“I am not my anger. I am the fire.” No sooner had the words left the old pyromancer’s lips than the flames around Laruna drained away. The younger woman’s fury remained, but all the heat, all the fire, all the magic sluiced from her grasp and pooled in the Ember of Heaven’s waiting palm, where it glowed as bright as a small sun.

Laruna stared in stunned silence at the brilliant light dancing in the Ember’s hand. Her anger still boiled, but the magic that usually accompanied it felt as distant as the far continents.

“And until you are the fire as well, you will not wear the pyromancer’s robes.” The old woman closed her palm, and the light winked out. “You do not need power, or technique. You need to master yourself. That is what holds you back.”

Laruna startled at the words, an old memory blooming in her mind. “What? Like personal growth?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Like an epiphany?” A small smile twisted the solamancer’s lips as a plan germinated and hope took root.

Now it was the Ember’s turn to look confused. “I suppose…”

“I can work with that,” said Laruna. “I know how to do personal growth.”

The Ember of Heaven leveled a hard stare at her. “I’m not sure you do.”

“I can. I know what I have to do,” said Laruna, now grinning ear to ear. Her mind raced as she scrambled to her feet; she’d need books, and arcane chalk, and she had to find Kaitha. The solamancer was so excited that she made it halfway to the door before she remembered proper protocol and turned back to the nonplussed Ember of Heaven. “Thank you, Archmage,” Laruna said, bowing as she backed out of the room. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“It is the very least I could do.” Jynn spoke every word with the precision and force of an assassin’s crossbow bolt. “You can be certain that I would like to do less, but the gods alone know how many more classes you might have disrupted if I didn’t agree to see you this morning.”

If Heraldin noticed the naked hostility in the archmage’s voice, he hid it well. “Right. Sure. You know, friend, I admire what you’ve accomplished in the last year. You’re really starting something special here. Great office, too. What is it you’re studying now?”

“The effects of low enchantments on probabilistic causation,” said Jynn.

“Sounds complicated! Maybe dangerous,” said the bard.

“There are certainly risks of unintended consequences,” muttered the omnimancer.

“Well, it’s amazing work. And what a fantastic office.” Heraldin waved a hand at the small room. Most of Jynn’s office was dominated by the large, ebony desk that the wizard sat behind, but the space that remained was lined with glass cases that brimmed with curios and oddities. There were seven gems in various colors set on a blue velvet backdrop. Strange creatures with too many legs and orifices hung suspended in jars of green fluid. One of them opened several of its eyes and stared at Heraldin as he leaned too close.

“Aha. And the eyeballs in a jar. Ha! Great! It’s hard to get over how well you’re doing,” the bard managed, working to keep up an optimistic front.

“Apparently,” said Jynn humorlessly.

“You’re probably wondering why I came calling,” asked the bard.

“I’m fairly certain it’s because I failed to place appropriate boundaries in an experimental prophecy,” said Jynn. “What I don’t know is why you think you came here.”

“A business opportunity.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to work at all.” The bard’s smile was implacable, but notes of desperation crept into his voice, and his eyes kept darting to the thing watching him from the jars. “No involvement whatsoever. I just need you to sign over the ballad rights for your part in our adventure⁠—”

“Absolutely not,” Jynn said. “Anything else?”

“At least hear me out!” the bard pleaded.

“No,” said Jynn.

“Why not?” Heraldin’s voice cracked. The thing in the jar was starting to wave its legs.

“To begin with, I’ve heard you sing.”

Heraldin rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, but with glamours and backup singers⁠—”

“What is more,” Jynn continued, “while some may consider the tragic events of last year entertaining, I do not wish to relive them. I have enough painful ballads written about my family, as you may recall.”

“But this one would be different,” Heraldin tried.

A shout in the hallway rang out, drawing Jynn’s eyes to his office door.

Heraldin leaned forward over the desk, as much to move away from the leering thing in the jar as to hold the archmage’s attention. “This ballad will be good for your personal brand!” he insisted.

“Oh?” Jynn’s nose crinkled in irritation. “Which part? When my father turns himself into an undead abomination and wipes out most of the Freedlands’ armies? Or tears down the walls of Andarun? Or when he tries to kill the king? There are more than enough people who resent my heritage already, and I have endured more than sufficient time in the public eye for it.”

“But—”

“Enough. The last thing I need is a bunch of third-rate troubadours caterwauling about my father’s rampage across the Freedlands.” Jynn waved Heraldin away with a gloved hand. “Although when ranking unwelcome events, it only narrowly beats old associates barging in with random requests! I’d ask⁠—”

Yet the wizard’s request was lost in the thunderous bang of his office door being kicked in by an iron-soled boot. Gorm Ingerson surged into the room like a one-Dwarf barbarian horde, trailed by an apologetic omnimancer. “Jynn! You’re from Ruskan, right?”

The archmage stared agape at the Dwarf. “What?” he hissed.

Heraldin leaned over the desk to whisper, “You know, for someone who claims to study destiny and probabilistic causation, you really don’t seem to know much about Novian teachings.”

“I’m sorry, sir!” burbled the omnimancer. “We tried to stop him, but he won’t listen to us.”

Gorm spoke over the mage, as if to emphasize her point. “We need to know if it was magic fire or somethin’ else that burned this here wood.” The Dwarf drew a mistreated hunk of charcoal from somewhere in his grungy robes and waved it at the wizard.

Jynn’s brow knit as his eyes swiveled between the three figures babbling at him. “What?” he said again.

“We?” asked Heraldin.

Gorm snorted and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, where the shadows by the door shifted and unfurled into the shape of Gaist. The young omnimancer gave a frightened squeal.

A frost seemed to settle on Heraldin’s countenance, and he greeted the weaponsmaster with all the warmth and cheer of a midnight blizzard. “Oh. Hello.”

“He’s on me quest,” said Gorm.

“Of course he is,” said Heraldin.

“I couldn’t stop him either, sir. He just ignored me,” said the apologetic omnimancer, but nobody paid her any attention.

“Still not speaking to me, I see,” the bard said airily.