as he had for the past eight years. It wasn't something he needed to be ashamed of.

Kipling pulled his coat tighter around his chest. Now that the sun had set, the night was getting cold and the wind was picking up. Sooner or later a gust would extinguish the lantern flickering beside him, and he wouldn't be able to do any more fire tricks...otherwise, he would do it all night. The pleased sounds from the townspeople were like fuel to him.

They were in Stonecliffe, a mountainside town in central Meraki. It wasn't far from Sheffield, the farming community they'd just come from. Stonecliffe was a bigger establishment—thank the fog—but it was still a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Kinvarra. That worked in the mages' favour because there weren't any soldiers here, in the middle of nowhere. This town, like Sheffield before, didn't offer anything of real value to the Paragon.

Well, Kipling thought, eyeing the rocky mountainside, it doesn't offer anything of real value yet, anyway.

When he was done with this town, the people of Stonecliffe would be able to afford a school, a hospital, a town hall, and whatever else their hearts desired. And they would know, without a doubt, that the mages were to thank.

Another advantage of central Meraki was the fact that gossip spread like wildfire. By the time the mages arrived in Stonecliffe, with soggy boots and tired legs, word about Sheffield's bountiful harvest had already spread. They hadn't needed to convince anyone they were there to help—they merely showed up to a welcome party, and were shown to the local inn, with a hot supper and warm baths. And for the first time in many long years, Kipling finally felt like he was where he belonged. How quickly eight years of hatred was forgotten when people felt they could stand to benefit from magic.

It was here in Stonecliffe that the mages had finally caught up on news from the world beyond. They learned that when Apostas had been killed, his shade had gone to the president's son, Nathaniel.

How a shade chose a new mage was something of a mystery. There was, however, a theory among mages. Apostas had shared it with Kipling many years ago. "A shade has two considerations," he'd theorized. "Proximity"—hence troublesome mage chasers, although that hadn't been a problem for almost ten years—"and need."

"Need?" Kipling had repeated, confused.

"Yes. Your shade came to you in your hour of need, my boy, did they not?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

Kipling didn't know if the theory held water, but it was interesting, nonetheless.

Thinking of Apostas—the man who had plucked him from poverty and given him a home—made his chest feel tight. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts.

He swept a hand along the edge of the rooftop, sending dust and debris scattering down towards the people below. They were all excited, waiting for his next fiery creation. Perhaps he would do another one, perhaps not. He hadn't yet decided. They were buzzing with talk of mages—them and the president's son—picking up and redistributing little tidbits of gossip.

A pigeon landed on the rooftop beside him.

Kipling waved a hand at it to scare it off, but it only bobbed its grey head and cooed at him.

There was something tied to its leg. A message? Well, this was certainly an archaic way to communicate...

He took the scroll from the bird and unrolled it.

Apostas, it read, Abraham is alive. There are survivors in the Settlement. Find me to open the fog. —Orix.

Kipling stared at the message. He hadn't heard from Orix since the Settlement disaster, when he had gone along with Apostas's ruinous decision to close the passage in the fog. Kipling had been the only one to speak up and suggest they take a ship to try and defeat the moraiths themselves—but no one had seconded it.

Staring hard at the note, Kipling remembered the tremendous weight that Orix had carried since the Settlement: he'd left his spouse there to die, after all.

But that had been his decision. What was more immediately concerning to Kipling personally was Orix's disappearance. He'd left Kipling and the others to rot in the caves with Apostas without a second thought.

A well of anger churned in the pit of Kipling's stomach. How fitting that Orix would pop up again in his hour of need, demanding immediate attention—without ever offering the same in return.

Apostas may have scampered to Orix's side, but that wasn't how Kipling was going to do things. No. No, indeed.

Coo. The pigeon was looking at him expectantly, and Kipling realized he was waiting for a reply message. Well, it was out of luck today, that was for certain.

Kipling darted out a hand and the pigeon fluttered back just in time. It chirped at him angrily, then took to the sky once more.

He crumpled the note in his fist and used the lantern's dying flame to incinerate it. The wind picked up the little flecks of ash and carried them away. The audience below would have to wait until tomorrow for another performance.

Kipling pushed himself up to standing and went back inside to the inn's cozy quarters, with its warm fire, soft bed, and pliable barmaid.

Abraham was dead, as was everyone on the Settlement. Orix had obviously well and truly lost his mind. Maybe he'd been sending Apostas scrolls like this for years, and the old mage had kept them to himself, to salvage what was left of Orix's reputation. That seemed like something Apostas would do—keep secrets from Kipling and the others "for their own good".

Well, Kipling wouldn't get involved. He was busy undoing all the devastation Orix, Apostas, and the others had wreaked on the mages' reputation. If Orix wanted Apostas's help so desperately, he could come and find him...and then he would be in for a nasty surprise.