Mother of Midnight

There were many things Tarric needed to do. War was coming, and he had spells to prepare. The formations he’d planned for the upcoming battles still needed refinement—without them, their defenses would be full of gaps, and he wasn't about to let that happen. He also needed to look into Vivienne. His second-oldest brother had been growing increasingly anxious about her, and while Tarric could understand why, he found it… unnecessary. Even he, exomancer that he was, felt a creeping unease in her presence. She was strange, undeniably so. But if Rara trusted her, then that was enough. His little sister was sharp, and she had long since come of age. Trust was easy.

Tarric sat hunched over one of his desks, scratching a quill against parchment. Aetheric diagrams and carefully scribed calculations sprawled across the page, the foundations of his latest spellwork. The first few iterations had been failures—unresponsive, fragile, breaking apart before the formations could even stabilize. But this one felt better. The nexus was holding, the structure more refined. Maybe this time, it would work.

His workspace was a disaster, cluttered with instruments of every shape and purpose. Not just one desk—three, all occupied, covered in books, scrolls, measuring tools, and artifacts. Each bore the evidence of his latest studies, and those studies had yielded results. He had just returned from seven ruins, each one an echo of the past, each revealing more of the people who had walked these lands long before them. Their writings, their tools, their understanding of the world… fragments of lost wisdom, buried beneath the weight of time.

And then, there was the chanting.

Tarric had studied every text he could get his hands on, analyzed every remnant of spellcraft he had uncovered, and one truth remained stubbornly unchanged—spells required chanting. He didn’t know why. No one did. It was simply how magic worked. Every endomancer, every exomancer, every caster in the world had to speak their incantations to shape the aether, to make it take form. He had tried to cast without it before, had strained to mold the forces himself, had dissected and restructured spells, stripping them of their spoken commands.

Nothing.

The magic wouldn’t come. The energy wouldn’t flow. It was as though the words themselves were the bridge between thought and reality, and without them, the power simply refused to answer.

Still, his incursions had borne fruit. Every ruin, every half-buried tablet, every crumbling inscription deepened his understanding of the ancient language—slowly, painstakingly. It was a strange tongue, dense with conjunctions, almost reluctant to use vowels, its structure defined by hard, clenching sounds that made it feel more like stone grinding against stone than something meant for a living throat. And yet, despite its obscurity, it remained the foundation of spellcraft. The words of power spoken across the world, from the most seasoned warcasters to the simplest hedge-witches, all traced back to it.

Not that most of them understood what they were saying. Almost no one could translate it verbatim.

Tarric reached for one of his tomes, its spine worn from years of reference, pages filled with his careful annotations. He flipped through several sections, stopping when he found the missing pieces he’d been puzzling over. With a sharp quill stroke, he filled in the gaps—guesses, of course, but educated ones. He had long since learned that magic was a language of intent as much as of words, and for the most part, using these reconstructed phrases in spellcraft seemed to work. That was what mattered.

Still, some phrases defied him. He clicked his tongue in irritation, running his thumb along the page’s edge.

Ivor would have been useful for this. The man had a gift for language, a mind that could untangle meaning from nothing but structure and pattern. He could even speak siren, with one of his vocal augments in place.

That thought soured Tarric’s mood.

His friends should have followed the trail he left for them. They should have been here. But at some point along the way, they had been replaced—two champions standing where they should have been. He could only hope they were still alive somewhere, still finding their way.

And if they were, they would come to Serkoth.

That had been the agreement, once. If lost, they would meet again in Serkoth. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on NoveI-Fire.ɴet

And if they made it, if they reached him, he would make sure they had a home here.

With another sigh, Tarric decided it was time for a break. Dwelling too long on the same problem dulled the mind—he knew that well enough. A fresh perspective often came after stepping away, not after stubbornly hammering at the same issue over and over.

He set his quill down and pushed away from the desk, rolling his shoulders before stretching out his lupine frame. Sitting hunched over parchment for too long always left him stiff, and he could feel the ache settling in his back. He had been home for a few days now, but there were still some siblings he had yet to embrace in his world-famous hugs. An oversight he intended to fix immediately.

On his way out, he made a detour through the kitchen, where the scent of fresh-baked sweetbread practically lured him in by the nose. He swiped a piece with practiced ease, ignoring the chef’s protests with a cheeky grin before making his escape down the hall. The sweetbread was still warm in his hand as he made his way to Torin’s workshop.

He knocked at the door and waited. No response.

Not unusual—Torin had a habit of getting so immersed in his work that he lost track of everything else. Tarric rapped his knuckles against the door a second time, then a third, just in case. If there was still no answer, he’d have no qualms about letting himself in.

But before he had the chance, the door creaked open. A sliver of darkness yawned from the crack, and a familiar voice followed.

“Tarric? When did you get home?”

Tarric tilted his head up. Even being the shortest in the family by a large margin, he still had to look up at his younger brother.

“Rin! About three days ago! May I come in?”

Torin hesitated, lingering in the doorway for a moment before finally giving a small nod.

Tarric beamed. “Brilliant. I brought sweetbread for us to share.”

A little bribery never hurt.

Inside, the workshop was a familiar mess—pots of paint scattered across tables and floors, some left open, their colors drying and cracking at the edges. Half-finished canvases leaned against the walls, sketches littered every available surface, and the air carried the sharp scent of oils and pigments. The chaos of creation.

Tarric smiled as he took it all in. He had always loved this part of his little brother. Torin was built like Kavren—broad-shouldered, strong—but unlike their war-hardened sibling, he had no talent for combat. No, his hands were meant for brushes, not blades. His battles were fought on canvas, his victories captured in color and form.

Picking his way through the clutter, Tarric made his way to the couch. He cleared a space, pushing aside a few stray sketches, then plopped himself down with an exaggerated sigh of comfort. Without missing a beat, he cracked the sweetbread in half, offering one piece to Torin with a grin.

“Here. Fuel for the artist.”

Torin hesitated for a moment before accepting the sweetbread, his fingers smudged with dried paint as he tore off a small piece and popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze flicking toward one of the larger canvases propped up against the far wall. Tarric followed his line of sight and raised a brow.

The painting was still in its early stages, but the composition was unmistakable—figures in motion, a battlefield caught mid-chaos, shadows looming over warriors locked in struggle. Tarric recognized the swirling aetheric patterns woven into the strokes, the way the colors bled into one another like power made manifest.

"Been having visions again?" Tarric asked, voice light but laced with genuine curiosity. He knew his brother painted from something deeper than inspiration alone.

Torin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not exactly. Just… impressions. I don't know if they're things that will happen, or things that could have happened." He took another bite of sweetbread, chewing slower this time. "It’s been worse lately. The images don’t stop when I put down the brush."

Tarric frowned, leaning back against the couch. He had always suspected that Torin’s talent ran deeper than simple artistry. The way he captured movement, light, and aether—it wasn’t normal. It had a kind of knowing to it, a prescience that unsettled even their more magically inclined siblings.

"Have you told anyone else?" Tarric asked.

Torin shook his head. "No. Not yet."

Tarric clicked his tongue, thoughtful. "Might be worth looking into. Might be nothing. Either way, you’re not dealing with it alone."

Torin let out a soft chuckle. "I figured you'd say that."

Tarric grinned, tossing a bit of sweetbread into his mouth and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. "Of course. I’m the best big brother, after all."

Torin snorted, crossing his arms. "I think I grew out of being the ‘little brother’ a long time ago."

Tarric waved a hand dismissively. "I am thirty-three years your senior, Torin. I will be your big brother forever, no matter how tall or brooding you get."

Torin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he found one of the few chairs not covered in sketches or supplies and lowered himself into it, stretching out his legs with a sigh. He hesitated for a moment, fingers drumming against his knee, before speaking. "So… did you hear about the woman Rava has been spending time with?" His voice carried a thread of unease. "I’ve heard… things."

Tarric arched a brow, amused. "Oh? What kinds of things?"

Torin shifted uncomfortably. "That she’s dangerous. That she’s… not normal."

Tarric chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I certainly can’t argue that last part. But yes, I know about her. In fact"—he leaned forward slightly, grinning—"I’ve met her. She saved my life."

Torin stiffened, his brow furrowing. "She did?"

Tarric nodded, his amusement dimming just slightly. "I was in a bit of a tight spot. Vivienne pulled me out of it."

Torin frowned, rubbing his chin. "That doesn’t exactly change the rumors, you know. If anything, it makes her sound even stranger."

Tarric let out a low chuckle. "Oh, she is strange. No question about that. But she’s also Rava’s friend, and she hasn’t given me a reason to doubt her yet." He tilted his head slightly. "Is this curiosity, or concern?"

Torin hesitated before answering. "A bit of both."

Tarric waved a hand dismissively, still grinning. "Well, I don’t think there’s too much to worry about. Mother seems to approve of her greatly, and if she had any real concerns, we’d all know about it by now." He leaned back into the couch, stretching his arms over the backrest. "Besides, Vivienne actually seems to want to get along with our family—even if it’s mostly for Rara’s sake. That still counts for something."

Torin didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded slowly.

"And Kavren liked her too," Tarric added with a chuckle. "First thing he did when he met her was challenge her to a fight!"

Torin huffed a laugh. "Yeah, that sounds like Kavren."

"Right?" Tarric grinned. "So don’t worry too much. You’ve got your family to look after you, as always. Just keep painting." He gestured toward the half-finished canvas with a nod of encouragement. "I love seeing your art. Every time I come back, you’ve made something even more incredible."

Torin glanced toward the painting, his expression softening, though a hint of uncertainty remained in his eyes. After a moment, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. "You always know what to say, don’t you?"

Tarric smirked. "It’s a gift."

They talked until the next bell struck, laughter and warm conversation filling the workshop as the hours passed. When it was time to go, Tarric pulled Torin into the tightest hug he could manage—no small feat, given the size difference—and clapped his little brother on the back before making his way back to his room.

Now refreshed, with his mind lighter and his focus renewed, he settled back into his work. The parchment before him awaited, ink drying on half-scribed diagrams, and he wasted no time picking up his quill again.

The spell nexus required nineteen points—three for each school of aetherium, plus a final, binding point at the top for narrative. Normally, such a structure was impossible to cast for anyone short of a god. But Tarric had one advantage that defied every known limit: he had seven affinities.

Unheard of in recorded history, not even his long-lived mother, nor any of the ancient titans who predated her, had ever encountered such a phenomenon. At least, none that he had met. Magic did not account for impossibilities, which meant there were no spells in existence capable of utilizing all seven affinities at once.

Which was why he was trying to create one.

It was a project years in the making, an obsession that had taken root long ago. The reasons were many, but at their core, they boiled down to two simple truths. The first: he wanted to see if he could. If magic was a language, then he wanted to write something new, something that had never been spoken before.

The second: because it might one day save Serkoth lives.

Tarric frowned as he traced over a segment of the nexus, adjusting the alignment of a glyph. He didn’t like the idea of using such a spell in battle—the sheer power it would command would be catastrophic—but if it meant protecting his people, his family, then it was worth the risk.

Tarric dipped his quill into the inkwell, his mind sharpening as he worked. The structure of the spell nexus was critical—if even a single point misaligned, the entire formation would collapse before it ever activated.

He started with the foundational points: Vita, Mortis, and Anima. These formed the backbone of the spell, balancing life, death, and the essence in between. Most spells only used one, maybe two of these forces, but Tarric needed all three in perfect harmony to handle the sheer weight of the magic he was constructing.

He carefully inked a triadic glyph at the base of the parchment, binding the three elements together. Vita required soft, flowing strokes to guide the energy rather than force it, while Mortis demanded sharp angles, meant to slice through stagnation. Anima, the intermediary, was the most difficult—it had to thread between the two seamlessly, like stitching two opposing fabrics together. He adjusted the flow lines several times before he was satisfied.

Next came the aetheric schools: Loam, Tide, and Tempest.

These weren’t as simple as drawing three runes and calling it done. No, each element had an internal nature—aether did not simply exist; it moved. Loam was dense and stable, its symbols needing interlocking lines to prevent collapse under its own weight. Tide was fluid, constantly in motion, meaning its glyphs had to be carefully shaped to allow for redirection. Tempest, the lightest and most elusive, demanded open loops and spirals, creating pathways for energy to flow rather than forcing it into strict formations.

Tarric worked meticulously, layering these elements with the precision of a master craftsman. He took extra care with the intersection points—where Tide met Tempest, where Tempest wove through Loam—ensuring that the energies wouldn’t cancel each other out or, worse, cause instability.

Then came Dawn and Dusk.

Light and Shadow. Opposites in every way, yet inseparable. These were not merely elements but forces that shaped reality itself. Dawn expanded, illuminating and revealing. Dusk contracted, concealing and distorting. Tarric had spent years studying how these forces interacted, knowing that without perfect equilibrium, a spell of this complexity would collapse. He carefully inked their runes in mirrored positions, ensuring that neither overpowered the other.

With all the affinities now present, he turned his attention to the most critical piece—the Narrative Point.

Aether was more than just energy; it was meaning. Every spell was a story, and every mage was a storyteller, shaping the fabric of magic with intent. Without a guiding narrative, even the most powerful spell would dissolve into raw, unfocused energy. Narrative aether focused on guiding that force in a pure state.

Tarric placed the final point at the top of the formation and hesitated. What story was he writing?

This wasn’t just a spell of destruction, nor was it one of creation. It was something in between—a balancing act, a confluence of forces that no one else could command. His quill hovered over the parchment before he carefully, deliberately wrote a single word in the ancient language at the center of the nexus.

A word of command. A word of purpose. A word to bind it all together.

The ink shimmered as the formation settled, aether humming in response.

Tarric exhaled. The hardest part was done. Now, he just had to test it.