Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“And so we have the Scholar,

Whose eyes tie all connections in the world.”

It wasn’t so difficult, not really, not for Arkim, as he tossed yet another ball into the air. That brought his total up to five. He’d fallen into a state of flow, with his hands moving in long practiced motions—catching, tossing, and catching again. His bright mauve eyes weren’t looking at the balls he was juggling. Instead, he was grinning and scanning the small crowd of children who had begun circling him almost immediately after he left his inn.

It reminded him of his homeland, of his half-dozen siblings who had begged him to perform tricks for them growing up. It brought a dull ache to his heart when he realized it would be several months before he could return home. He had considered cutting his current jaunt with Kuala short in order to see Mara receive her Sigil, and his family played no small part in that urge. But Mara would give him a lecture, Shen and Kuala would still be on the continent, and his parents would expect things of Arkim were he to return. There was no shortage of love between Arkim and his parents, no question of devotion or pride, but Arkim knew that his time to roam would have to end someday. And with every visit home, that day came sooner.

Arkim D’Argent was his mother’s son, through and through. Much like her, he dreaded the thought of going home and being unable to leave, of settling into a life, of forming roots. Of course, Arkim also knew that his mother’s circumstances were different from his own. Sierre D’Argent was born a bastard child of a Heroic line—in an age when the Doom was set to return. Arkim was born to the greatest Witcher to ever defeat the darkness, in a time of Light, to a family of warmth. Thus, he was meant to marry, have his own brood of children, and serve Contraria to the best of his capabilities. Unfortunately, his Inheritance made such a thing even more demanding. He was lucky he’d been given the past seven years of exploration as is.

Alas, the people of Contraria would have to celebrate without him.

Widening his grin, Arkim focused on a girl that looked very much as he imagined his youngest sister did. Blonde pigtails, bright blue eyes, porcelain skin, and chubby cheeks. It was the cheeks that got him every time.

“Are you ready?” he stage-whispered to her.

Her eyes widened, and she pointed to herself. “Me?”

“You,” Arkim said. Only, it was but a whisper on the wind. Heard only by the girl within her head.

His Well was nearly one with him at this point, a mere thought bringing forth his power and forcing his will on the world. In this case, it was the thread of time, of what he once had said and will assuredly say again. A minor replay, he called it. Other Scholars used terms of varying meanings, from the Grand Divulgence of Pietro the Inclined, who once used the working to call the military to arms, to the Shared Drivel of Alkimika Suoros, who used the spell to continue spreading a rumor so vile it was illegal to speak it aloud.

Arkim tossed one of the balls at the girl gently but with purpose. And though he was confident in his aim, he still reinforced the ball’s path with his magic. It wasn’t a small thing to still the passage of time. Arkim knew this. He knew that to pause the elements was to go against the way of the world. To stop the wind that threatened his aim wasn’t worth it. That didn’t stop him from funneling his Well into such a working. Freezing the gust he saw forming in the distance, Arkim watched as the ball landed in the clumsy hands of the girl. Arkim was the only one who didn’t flinch when, moments after the catch, a branch crashed to the ground and splintered across the stone bench beneath its mother tree.

He was the only one who didn’t so much as glance at the source of the sound. He had seen it, after all—the price of his perfect aim. A build-up of wind meant to move. A branch, ripped asunder by the force of a contained gust.

He thought, at first, that the pinprick pain in his chest was regret. That he had internalized the teachings of the Intercessor of Krohnic so wholly that Arkim found himself feeling guilty about breaking the way of the world.

That was when every nerve in his body exploded in pain. Arkim froze, even as he longed to scream. He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. When the balls fell against him, he hardly noticed. When the children started to boo, he couldn’t hear it through the ringing of his ears. When his dinner tried to come up, it was all he could do to tighten his jaw and force it back down.

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When his magic began to seep out of him, though, there was nothing to be done.

There was no putting it back.

As his power flowed out of him, a new wave of pain raged through his mind. It tore at the edges, ripping its way through every crevice of his head. For the first time since the onslaught began, Arkim opened his eyes.

The world was awash in his magic. He saw it as he always had—as all Scholars could. The way of the world. The ribbon that tied time and space together. And it was leaving him behind.

He could see the haze rushing through the air, up and up and up toward the sky and away from the setting sun.

Back east.

Back home.

“To Contraria,” he whispered, horrified at the very thought.

As the last of the pain faded from him, panic threatened to swallow Arkim whole.

Arkim’s breathing became shallow, and his heart beat so viciously that it was a miracle it remained in his chest. At that moment, he realized he had perhaps forgotten how to breathe. Looking around, Arkim couldn’t contain the wildness in his eyes, the terror he was sure was sinking into his bones.

Despite his aptitude for problem solving, Arkim was ill-prepared for problems. Sure, throw him a story of hypothetical court politics, and he could list seventeen ways to solve it. But have an actual Magister pour water over his head and call him daft? Arkim would freeze, forget snapping back, he wouldn’t even move. Whatever one of the Gods had designed his lineage had, it seemed, forgotten that there was supposed to be a fight response as well.

“Bad,” Arkim eventually rasped, getting control of his lungs. “So, unbelievably, irreparably, impossibly bad.”

That was the point at which one of the onlookers, a boy of no more than ten, chose to throw one of the fallen balls right at Arkim’s face.

“Looks like the fancy man can’t even do any fancy tricks.” The boy laughed.

Arkim, to the shock of the children, joined in. He brought his hand up to meet his mouth, and Arkim’s panicked breathing became a hysterical laughter that filled the air. It cut through the quiet bustle of the town square, where merchants were manning tables and laborers were hauling goods. Around him, magic stirred—not his own. Different hues began to work their way toward him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

So what if that woman, the one quickly approaching, used her piddly little Well to splash him with water? So what if that one, the man in the red shirt who was narrowing his eyes, used his Well to manifest a spirit? So what?

Arkim howled with uncontrollable laughter. Nothing mattered. They were gone. They were all gone. His parents, his siblings, his friends, his teachers. Dead—and if not dead, then frozen. Separated from time and space and locked with Illustra. And, what? Arkim was supposed to save them? With his pathetic excuse for an Inheritance? He was supposed to fight the Doom?

Yes. His mind screamed. YES. If not you, then who?

Arkim clutched his sides, the ache of laughter causing them to throb.

Scholar. The title reverberated in his mind. SCHOLAR.

Without magic, who was Arkim D’Argent? The question sobered him, and he looked off toward where his magic had fled.

“Without magic,” Arkim began, his voice rough, “I am still an Inheritor. A Progeny of Heroes Old. No. No, I am none of those things. Not anymore.”

Arkim swallowed thickly, tightening his hold.

“I am the Scholar. A Hero. One of four.”

At that, Arkim jolted.

“One of four,” he hissed, breaking out into a run.

He headed out the small gate of the village, leaving stares in his wake. He paid them no mind—or, rather, Arkim was too busy trying not to trip in the snow to notice their gazes at all. As he began ascending the mountain, an onslaught of thoughts assaulted him.

Kuala, you better not be dead.

Shen, you better be on your way.

Olea…just…Curse, Babel. Olea!Where are you?