Caster Spellbound did not think. He did not weigh the risks. He acted. He stepped out of the dark alleyway. He gripped his wooden walking stick with both hands. He was just a frail, tired old man with no magic. He had an empty core. But he had a lifetime of fighting behind him."Let the boy go!" Caster yelled. His voice was a loud, booming command that cut through the cheering mob.The angry men stopped. They looked at the old man in the dirty brown cloak."Who are you, grandpa?" the bearded man sneered. He let go of the boy and took a step toward Caster. "Are you an ash-blood too? Do you want to hang next to him?""I said, let him go," Caster repeated. He stepped forward.The bearded man laughed. He raised his heavy iron pipe and swung it directly at Caster’s head.Caster was old, but he was incredibly fast. He ducked under the swinging iron pipe. He spun his body and swung his wooden walking stick.CRACK!The hard oak stick smashed directly into the bearded man’s knee. The man screa

Caster Spellbound ran. Every single step he took sent a terrible, sharp spike of pain through his broken ribs. His breathing was loud and ragged. Hah. Hah. Hah. He clutched his side with his dirty hand, trying to hold his broken bones together. Blood dripped slowly from his chin.All around him, the capital city of Glassview was burning. The night sky was a bright, violent orange. The smell of thick smoke and melting glass filled the air. He could hear the screams of the angry mob echoing through the streets. They were burning the minor magical guilds. They were hunting anyone who wore a robe.But Caster was not running away from the fire. He was running directly toward it.He had to reach the Street of Alchemists. He had to reach his old, dusty shop, the Gilded Rose. Hidden under the floorboards of that shop was the small glass vial. And inside that vial was the blackened, heavy iron sigil of the Ash Warden. If the angry mob burned the shop, the dark metal might react to the heat.

"Time to wake up, old friend," Caster whispered to the massive brass machine.Caster grabbed a massive, heavy iron wheel attached to the side of the machine. He had to manually prime the array. He had to turn the heavy wheel to pull the heavy steel pistons back.He gripped the iron wheel with both hands. He planted his boots on the stone floor. He pulled.The wheel did not move. It was incredibly heavy, designed to be turned by strong, young apprentices, not a frail old man with broken ribs."Come on," Caster grunted through his teeth. He heard the mob reach the bottom of the stairs."There he is!" a man with an axe shouted, pointing at Caster in the corner."Push!" Caster screamed to his own tired body. He ignored the blinding, sharp pain in his chest. He pushed through the agony. He put his entire body weight onto the iron wheel.GRRR-CLACK. The heavy wheel turned one inch. The giant steel gears inside the machine began to grind. A loud, deep humming noise filled the basement.CLACK

The basement of the Gilded Rose was incredibly quiet. A few hours ago, it had been a place of screaming and terror. A mob of fifty angry, frightened people had broken down the front door. They wanted to kill Archmage Caster Spellbound. They carried sharp pitchforks, heavy axes, and burning torches. They were led by cruel spies from the Crimson Alliance.But now, the screaming was gone. The only sound in the room was the soft, slow breathing of fifty sleeping people.Morning had come. Thin rays of golden sunlight pushed their way down the broken wooden stairs. The light danced on the dust floating in the air.Caster Spellbound stood in the corner of the stone basement. He leaned heavily against the cold wall. His body was completely broken. His ribs ached with a sharp, stabbing pain every time he took a breath. His face was covered in dark purple bruises and dried blood. He wore a simple, dirty gray shirt because his brown cloak had been torn away. He looked at the people lying on t

Caster had promised the ghosts he would be better. He had promised to accept his guilt and change his ways. But here he was, turning the toxic waste of the universe into a tool for violence."Is this the only way?" Caster asked the quiet, sleeping basement.General Verne had an army. She had heavy cannons, steel swords, and ruthless killers. If Caster walked up to her fortress empty-handed, she would capture him, torture him, and send assassins to murder Lysane and the innocent children.To save the pure, good people he loved, he had to use the dirty, evil tools of the enemy.Did the ends justify the means? If he used a weapon made of dead souls to save a living child, was he a hero, or was he just a different kind of monster?Caster placed his bare hand on the warm, humming brass metal of the Array."I will bear this sin too," Caster whispered to the machine. His voice turned hard and cold. "I will become the monster they think I am, if it means Lysane gets to live in the sun."He ma