Kipling crouched at the edge of the cave, deep in thought. He'd been there for so long—and had been so still—that a centipede now scuttled over his foot, its little legs gently tapping against his boot.

His hand darted out. He grabbed the creature and flung it deep into the cave. A week had passed since Laina had broken his heart, giving him ample time to think.

He'd been so wrong about her, so drawn in by nothing but a plain village girl. Her repulsed reaction to his magic cast a long shadow: her wit now seemed dull, her beauty more common, her empathy simply naivety.

There was a positive side to the horrible experience, though.

He'd made a valuable realization: people's hatred of magic ran deep.

He couldn't just run away with some girl, Laina or otherwise. There would be no future for him anywhere, with anyone, if people reacted like she had to his magic.

He needed to turn the tide of their opinion, and it would take more than simple romance.

Kipling pushed himself up to standing and walked back towards the camp, where he and the other mages had hidden for five long years. His patience had worn thin. He was sick of this cave. Sick of hiding his magic. Sick of Apostas's endless reasons why they couldn't leave. He wanted to shout at the old man, "The Paragon won't fix this! They won't stop hunting us! We have to do something! We can't wait here forever!"

But Kipling didn't say a word. Right now, he just needed Apostas to trust him.

Three of his fellow mages huddled together at the campfire, cooking dinner. The flame burned blue with magic.

Millicent—fifteen, thin, covered in freckles—wordlessly offered him a bowl of tomatoes and beans. He took it, trying not to gag as the slippery substance slid down his throat.

"We're running low on supplies," Seth finally said. He wiped his raw nose with his sleeve. It was constantly running because of the damp. He was seventeen—Kipling's age—but pale and sickly.

Nia didn't look up, but there was nothing new about that. The tall eighteen-year-old was about as gregarious as an oyster.

"Oh? Already?" Kipling asked, feigning surprise. He was well aware they were running low—yesterday he had tossed most of the stores off a dark ledge, never to be seen again. "We'll have to go on another run, I suppose."

The others nodded silently and returned to their nauseating meal. They didn't know it yet, but if everything went according to plan, they would all soon be walking freely in the world.

#

Kipling placed a bowl of tomatoes and beans before Apostas. "Don't forget to eat."

The old mage jerked back, clutching his chest. "Kipling! You startled me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I'm so used to keeping quiet." Thanks to you.

"Yes, yes, of course..."

With careful hands, Apostas picked up the bowl and tilted it towards his mouth. Some of the amber liquid slopped onto his white beard and dribbled down his robe, but he didn't seem to notice. "Delicious."

Kipling's nostrils flared in disgust. The old sod meant it.

He forced down his temper. He'd waited eight long years—he could wait one more day. "I'm glad you like it. But unfortunately, it's the last of our stores. We need to go into town for more."

Apostas looked confused. "Gone so soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well," he sighed, resigned, "it can't be helped. Growing children need sustenance. Perhaps I'll take Millicent with—"

"Actually, I'd prefer to accompany you," Kipling interrupted. He added quickly, "If that's all right, of course."

Apostas peered at him, his glossy blue eyes blinking. Kipling rarely accompanied him on trips into town anymore. Apostas thought he didn't like the hustle and bustle—hah!—but really, Kipling just preferred to steal away on his own at night.

"I suppose you haven't been to town in a while," the mage admitted.

"Yes," he lied, "and it's just...well, you're getting on in years and, while you're obviously very capable, I would still like to be there in case you need a shoulder to lean on."

Apostas' expression changed to one of tenderness. "Why, Kipling. That's very kind of you, my boy." He put a hand on Kipling's arm.

There was a time when Kipling would have felt some affection for the old mage, but that time was long past. All he felt now was repulsed by the thin, pale hand and its bulging blue veins, visible even in the cave's darkness.

"Of course."

"You're right. My legs are a little stiff these days, and my eyesight isn't what it used to be."

And your mind is long gone, old one.

Apostas removed his hand and went back to his meal. His shade was a constantly changing blob, meandering around the cave floor as though looking for something it had long forgotten.

"The others shall be disappointed, of course..." he added, then brightened. "Perhaps we can bring them some sugared candy."

Sugared candy is a poor salve for eight wasted years.

But out loud, he said, "Yes, I'm sure that will lift their spirits."

"We shall go first thing tomorrow, hmm?"

For the first time in a week, Kipling gave a genuine smile. "Tomorrow. Wonderful."

#

Kipling couldn't sleep.

His mind was too busy, turning over his plan again and again, making sure he had considered every angle, but morning came sooner than he expected, and suddenly he and Apostas were readying their packs, putting on their cloaks, and dragging out the buggy they kept hidden in the foliage at the cave entrance.

Apostas closed his eyes and held his hands up to the buggy, pulling magic from his shade—the only time the magical creature remained in place for longer than a few seconds.

Kipling watched as oxen faded into view ahead of the buggy. They were a decent representation of the real thing, complete with yoke and reigns—but they flickered.

Apostas looked back at Kipling, confused. "That's strange. One moment, Kipling, this shouldn't take long..."

He tried again to conjure the pair of oxen, but they were still semi-transparent. Kipling could see straight through them to the trees beyond. They wouldn't fool anyone.

"I..." Apostas began, looking down at his hands like he didn't recognize them. "I don't know..."

Kipling pulled magic from his shade—a perfect sphere at his shoulder—and created his own illusion of oxen. He gave them stronger shoulders, though, and sharper horns. They stamped the ground and huffed, eager to get moving.

Apostas clapped his hands, well pleased. "Well, those turned out better than I expected!" He looked back to Kipling and waggled his fingers, thinking he'd conjured them himself. "The old boy's still got it, wouldn't you say?"

Kipling forced a smile. "I would."

When the buggy started lurching down the overgrown road, Kipling exhaled a long breath of relief.

For much of the trip, Kipling had the strange sensation that he was elsewhere. Like he was there in body, but his spirit hovered watching just above, like his shade. He rubbed his hands together to try to come back to himself a little.

"We're here!" Apostas cried, making Kipling jump in his seat.

The way the mages kept their identities secret was to keep their dealings within a few feet of the buggy. They purchased the same supplies as always: canned preserves, dried fruit and meat, and a few spools of yarn, always from the same no-questions-asked vendors.

At their last stop, Kipling asked the merchant to add a bottle of ale to their order in a hushed whisper.

Kipling climbed back into the buggy and Apostas picked up the reins, ready to start the long journey back. He'd completely forgotten about the sugared candy.

Kipling reached into the bag and held out the bottle of ale to Apostas. "Why don't I take the reins for a while?" he offered. "I thought you'd appreciate a small treat."

The old mage looked taken aback, but pleased all the same.

The ale had its desired effect: Apostas was fast asleep, his head lolling against the side of the buggy.

When Kipling was sure Apostas was sound asleep, he turned the buggy around on the trail, heading back towards the town. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Steady hand, clear head, he told himself. This is your moment.

The past eight years had been for this.

When they finally reached the town again, Kipling scanned the area, looking for something, until—there. Aha.

A small troop of Paragon soldiers in black uniforms strutted down the street.

Kipling stopped the buggy and stepped out. He slipped between buildings, hidden. Pulling magic from his shade, he let the illusion of the oxen disappear before removing the roof from the buggy.

Apostas's shade was in plain sight for all to see. The mage was still asleep in his seat, none the wiser.

Someone cried out, pointing at the shade. Other voices quickly joined in, turning to shouts and screams. People pulled their children close and dove behind stalls, hoping to be saved.

Apostas slowly blinked awake, his rheumy eyes darting around in bewilderment.

The Paragon soldiers were running at him, eyes wide and guns raised.

Despite the chaotic scene unfolding before him, Kipling felt a sudden lightness. Maybe it was the weight of the past eight years sliding off him.

He ducked down low, making sure he remained out of view, and watched as his plan unfolded.