The stairs seemed to go on forever.
Leon’s boots clanked against stone as he climbed, the sound bouncing off narrow walls. The torch Cassandra had handed him earlier sputtered and smoked, filling the tunnel with the smell of burning pitch. His pack dug into his shoulder, not heavy, but annoying.
She hadn’t followed. Of course, she hadn’t. Cassandra didn’t even need to watch him leave; her little leash trick was proof enough. If she wanted him gone, he’d be gone.
The staircase ended at a flat wall carved to look like solid rock. Leon pushed. The disguised stone door creaked open, stiff with age, and a rush of air spilled in, clean, sharp, cold. He stepped out, squinting as sunlight punched him in the face.
For a moment, he froze.
He hadn’t seen daylight since before the accident. He hadn’t felt fresh air that didn’t taste like dust and bone dust. The sky was huge, endless, painfully blue. Trees swayed on the hillside, leaves whispering. Birds cut across the open space in quick arcs.
Leon shielded his eyes, blinking until the world stopped stabbing him with brightness. His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
“I guess this beats the skull wallpaper,” he muttered.
The crypt’s entrance sat at the base of a crumbling cliff, half-hidden behind thorn bushes. From the outside, it looked like nothing, a scatter of rocks and vines. Cassandra had been right: no one would ever notice it.
Leon adjusted his coat, tugged at the collar, and tested his sword’s weight at his hip. The long red coat settled around him, heavy but reassuring, slate-gray armor underneath clinking faintly when he moved. He flexed his left hand inside the rune-stitched glove. The faint hum it gave off felt steadier than his pulse.
He looked down the slope toward the faint dirt road cutting across the fields. Somewhere past those trees, a village waited. Cassandra’s orb waited. And probably a dozen ways to get himself killed in between.
Her warning echoed in his head: If anyone learns what you are, you will not survive.
He kicked at a stone, watching it bounce down the path. “Yeah, thanks for the pep talk, boss. Real confidence builder.”
The birds ignored him.
Leon set off down the slope, boots slipping on loose dirt, cloak dragging against brambles. Every step away from that hidden stairwell felt strange. Not free—never free, but exposed. Out here, there wasn’t a blood circle keeping him upright. Just Cassandra’s invisible grip waiting to snuff him out if he pushed too far.
Still, he breathed deeper than he had since waking in her lair. The air stung his lungs, but it wasn’t smoke or rot. It was alive.
“Alright, Stevens,” he muttered to himself as he hit the road and tightened the strap on his pack. “Don’t screw this up. Bring back the magic marble. Don’t let anyone figure out you’re a corpse in cosplay. Easy.”
The wind tugged at his coat as if mocking him.
Leon set his jaw, adjusted the sword at his hip, and started walking.
The “road” was nothing more than a muddy scar across fields and forest. Wagon ruts had hardened into uneven grooves that twisted his ankles with every other step. Cassandra’s map had called it a “short walk.” Leon was beginning to suspect Cassandra had never walked anywhere in her life.
By the time the sun was past its peak, his coat felt like a sauna, his pack strap gnawed into his shoulder, and the armor underneath clanked with every move. He stopped under a leaning tree, dropped the pack, and flexed his left hand in the rune-stitched glove.
“Alright,” he muttered, “let’s see what this thing can do besides make me look like a magician at a kid’s party.”
He raised his hand, thought fire, and nearly jumped when the glove pulsed with heat. A ball of flame flickered to life in his palm—small, unstable, like a campfire with stage fright. Leon grinned despite himself and tossed it toward the road. It burst against the dirt with a sharp pop, leaving a black mark and a puff of smoke.
“Not bad,” he said. “Bit of a fireworks show, but not bad.”
He tried again. This time the flame was steadier, larger. He lobbed it at a patch of weeds and watched them catch, the smell of burnt grass filling the air. His smile faded as smoke thickened. He stomped out the fire, coughing.
“Okay. Note to self: don’t burn down the countryside. Pretty sure that’d blow my cover faster than glowing eyes.”
Next spell. He focused, aiming at a fallen branch. Blue sparks crawled across his knuckles before snapping into a crack of lightning. It struck the branch dead-on, charring it to ash. Leon yelped, stumbling back as his ears rang and the smell of ozone clung to the air.
“Holy crap!” He shook his hand, wincing at the sting. “Yeah, let’s not fry myself before lunch.”
He sat on a rock, catching his breath. The glove hummed quietly, like it was waiting for more. Cassandra’s words drifted back: You may chain two spells in one action.
“Guess I should test that.”
He lifted his hand, pictured a shell, and the thought of speed.
Suddenly a gleaming barrier that was mostly transparent encased him, and then his whole body lurched with small motions. The world slowed, and he sped up. His legs twitched with energy, his arms felt too light, and when he took a step—
He tripped over his own foot, launching himself face-first into the mud.
The magic fizzled as he hit the ground. He lay there a moment, groaning, before rolling onto his back. A smear of dirt streaked his coat. His hair stuck to his forehead.
“Well. That went great. Flash step right into a puddle. Red Mage prodigy, ladies and gentlemen, I should have used Protect instead.”
He pushed himself up, wiped mud from his gloves, and gathered his things. The burst of speed had drained him in seconds, leaving his chest tight. Still, for all the humiliation, a grin tugged at his lips. The power was real. He just needed to survive long enough to figure it out.
Hours later, the “short walk” still hadn’t ended. His calves screamed, his feet throbbed, and the coat caught on every thorn bush along the path. “Why in God's name did she give me a body that could feel pain? That seems like a terrible decision.”
By the time rooftops finally broke the horizon, the sun was sliding low.
Leon straightened, rolling his shoulders and tugging at the coat. “Finally. Took me long enough.”
He tightened the strap of his pack, set his jaw, and kept walking toward the village.
Drelm wasn’t much to look at.
The “village” was a cluster of wooden houses ringed by a rough fence of logs. Maybe 50 of the wooden structures if even that. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smell of burnt wood. Chickens pecked at mud between the huts, and a few wary villagers watched Leon approach like he’d just crawled out of the grave, which, technically, wasn’t far off.
He pulled his coat straighter and tried to walk with purpose. A Red Mage on business, nothing suspicious here.
The main street was little more than packed dirt lined with ruts. A smith hammered at an anvil, sparks leaping. Children darted around his legs, chasing each other until one tripped and splashed in a puddle. Leon sidestepped, pretending he knew where he was going.
The guildhall wasn’t hard to spot. Bigger than the other buildings, sturdier too, with a sign over the door painted with crossed swords and a shield. Laughter, shouts, and the clink of mugs leaked from the windows. Why had Cassandra insisted that he register?
Leon pushed the door open.
The noise dipped as a few heads turned. Adventurers filled the room, armor, cloaks, weapons stacked against the wall. Seemed to be more of them than villagers. A long counter stretched across the back where a clerk sorted papers.
Leon forced a casual stride up to the counter. The clerk, a thin man with tired eyes and ink stains on his fingers, didn’t look up at first. “Name?”
“Leon Stevens,” Leon said.
The clerk’s quill paused. Slowly, he raised his head, brow furrowed. “Say that again?”
“Leon. Stevens.”
Murmurs rippled from a table nearby. Someone snorted. Another voice whispered, “What kind of name is that?”
Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s foreign,” he said flatly. “Write it down.”
The clerk scratched it onto the form with visible hesitation. “Class?”
“Red Mage.”
That got attention. Heads swiveled. The murmurs turned sharper. A few adventurers exchanged glances; one raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, or maybe suspicious.
“Rare class,” the clerk muttered, tapping his quill against the paper. “Haven’t registered one in… years.”
“Guess I’m bringing it back,” Leon said, forcing a half-smile.
The clerk slid a small badge across the counter. “Level One Adventurer. Don’t lose it. And don’t die, or the paperwork is a nuisance.”
Leon clipped the badge to his belt. “Great pep talk. Thanks.”
As he turned, he caught a few stares lingering on him. Some curious. Some calculating. His gut tightened. Cassandra’s warning echoed in his head: If anyone learns what you are, you will not survive.
He adjusted his coat and walked toward the door, ignoring the whispers that followed.
Outside, the village looked the same—mud, smoke, wary stares. But now Leon felt the eyes of strangers on his back, weighing him, questioning him. He gripped the sword at his hip, the glove humming faintly with promise.
First errand, first cover. If he slipped, it was over.
He set his jaw and kept walking.