Rishmond pulled the fishing net through one hand, tracing the line looking for any more tears or breaks. The sun was bright and the day warm—a perfect spring day. He shifted a bit on the small stool in the sand, trying to relieve the numbness in one cheek of his backside. Toby sat a few feet away, working on another net. The last two for the day. They were almost done.

A few yards away, closer to the water Halmond and Beritrude worked on the boats, spreading waterproofing over the upturned hulls. They'd all started early this morning, even before the sun was up enough to see well. The two small boats had been hauled up the beach, mounted on supports, cleaned, and carefully examined. Leaks had been patched, boards replaced. Toby and Rishmond were tasked with the nets and repainting the live wells and other removable parts. They’d worked steadily through the morning, stopping only for a quick, hearty breakfast.

Rishmond was eager to finish. He and Toby had plans that afternoon—real plans—with their friends.

That realization struck him. The idea that he and Toby had friends—and not just one or two—was still hard to believe. Three turns ago, that would’ve felt like a fantasy.

But now, after moving in with Hal and Berti, everything had changed. They weren’t just safe—they were a family. A real one. In what Rishmond could only think of as the most wonderful place in the world. There were so many things he’d never dared dream possible.

Toby said it felt like home. Rishmond still wasn’t sure what home was supposed to feel like—just that it didn’t hurt. But he knew he belonged. And for now, that was more than enough.

Well… almost.

His lessons with Tybour—and the long afternoons exploring with their gang—made it all feel even more real.

Even more his.

Rishmond knew Toby wasn’t as happy about his friendship with Tybour. He wished he knew how to fix that. But Tybour was teaching him magic—and that was the most amazing thing Rishmond could imagine. Toby didn’t have a gift for magic at all—not even the ability to sense and use lotret, the free magic that lingered in the air like fine dust. That was rare; most people had some affinity for it. Rishmond was pretty sure Toby was jealous of the bond he shared with Tybour.

It wasn’t like Tybour disliked Toby. He was always polite. But it was obvious Tybour saw Toby as just a kid who happened to hang around Rishmond sometimes.

“Hey! Stop daydreaming, slacker!” Toby’s voice cut across the beach, breaking into Rishmond’s thoughts. “Finish up so we can go exploring with the gang!”

“Yeah? Well, you missed a whole section! So who’s the slacker now?” Rishmond shouted back.

Toby spun and examined his net, eyes scanning quickly for the tear Rishmond had pointed at. He searched. And searched. And after a few minutes, he realized—Rishmond had been lying.

The small pebble struck Rishmond harmlessly on the shoulder, and he laughed, pretending the tiny stone had knocked him clean off his stool. Toby snorted. They were both buzzing with excitement about the upcoming adventure with their group of friends.

Hal and Berti had granted them a half day free of chores, with full permission to roam. The plan was to head up the coast, about a mile north, to a secluded cove. The rocky shoreline there was riddled with tide pools, brimming with strange and unusual sea creatures. They’d bring back anything that looked odd enough — maybe even valuable. There was always a chance of finding something washed up by the sea. Once, just a few weeks ago, a boy had found a strange mechanical object made of brass gears and cloudy glass. No one knew exactly what it was, but a Wizard from the Library had come all the way out to inspect it.

The man had looked it over like he’d found a piece of a lost God. He’d paid the boy’s family handsomely, packed the contraption into a thick black box, and hauled it off to the Wizard’s Library in Retinor proper — the one nestled just below the castle.

Exploring the beaches and tide pools among the rocks would’ve been fun enough on its own, but there was another plan. A secret one.

One of the boys had hidden a small rowboat near the cove, tucked behind some brush and rocks where no adult ever went. The real adventure was to head out across the water—to the forbidden island about a mile off the end of the peninsula that curved around the northern rim of the cove like a reaching arm.

The island was off-limits to everyone but a select few Wizards, and even they rarely visited. Several people had died there over the turns—victims of traps and protections left behind by the Gods themselves before they vanished from the mortal realm.

One of those who’d died was Pilip—Halmond’s and Beritrude’s son.

That had been five turns ago. He and a group of other kids had snuck out to the island, eager and bold. They’d entered the caves below it, but Pilip had stumbled into a hidden passage and triggered something—some ancient mechanism buried in the dark. He died instantly. He was only thirteen.

Rishmond thought about that often, especially when Hal got that quiet look in his eyes—the one that drifted off to somewhere else. He didn’t want to cause Hal or Berti any grief. Not after everything they’d done for him and Toby. But the chance to stand where the Gods had once walked? To feel that kind of ancient magic beneath his skin?

That was too much to pass up.

Besides, Cantor and Drak had been to the island several times. They knew where the traps were—or at least where not to go. They weren’t dead. They hadn’t triggered anything. As long as everyone stuck to the already-explored tunnels and caves, it would be safe enough.

And if Rishmond didn’t go? Toby would. He’d go, reckless as always. And someone had to be there to watch his back.

He focused on the last section of the net he was repairing. Not much damage—this was one of the newer ones Halmond had purchased just last month. He folded it neatly, just as he’d been taught, and placed it in the big chest beside the small hut they used for gear down by the beach. Toby followed close behind with his own finished net. Together, they stacked the nets in the squat little hut, shut the door, and latched it tight.

Halmond turned from the boat he was finishing as the boys approached.
"Nice job, men," he said, his voice deep and rich.

He never had to raise it out on the water—unless a storm rolled in bad enough to swallow the sea. And he never yelled at them when they got into trouble. He didn’t need to. That low note of disappointment in his voice was always enough to make them both want to do better. Mostly. Both Toby and Rishmond had reckless streaks a mile wide.

From across the beach, Berti called out, "You boys all done and ready to fly off to some unknown adventure and leave us poor adults to finish the work you couldn’t get to?" Her voice was teasing, light. She knew they worked hard, and she knew they were grateful.

"Let’s tie the boats in and call it a day," Halmond said, glancing at the sky. "Latest reports say we’ve got a run of good weather coming, but the boats should always be secured, right, Toby?"

There was a twinkle in his eye. He was referring to an incident not long ago when Toby and Rishmond hadn’t tied the boats down properly and a strong wind had tossed them both like toys. There’d been some damage. And a lot of teasing afterward.

The four of them worked quickly to secure the boats to the maintenance supports—heavy beams dug deep into sand and rock well above the high tide line. It would take a full-blown hurricane to shift them.

When the task was done, and the day’s work finally over, Halmond brought the boys in close.

Rishmond looked up at his weathered, kind face and felt that warm, strange calm again. It was still weird, having a family. He’d never expected it. But he loved it. Every second of it.

"You gentlemen behave yourselves," Halmond said. "Don’t go looking for trouble you can’t handle. Be respectful. Be kind. You know Berti and I trust you—and we expect you to carry the honor of our family name."

His face was serious. Stern, even. But there was no hiding the glint in his eyes. He always said this—whether they were heading into town, or just around the corner to the market.

Rishmond and Toby exchanged grins.

"Yes, sir!" they said in unison. "The honor of the Bar household shall not be besmirched!"

Berti laughed and shook her head. She handed each of them a cloth-wrapped bundle—lunch and something sweet for later. The boys tucked the food into their packs, pulled on their jackets, and slung their packs over one shoulder. Then came quick hugs—tight and familiar.

"Be safe—and be home before dark," Berti called. Her voice lifted in that special tone that meant she meant it. "I mean it! Before dark!"

"The light of the Changer illume you!" she added, calling it after them as they ran, kicking up sand on their way north—toward the place the gang was meeting.

Rishmond and Toby ran along the beach, staying where the sand was compacted by the recent high tide, bare feet feeling the slight shift of the packed sand. It wasn't long before the site of their family's little patch of beach disappeared in the distance and both boys stopped to strip off their light jackets and push them haphazardly into their packs. The sun was strong and Rishmond was sweating even in the cool breeze from the ocean. They began to walk quickly along the beach, moving to the top of the low tide wall for firmer footing.

A collection of large, flat rocks near the water line came into view just past a small dune sprinkled with sea grass. Two other boys were already seated on the rocks, eating from their own little cloth wrapped lunches. Rishmond and Toby hurried over to join them.

"Rishmond! Toby!" the younger of the two boys called as they approached. "Hey!"

"Hello, Bollen! Hey, Walm! How're you doing today? Ready for some adventure?" Rishmond called out with a grin.

Bollen was small and slight for thirteen turns, with a mess of curly red hair and freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He almost always wore a grin—and was almost always the reason the group had to stop and wait during their explorations. His older brother Walm was his opposite in nearly every way: pudgy but strong, surprisingly quick on his feet, and quieter than a shadow. His long dark hair was always tied back with a scrap of bright-colored string. Walm rarely said much, especially when Bollen was around—but let anyone else tease or mistreat his little brother, and you'd find yourself on the receiving end of a punch that came out of nowhere.

Most of the gang was like that, really—endlessly teasing each other, but tight as rope when it came to outsiders. Anyone else dared mock one of their own, and they’d have the whole gang to answer to.

"Oy! Y’all a bunch of old thwippits or whut?"

The voice came from farther up the beach, in the direction of the cove. Rishmond looked up and grinned as Cantor came striding toward them, red hair bouncing wildly with every exaggerated step.

Cantor was the oldest of them—nineteen turns—but looked younger, maybe sixteen. Boyish, sharp-edged, and fearless, she'd sooner wrestle you into the sand than give you a hug, but she’d also be the first to patch up a scraped knee or help you master a tricky spell. She was the gang’s heart and fire—planner, instigator, and the real reason they were rowing out to an island forbidden by royal decree.

Cantor didn’t do fear.

"Drak's already up at the cove with the boat," she called. "We got it ready to go—now we’re just waiting on you lot! Let’s move! We don’t have much time, and we’ve got tons to see. Tide’s low too, so we’ll be able to spot stuff we’d miss otherwise!"

She practically buzzed with excitement. Drak and she had been to the island a few times alone, but something about bringing the whole gang out there had her on another level entirely.

“C’mon, Rishmond!” she said, slinging an arm over his shoulder and snatching the half sandwich he’d left on a scrap of butcher paper on the rock in front of him. She took a massive bite and grinned wide, barely holding the sandwich together as she chewed.

“You’re gonna love this! It’s so cool! The paintings on the walls look like they were done just yesterday! There’s stuff written in ancient words nobody can even begin to understand!”

She leaned her weight into Rishmond and then swung a booted foot out toward Toby, catching him lightly on the backside and knocking him off the rock he’d been sitting on.

“Toby! You ready for this?”

Toby yelped and laughed. “You know I am! I wanna find something new! Maybe a tunnel nobody’s seen since the Gods were here!”

Cantor laughed, accidentally spraying bits of sandwich into Rishmond’s hair.
“Right! Well… maybe we take it slow at first.”

Her tone changed. The grin faded. Suddenly, she was all business.

“Look. The danger out there is real. People with way more brains—and a lot more magic—have died out there. The magic on that island? It’s God magic. The kind that doesn’t care how lucky or powerful you are. Get in its way, and you’ll be dead. Or worse.”

She stepped up onto a smaller rock, then hopped onto the big central table rock that anchored their meeting spot. Her voice carried now—commanding, clear.

“You follow my lead. You go where I say. We stay together. We stick to the parts Drak and I already know. No wandering off. No getting clever. No playing the hero.”

Her eyes swept across the group, fierce and unblinking.

“Once we figure a few things out—and once everyone knows their way around—we’ll ease up. Maybe. Until then, we move slow. We move smart.”

She let that settle in the air for a breath.

“I don’t want to have to explain to your families why you came back from a beach trip all beat up. By me.”

She scowled, making sure each one of them felt it in their bones.

“Got it?!”

“Yes, Cantor!” all four boys chorused, loud and in sync.

It wasn’t an empty threat. Everyone knew Cantor could take any one of them in a fight. Maybe all of them, if she was feeling motivated.

“Alright then. Let’s move! You can eat later—we don’t waste daylight!”

They gathered their things and set off over the northern dunes, Cantor striding at the front, her long legs making an exaggerated march of it. She dragged Rishmond along beside her, still munching on the stolen half of his sandwich, her arm thrown casually around his shoulders. He lengthened his stride to keep up as best he could, though she kept bumping into him, knocking him off balance every few steps.

"So, Rishy," she said around a mouthful of bread, grinning sideways at him, "still hanging around that dreamboat First Mage, Tybour?"

She shot him a look, cheek puffed out with sandwich.

"He still teaching you magic outside of school?"

Her tone was all tease—half playful admiration for Tybour’s famously good looks, half ribbing over Rishmond’s now well-known connection to the First Mage. Word had spread through Retinor fast: Rishmond, a nobody just three turns ago, was now seen riding in the First Mage’s carriage, being summoned to the Tower, or sitting at cafes deep in conversation with Tybour himself. The rumors flew wild, and while most were absurd, a good number had been confirmed true enough—especially after a few very visible magical incidents around town.

"Yes," Rishmond said, maybe a bit too eagerly. "You know we’re friends, and yeah, he’s been teaching me some amazing stuff!"

He couldn’t help the grin that crept across his face as he started to gush. "We’ve been working on moving big things—like really big stuff, not just rocks and books. He showed me how to freeze water, heat it, and make ice turn straight into steam! Like, boom—no melting, just gone. It’s so cool."

He caught himself, glanced around, then added, lowering his voice slightly, "And we’ve been doing a lot with protection spells too. That part’s a little scary... Haningway actually fired arrows at me. Real arrows. And tossed burning torches right at my face. I panicked the first few times, but I’ve got the hang of it now. Haven’t been hurt at all."

He’d almost slipped up.

In his excitement, he’d nearly blurted out the one thing he absolutely wasn’t supposed to talk about—Tybour teaching him to portal.

That was definitely not part of any sanctioned curriculum. The Wizard’s Council had strict rules about what could be taught, and when. Portal magic was high-level, dangerous stuff. A single misstep in the spell—one wrong calculation, one lapse in concentration—could maim or kill. Not just the caster, either. Anyone nearby could get caught in the spell's wake. Opening a portal was like slicing through reality with a massive razor blade, and anything in the path of that blade... didn’t fare well.

Rishmond knew that better than most.

He’d seen it firsthand—the day he arrived in Malminar. The searing hum, the warping light, the bone-deep wrongness in the air. He hadn’t understood it at the time, not completely. But now, with Tybour teaching him the real theory behind it all, he knew exactly how lucky he’d been to survive. The opening and closing of a portal had to be precise, like threading a needle in a thunderstorm.

He stuffed the memory back down and tried to refocus. No need to scare the others. And if the Council found out what Tybour was teaching him...

He didn’t even want to think about it.

That wasn’t the only part of the lesson Tybour had warned Rishmond to keep quiet.

It had taken him several days of trying before he got any kind of result with portal magic. Tybour had said that was normal—expected, even. The spell was complex. The concept itself was hard to fully grasp for most. New Wizards typically needed months of slow, careful, supervised practice before they could generate a viable portal. And even then, it would flicker or collapse, or worse—deposit you halfway across the city from where you’d meant to go.

On Rishmond’s second try, he’d succeeded.

Just... not in the usual way.

Tybour had told him to concentrate on a place he knew well, a place he could picture clearly. He was to form a kind of connection in his mind—a thread of magic stretching between where he was and where he wanted to be. Like tying the world together with string.

The lesson was interrupted by a soldier stepping into the room—urgent business, something that pulled Tybour’s attention for only a moment.

And in that moment, Rishmond found himself somewhere else.

He stood in the small kitchen in the west wing of the Wizard’s Library. Empty, like he knew it would be this time of day. That’s why he’d chosen it. But the experience felt wrong—or at least different. There’d been no swirling light, no  portal to step through.

One second he was in Tybour’s laboratory. The next, he was standing on stone tiles in front of a cluttered pantry.

The scent hit him first—grease and old food, cut strangely by the tang of sea air and the sun-warmed grass of a meadow. It was as if the spell had dragged pieces of the world with him, blending them into something uncanny. Even the magic in the air smelled different than when he’d seen other Wizards cast portals. Like something ancient had been stirred.

But his stomach grumbled, and curiosity gave way to appetite.

He raided the pantry—jerky, a few cookies, a cold glass of milk. He looked for sweet acradious brew, but it was gone. It never stayed around long.

When he’d finished, he headed up the narrow spiral stairs that led back toward Tybour’s lab. The steps were uneven, built that way on purpose—Tybour said it was a defensive tactic, meant to trip invaders. Rishmond had long since learned to climb them quickly.

He was excited. He hadn’t cast a portal the way Tybour had shown him... he hadn’t cast anything at all, really. But it had worked. It had to be some secret method Wizards used. Tybour was going to be so proud.

He pushed open the small door at the top of the hall—and stepped into chaos.

Haningway and several of the Phoenix Company Wizards were rushing through the corridor, grim-faced and focused, as if a swarm of demons were descending on the castle. Tybour stood at the far end of the hall, head bent close to Ele Walsing, the Chancellor of the Malminar Magic University, speaking quickly, urgently.

Rishmond blinked.

He turned to the nearest Wizard—Walsh, the young man he often sparred with when Tybour wasn’t around. Reaching out, he grabbed his arm.

“Walsh? What’s going on?”

Walsh spun. "Hey, Rishmo—Rishmond?! Hey! Where have you been?!"

He reached out, gripping Rishmond by both arms, as if making sure he was solid.

“Tybour said you disappeared—vanished! Wait—never mind.”

He turned and shouted up the hall: “Hey! I found him! He’s here and he’s alive!”

Everything stopped.

The whole corridor fell silent for one long, stunned beat—then erupted all at once. Dozens of voices, dozens of questions. Feet pounding toward him. Hands reaching to check him, touch him, see him. Wizards crowding around like he’d just fallen out of the sky.

Because maybe... he had.

“What the hell? Where did you go? Where have you been? Did something take you? Did you just run off and not tell anyone? The frag, man!”

The questions came in a rapid-fire storm—dozens of voices all at once, crowding in, overlapping. Rishmond couldn’t make sense of them, let alone answer. Hands on his arms, shoulders, back. A blur of motion, of worry, of—

“Hey! You’re gonna trip us both up!”

Cantor’s voice cut sharp through the memory, snapping Rishmond back to the present like a splash of cold seawater.

He blinked. They’d arrived.

The dunes had given way to the small cove—their secret launch point. Drak stood near the waterline, just beyond the reach of the waves, one hand resting on the bow of the small boat they'd be taking across. His usual serious face was fixed in a neutral mask, but his eyes tracked them steadily.

Cantor peeled her arm from around Rishmond’s shoulders and stepped away, glancing back at the boys trailing behind.

“Let’s go!” she called.

She gave Rishmond one quick, sideways glance—half smirk, half check-in—then broke into a run, closing the short stretch of beach between her and the boat in a burst of speed.

Drak greeted them all silently, jutting his chin out and tipping his head in a mute nod. No words. Not even a smirk. He was clearly taking his role as guide and protector on this trip very seriously.

Normally, Drak was hard to shut up. Once he got going, he’d ramble about anything—mostly trivia—interesting facts about birds, history, old ruins, magical theory, obscure laws, you name it. When he wasn’t talking, he was reading. Constantly. More than any Wizard Rishmond had ever met, honestly. And not just magic books, either—Drak would read anything he could get his hands on. Sometimes even things he shouldn’t have his hands on.

He was smart. Not the best caster—he could use lotrar, just not very well—but his grasp of theory was solid. He had a good heart, too. And he was a great friend.

The group didn’t waste any time. They tossed their packs into the boat and helped shove it out into the water, boots splashing through shallow surf. Then they climbed aboard and took up oars, settling into the rhythm of rowing.

The sea was calm. Glassy, almost. The strokes were smooth and even, and the boat cut through the water without resistance. The trip was quiet. Peaceful.

Too peaceful, maybe.

Rishmond found himself frowning. It struck him as odd—too easy. There were no barriers, no magical protections, no royal guards patrolling the coast to stop people from doing exactly what they were doing now.

He turned to Cantor, voice low. “Why aren’t there any wards or barriers around the island? I mean, if it’s really off-limits—by royal decree—wouldn’t the King have put some kind of spell or watch in place?”

Cantor grinned, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Oh, they tried, at first,” she said, adjusting her grip on her oar. “But you know how there’s the protection around Malminar that keeps Warlocks out? Turns out, when they put up wards to block access to the island, it messed with the border magic. Real bad."

"Drak found out about it in some old book or something he was reading in the library." She beamed. Proud of Drak and ecstatic that she knew something most others did not. 

She leaned in a little, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Made the island into a kind of... beacon. Warlocks started showing up. Drawn in like moths to a torch. A few of them actually landed there, tried to break into the caves.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“So the Wizards decided it was better to leave the God's protections alone. Whatever magic’s down there, it’s old. Older than the Guild, older than the city. Maybe even older than magic. They figured the original protections were doing the job just fine—have been for over three hundred turns.”

She gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and grinned like she’d just solved the world from Demons.

“No one even watches the place anymore. They figure the magic will keep everyone out... or kill anyone dumb enough to go poking around. And the warning signs seem to scare most folks off.”

She tilted her head and winked.

“Well. Everyone but us, anyway.”

They reached the island just as the sun slipped behind a bank of clouds, dulling the light and giving the rocks ahead a washed-out, gray-blue cast. The shoreline here was steep and jagged, so they had to row around to the far side, where a natural jetty jutted out into the sea like a broken finger.

Drak and Cantor had prepared the landing spot ahead of time. Two steel bars had been hammered deep into the rock, anchors for mooring the boat. They worked quickly and in quiet coordination, guiding the hull gently alongside the jetty and setting thick wooden battens to keep it from scraping or cracking against the stone.

Once the boat was secured, they scrambled out one by one, boots slipping slightly on the damp stone before finding solid footing. They left the oars in the boat, grabbed their packs, and began climbing the rocky slope that led up from the jetty.

That’s when they saw the signs.

They were spaced out along the upper shore, bolted to stone or mounted on carved posts, weathered by time and sea spray but still entirely legible. Each one bore the same stark warning, printed in at least three languages:
BEWARE.
This island is under the protection of the King of Malminar.
This island contains dangerous, high-level magics and will kill you.
Do not shelter here. Do not explore here. Do not stay here.
It is forbidden by royal decree of the King of Malminar and the Malminar Wizards’ Council to step foot on this island.

Rishmond stopped walking.

The words had weight—not just the threat, but the feel of them, like the signs themselves had soaked up centuries of fear.

He glanced at the others. Bollen’s usual grin was gone. Even Toby had gone quiet, his wide eyes flicking from one sign to the next. Drak looked grim. Cantor... Cantor looked thrilled.

“Still want to turn back?” she asked, her voice low, amused. “This is your last chance.”

She was already climbing.