The little dining knife he fished from his satchel was a disgrace of a blade, but what other choice did he have?

  He set his jaw and went to town on the bladebeak kiwi, prying hide from fat, sawing through greasy seams, and carved until his palms were slick and the ground was scattered with bright red slabs of meat.

  Finally.

  If only I’d helped Aunt Renna in her butchery shop a lot more.

  But a job poorly done was still a job done. With his shirt off and drying by the fire, he picked up a few slabs of meat and jabbed them onto sticks he’d picked up outside the cave. Then, he finessed the skewers into the ring of stones around the fire, making sure they’d cook right without burning.

  As grease crackled and the cave filled with a smell that made his stomach tighten, he dropped back to eye the pelt and bones of the bladebeak kiwi. The bladed beaks themselves made decent pens when small and decent spear tips when big. Their feathers took ink poorly, so they weren't much use as quills, but their bones, if boiled and ground, sometimes passed for grease powder in apothecaries. He couldn’t recall any relics that used bladebeak kiwi parts as main offerings, though—relics that were actually useful, anyways.

  So trusty Manabrew Potion it is.

  He reached into his satchel and produced an empty glass bottle. He always made sure to have a few on him in case he needed to bottle something of value immediately, and he was glad he never gave up on that now. Beside the bottle, he lined up the main offerings: the rest of the kiwi carcass and the dried, meaty scraps of the barawolf.

  Should be enough for a low grade Manabrew Potion.

  Of all the relics in the world, the offering recipe for Manabrew Potion was probably the most well known. Even a child would be able to say it: one glass bottle for the base offering, and then lots and lots of scrap magical beast parts as the main offering. He had no use for the rest of the kiwi carcass anyways, and he didn’t want to lug the heavy barawolf meat around by morning, so why not get rid of them here?

  But as he clapped his hands together, he couldn’t help but feel a little nervous again.

  So far, every single relic his patron had tossed him came with thorns. Normal relics, at worst, should only have unintended consequences as side effects of their abilities. He’d never even heard of cursed relics that had literal downsides in their ability descriptions before.

  That was the tradeoff, he supposed. Stronger effects, tougher prices.

  But a normal Manabrew Potion is as simple as bread: drink it, and your mana and mana regeneration go up.

  What’s a ‘Cursed’ Manabrew Potion gonna do, then?

  Only one way to know.

  He clapped his hands once more for good measure and dipped his head at the Altar.

  “Great Curator God,” he said, “it’s Dain Sorowyn again, pest and petitioner, here to make an honest trade. Are you listening?”

  The Altar woke up. The reddish-purple portal swirled open, and then the four pale hands slid out, black nails tapping as if tasting the air itself.

  He blinked.

  He didn’t know how he could tell, but the pale hands looked… irritated. One hand scratched another’s knuckle. Another pinched another’s fingertip, and he swore the topmost hand just gave a small, theatrical rub to its wrist like it was saying ‘oh, here we go again’.

  “It’s good to see you too,” he said dryly. “But I… uh, would prefer to not call you ‘strange cursed god’ in my head anymore. Do you have a name you’d like to be called by?”

  The hands stilled, and the low whisper behind the portal stopped.

  For a heartbeat, heat crawled up his neck.

  The Seven Curator Gods had names not because they’d ever deigned to speak them, but because once, centuries or millennia ago, they’d written them down on some slab someone handed them. The popular theory was that their true voices were too sharp for mortals ears, which was why they never spoke to people directly, but given how performing certain rituals during offerings could coax out particular relics, it was plainly obvious that the communication problem didn’t go both ways. Mortals couldn’t hear them, but they could hear mortals, no matter how many portals were opened to them across the entire world at the same time.

  And that meant offending a Curator God in their presence, thinking they wouldn’t notice, could go very, very badly.

  He swallowed hard, and almost tried to take back his request immediately. Maybe he was acting too overfamiliar with this strange pale god.

  … But then, to his surprise, one of the pale hands rose and drifted towards the wall.

  It began to carve.

  A line here. A curve there. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was trying to draw, but then he realized it was writing letters. It carved out one stroke of every letter before going back to the first letter—as if it only knew how to write the word—so he deciphered the whole thing before it even finished writing it.

  ***

  B E L A R A

  ***

  … He let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Belara,” he whispered, bowing swiftly. “Thank you, Great Curator God. I’ll carve your name into my heart.”

  The hands fluttered in a way that almost looked embarrassed, one brushing the other as if to wave him off. It was such an absurd gesture he nearly laughed, but instead he dipped his head lower, pressing his palms together.

  She was strange, yes—but gods, weren’t they all? They sure gave Orland a hard time in The Tales of Seeker Orland. He’d always imagined those children’s stories had some inkling of truth to them, so in a way, he was almost relieved to see that this ‘Belara’ was peculiar in her own way as well.

  Her? Him?

  Nails are long, and the handwriting has a lady-like style to it. Probably a her.

  When he straightened himself, his eyes were sharp again. He gestured to the spread of meats, bones, and the empty glass bottle before the Altar.

  “Great Belara,” he said, this time firmly, “will you take these offerings and grant me a Manabrew Potion? These are meat scraps from a barawolf and a whole bladebeak kiwi carcass, which are known as very ferocious beasts in these parts. Surely all of this combined is worth at least one Manabrew Potion?”

  The four hands didn’t even pretend to ponder. They swept up all of his offerings and slithered back through the portal.

  A minute passed. The portal kept breathing. The campfire started popping. He licked grease from his thumb and kept an ear for any scrape at the barricade. When it became clear something was going on on the other side of the portal—and that it’d take some time for Belara to come back—he decided to start eating the slabs of kiwi meat.

  It should be done cooking by now.

  The meat was tough. It tasted like something that’d been running on fear its whole life, but food was food, and he’d rather not sleep on an empty stomach.

  He finished one skewer, then another, then cleaned the third and final before Belara finally tossed something back out of the portal.

  A bottle bounced off the ground, rolled, and stopped before his knees. The once-empty glass was now shot with a sparkling purple liquid with bubbles that rose and fell.

  That’s… a Manabrew Potion alright.

  Two of Belara’s hands interlocked fingers in the universal sign of ‘you done?’, so he quickly bowed again.

  “That’ll be all for tonight, Great Belara,” he said. “Thank you truly for heeding my calls so many times."

  The fingers fluttered once more, then withdrew. The portal tightened to a coin of light and pinched itself shut.

  In the meantime, he drew out his Tag and slapped it onto the glass bottle.

  ***

  Name: Cursed Manabrew Potion

  Type: Consumable Apotheca-Class Cursed Relic, Common-3

  Attribute Addition: +6 Mana, +0.3 Mana Regeneration

  Ability Description: When consumed, the potion will increase the drinker’s mana and mana regeneration.

  However, the drinker’s eyesight will become slightly blurry for the next day.

  ***

  He stared at the words and blinked.

  Typically, Manabrew Potions at Common grade would only give one to two mana capacity and maybe point-one or point-two mana regeneration. At best, a Common-9 Manabrew Potion—the highest grade in Common—might give nine mana and point-three mana regeneration, but this Common-3 ‘Cursed’ Manabrew Potion would give him six mana and point-three mana regeneration… at the slight cost of blurring his eyesight for the next day.

  He blinked again at that.

  To begin with, he’d never even heard of Manabrew Potions that had downsides. They typically only increased mana and mana regeneration without any stipulations, but he supposed this was what made it a ‘cursed’ relic.

  … Blurry eyesight might be a little annoying, huh?

  Is it because the materials I offered for the potion came from a bladebeak kiwi, which are nocturnal beasts with notoriously bad eyesight?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  If so, maybe that meant every Cursed Manabrew Potion he obtained from now on would have a unique cursed effect based on what materials he offered for them, but… the gains were ludicrous. Typically, a Common-3 Manabrew Potion should only give him around three mana and point-one mana regeneration, so he’d basically be getting double the standard amount of mana and mana regeneration from this cursed potion in exchange for a little bit of his blurry vision for the next day.

  He’d always prided himself on his keen eyes, so had to drink it… right?

  As he popped the cork open hesitantly, a smell like wildflower nectar drifted up, warm and maddening.

  No wonder warriors and adventurers pour this down like water when supplies allow them to.

  Manabrew Potions may be as common as bread loaves among larger towns, sold in relic shops and handed out to army soldiers every few weeks like rations, but he’d never had the chance to drink one before. Everyone knew not to drink them more than one to four times a month unless they wanted mana core sickness—four times a month being on the super high end of tolerance level, while most humans could only tolerate one potion a month—but many people still tried to push the amount of potions they could drink to the extreme.

  The average human can only start drinking Manabrew Potions at fifteen years old, when their mana cores have developed enough to start enduring rapid growth, but the average human then has to stop drinking at around thirty-five years old, which is when their mana cores can't endure growing much more anymore.

  Which means, if I wanna get as much mana and mana regeneration as possible before I hit thirty-five...

  He quickly tipped the bottle back and drank fast to avoid second thoughts.

  The taste, fortunately, was clean and sweet. The cold sensation of mana immediately rushed through him, and his arms felt lighter, his chest fuller. He didn't feel sick instantly, either, which was what most people described feeling after drinking a single Manabrew Potion if their tolerance level was on the lower, average end.

  That means my tolerance level must be higher than average. I can keep drinking Manabrew Potions until I start feeling like I'm about to get sick... and then I'll figure out what my safe upper limit per month is.

  The only downside—as he’d been expecting—was the blurry vision. His eyes immediately hazed over slightly, and it was almost like there was a thin fog in front of him, keeping him from seeing everything clearly... but it wasn’t the worst. ‘Slightly blurry’ was the wording, after all, so he could still see well enough, and he could read well enough as he peeled the Tag from the bottle and slapped it onto his forearm.

  ***

  Name: Dain Sorowyn

  Grade: Common-3

  Title: None

  Title Ability: None

  Acquired Skills: None

  Might: 14 (+2)

  Swiftness: 11

  Resilience: 12

  Clarity: 15 (+1)

  Mana: 11/26 (+1.1/hr)

  Relics: Windscar Prosthetic Arm (Common-2), Bloodlight Eye (Common-2)

  ***

  ... Sweet.

  Every ten levels in an attribute equaled the average human in that attribute. In total, he had sixteen levels in might. The first fourteen levels were his ‘base’ might, naturally earned by exercising and working in Sorowyn Carpentry throughout his childhood years, while the additional two levels were his ‘additional’ might, obtained by equipping his prosthetic. If he could push his might to twenty, that meant he’d be twice as strong as the average man. Twice.

  His overall grade was now Common-3 as well, which meant—in the Curator Gods’ eyes—he was a ‘rarer’, therefore stronger being now. Considering Common-0 usually referred to insects and immobile plants, and Common-1 referred to livestock animals and most average human adults, Common-3 wasn’t that bad at all.

  He only had to move through the rest of the subgrades from Common-0 to Common-9, then reach Uncommon, Rare, Exquisite, Masterwork, Epic, Legendary, and finally Mythic to have a chance of competing with Orland the Everbright.

  Well, it’s only obvious the Curator Gods consider me ‘rarer’ and stronger now. Who wouldn’t with these relics?

  The blurriness is also manageable, though I imagine higher grade cursed potions would have more… debilitating cursed effects.

  He leaned back, chewed through the last bits of his kiwi meat, and listened to the forest outside. The storm still hadn’t let up, and he was sure the edge of the chasm was already lined with soldiers from both sides of the border now.

  He couldn’t stay holed up in a cave like some burrow beast. By morning, he needed to be on the move. The nearest town, Granamere, wasn’t far. He’d probably reach it by sundown if he started at dawn.

  Once I get there... I'll need a sturdy roof, some seasoned food, and some proper clothes.

  He didn't want to run around the forest wet, starving, and shivering to death, so he could probably get all three things if he hunted for magic materials to sell on his way to town.

  And there could be information to be found in Granamere as well.

  He'd be happy enough if he could just regain his bearings for the time being, but if there was anything to be learned about the one-eyed who sank Corvalenne—or about the current state of affairs—it wouldn't be out here in the forest. A town meant roads. Caravans and travelers riding in and out. With a bit of luck, he might be able to get a lead on the one-eyed in Granamere.

  But for now...

  He looked around the cave and grimaced, already imagining the sore back he'd be waking up tomorrow with.

  ... Though, there was something he could do about a pillow.

  Sorry, Belara.

  Just one more request from you.

  Past the Western Thalassene Sea, High Guildmaster Cassian sat at the head of the marble table with his fist propping up his cheek, rubbing out his headache as usual.

  The Hall of Seekers rang with familiar noise, and he knew who would argue before they opened their mouths. Ostravia’s First Speaker was already bristling over tariffs. The Thalassene Admirarch was complaining, as he always did, that his fleets were being ‘shackled like house-boats’ by blockade regulations, while Tsuoynei’s federated envoys were bickering among themselves about representation. It didn’t help that Rahka’s Chieftain-Prince kept clicking his tongue each time anyone said the word ‘tax’. That was the worst sound of all. He hated that fucking bird-brain of a Chieftain-Prince.

  Just endure it a little longer, Cassian.

  This ‘peace summit’ only comes once a year, so once it’s over, you can—

  The great doors at the far end of the hall slammed open, and the sound cut through the chamber like a dropped shield.

  Every king, queen, emperor, and lord around the table turned. Cassian’s eyes followed them.

  A boy stood in the doorway, panting. Gilded Guild apparel gleamed on his small frame, the sigil of the seekers at his collar. He was sweating through it, eyes wide and white as coins as he realized everyone’s attention was on him.

  Poor lad, Cassian thought. Wrong door to burst through if you like your heart steady.

  But the boy swallowed hard, squared his shoulders as best he could, and all but trotted down the long carpet to Cassian’s chair. When he reached the High Guildmaster, he bowed so low Cassian feared he might pitch forward onto his face.

  “High Guildmaster,” the boy whispered, voice cracking as he leaned close. “You need to see this.”

  He held up a small glass orb, no larger than a clenched fist. Stars shimmered in its depths—the faint drifting motes of a Star-Scrying Orb, still warm after receiving a new image from somewhere around the world.

  Cassian straightened, taking his elbow off the table, and held the orb in his palm. The clouded surface immediately cleared, and the image inside sharpened.

  He frowned.

  … Shit.

  Before he could raise his head, more footfalls rushed into the hall behind him. A dozen messengers in the colors of the Ostravian Empire, Thalassene Dominion, Xuesi Dynasty, Tsuyonei Realm, Rahka Cloudweb, and countless other countries poured in, each sprinting to their leader and beginning to whisper. Some handed over hastily inked sketches, while others rolled out crackling spell-slates, but Cassian didn’t need to see them to know what they all depicted.

  Cassian set the orb down on the table as he watched the news travel around the table like a spreading stain.

  ‘Corvalenne, a small border town between Auraline and Obric, has been destroyed by parties unknown’.

  … Nobody here knew Corvalenne. Not even Cassian. But Obric was a large supplier of metals and earth salts to Thalassene’s shipyards and Tsuyonei’s newest foundries. Auraline’s stormfarms and lightning-caught grains were shipped all over the world to Rahka, Ostravia, and any country lacking arable land after the Black Exhibit War. They were two relatively small countries in the east—small enough that their crowns weren’t invited to this annual peace summit—but that didn’t mean they didn’t have important ties to the rest of the world.

  Even the Seeker’s Guild enjoyed regular shipments of lightning crystals from Auraline and elemental metals from Obric.

  And now…

  The Empress of Xuesi rose from her chair first, as he’d expected.

  “This meeting is adjourned,” she said curtly. “I must return to my ministers.”

  No argument. Not even from Ostravia. She stepped back from her chair, and her wispy form dissolved into motes of light. The other sovereigns followed suit, some with hurried farewells, and others with only a stiff nod. Each time they left their chair, their wispy silhouettes broke apart like smoke in wind, their true selves whisked back to their capital palaces and war-rooms—and the Hall of Seekers emptied in less than a minute.

  This was the first time in twelve years an annual peace summit lasted less than fourteen minutes.

  Cassian exhaled through his nose and pushed his chair back. The messenger boy beside him nearly jumped at the sudden motion, but he ignored the boy and walked away, tucking the Star-Scrying Orb into the inner pocket of his coat.

  The boy hurried after him as he strode away from the Hall of Seekers, heading towards the Sun-Relay Chamber.

  “High Guildmaster?” the boy’s voice squeaked behind him. “Is there… anything we can do, sir?”

  “It’s fortunate the news reached us this far in the west so quickly,” Cassian said plainly. “If it’d come any later, Auraline’s banners might already be marching across the border, and we’d be talking about numbers of bodies instead of distinct possibilities.”

  The boy made a small, frightened sound. “So what do we do, sir?”

  “First, you’ll send priority missives to all the Guildmasters stationed in Auraline and Obric. No delays. They are to drop whatever the fuck they’re doing to request immediate audience with Auraline and Obric’s crowns, and when I say now, I mean now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy fumbled for his satchel, already reaching for quills.

  “Make it clear,” Cassian went on, “that their task is to keep tempers from reaching armorers. Auraline and Obric’s crowns will want to start counting spears and arming soldiers. We must do everything in our power to keep them at the table instead of on the march. No conscription edicts. No mobilization orders. Not until we know what happened.”

  “What else, sir?”

  “We have to send our own eyes,” he said, glancing sideways at the boy. “Who’s available?”

  The boy perked up, as if grateful for a task that involved paper instead of prophecy, and flipped open a small leather notebook. Names and sigils were scrawled in tight Ostravian script, each one marked with stamps: on mission, recovering, or unavailable.

  “Seeker Arro the Storm-Binder is in the southern isles, sir, hunting down an Eye of the Storm.” Flip. “Seeker Helene of the Iron Quill is embedded in the Raven’s Court. She’s in the middle of a succession dispute, so she can’t step away now.” Flip. “Seeker Kadan the Knabbersnatch went to Tsuyonei last week to deal with foreign highroad ghouls. We can’t recall him without—”

  “Where’s Orland?”

  “Still wrangling the Lead Dragon in Vyrmgaard, sir. He’s been fighting it for about three weeks now.”

  “And Mirielle? Varson?”

  “No contact. We think Varson’s in the Underworld right now, though, looking for some moon prophet—”

  Cassian snatched the notebook from the boy and flipped through the pages himself.

  Halfway through, he found a name with no stamps over it.

  “What about her?” he asked.

  The boy blinked, then double-checked the page. “She’s… she's free, sir. No active assignment logged. She last checked in at the Far Northern Akhemir Guild.”

  “Then send word to her. She is to depart for the Brastel Continent at once and make for Corvalenne. Overland, sky-route, rendered through permafrost for all I care—as long as she gets there before the crowns get impatient.”

  The boy nodded furiously, quill already scratching on a spare scrap as he jotted shorthand reminders. “She’s to investigate what really happened to Corvalenne, priority rank…”

  “The absolute highest,” Cassian said. “Whatever happens, Auraline and Obric cannot be allowed to go to war, so tell her this: she has full authorization to do whatever it takes to find whoever is responsible for Corvalenne’s destruction, and she must accomplish this by the end of the year, because if she doesn’t…”

  He didn’t have to finish his sentence for the boy to look pale.

  Because all it takes is one man to bring down the rest of the world.

  "... There's also a special report, sir. One that only our Star-Scrying Orb picked up on."

  "What is it?"

  "There's a faint mana trail leading away from the Corvalenne chasm. We believe it may be a survivor."

  Cassian scoffed. "A survivor? Of that? Nonsense. You're telling me someone in a town that doesn't even have a Guild branch managed to survive a calculated attack of that proportion?"

  "That's what the mana trail suggests, sir."

  "... Impossible," Cassian muttered. "If there is a survivor, would he even be alive in a forest full of beasts right now? In the cold? In the rain? How's a common townsman even going to get through the night without... a pillow or something?"