The First Spell

Epilogue

Pensive, Patrick looked out from the tower of the Cotira castle onto the city. It was bustling with life. Colorful flags waved on every building, replacing the gallows gnawed by ravens that had once frightened the city's walls and gates. It was early afternoon, and the clear air allowed him to see the distant mountains. He noticed the enormous burial mounds under which thousands of fallen warriors lay. Above the peak of the mountain, where the fortified camp had once stood, smoke rose. The aid of the elementals had shaken nature's balance, creating an active volcano in the heart of the Grey Wolf mountain.

He turned his gaze to the road leading north. Merchant caravans headed toward Cotira, looking to make a profit in a war-torn city. Herds of cattle grazed on the green meadows as far as the eye could see. Life was returning to normal. Would his, as well? Since yesterday, he had been considering Kirsthan's proposal. Through further experimentation with the rune book, Patrick now knew how to open the gate between worlds and return to his own life. The young ruler urged him to stay in Marloth, tempting him with a noble title, a castle on the sea coast, and rich lands. Out of gratitude for his help, not in recognition of his merits. Here he would be a friend of the king, at home a corporate employee. Here he could break the ancient curse of Lormold Island and mourn fallen friends, there he had mortgage to pay. Finally, he could peacefully delve into the secrets of runic magic, which he had used so effectively on the battlefield. Its potential seemed to be limited only by the intelligence quotient of the wizard who wielded it, and his was quite high.

A servant climbed the tower balcony with a pitcher of the finest princely wine and two ornate goblets.

"Care for a small one?" The servant asked, grinning mischievously.

He filled both cups and raised one in toast, passing the other to a surprised Patrick.

"Excellent job, my champion!"

"I thought so," Koval nodded. "Nobody here says 'a small one.' Alright, Krothanos. Lay your cards on the table. Who are you? Some local god? What's this game you've entangled me in? Why, since the moment I met you, have ice-cold weirdos been trying to kill me? And how the hell do you know so much about the world I come from?"

The mysterious being sat on the balcony railing and took a solid swig of wine.

"Alright, I guess it's time for explanations. To answer your first question - no, I am not a god. Neither is Dramones, while we're on that subject. Oh, the locals take us for deities, it's true, but only because it's easier for us to recruit pawns in a game called Isciliathe, the Game of Power.

"Was this whole mess just about power?"

"Definitely not! Allow me to explain. My race's technological development surpassed all others we discovered in space over thousands of years. Of course, a time came when all that power was used for nefarious purposes, and a war of an unprecedented scale erupted in the galaxy. Entire planets and races perished. When it ended, the melancholy remnants of my people decided to use their knowledge and power to forever free themselves from the threat of total annihilation. We abandoned our physical shells in favor of pure energy. We cannot be killed, and conflicts between us became pointless, as there could be no victor. We underestimated, however... boredom. Millennia of boredom. The wars continued despite their senselessness. However, it was possible to control this chaos. It turned out that the combined power of the elders could limit or increase the power of individuals within our society. As a result, they could shape their position, adding or subtracting splendor. If someone from my people wants to gain prestige, or simply starts to go mad from eternity, they participate in Isciliathe. It's a type of game in which there is only one opponent, and points are earned through representatives of less developed races.