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Arc 8-95 (Lucas)
🕑 Added 2025-09-12 15:57:55 +0000 UTCIt was a testament to the destruction that the sorry group gathered around the table represented the best the guilds had to offer, Lucas thought. As Jacoby’s aide, he had seen the city’s decay from close range; sitting in this room gave him a chance to be near power, but it also meant he had to measure every word and movement.
When he had been a boy running about the city doing odd jobs, he admired the powerful hunters. Their ancestors had pacified the continent, but that didn’t mean every beast worth hunting had been purged. Every other year, the named hunters returned with a worthy trophy, hulking or exotic, and paraded their kill through the streets, standing atop the corpse as they told tales of battle—never so exaggerated they became unbelievable, only more entertaining. Those celebrations continued late into the night; they were the closest Lucas had come to witnessing heroes.
As he grew older, the glamour around those heroes faded. He learned they were just men: flawed, mortal men. It didn’t take much to be a hunter. Any fool with a steady head and a pointy stick could hunt beasts for a living. Magic made the work easier; any initiate could make a name in the guilds. The higher-ranked hunters accrued power not to fight monsters but to fight men—to lord over them, even without a title. Skirmishes between hunters and, rarely, the clans of the wildlands had become more common than calls to put down powerful beasts.
Once, master casters trained to battle draconids. Now, they practiced to peacock their magic in public, using the threat of violence as currency.
Even mastery had changed. The title used to describe a force of nature capable of deciding major battles, the best fighters in a generation. After five hundred years, mastery had become a tier—a threshold rather than an honor. What made a master? Years of study? A list of accomplishments? A unique spell? Perhaps once. The Hall had been a blessing, but Lucas could point to a negative: the codification of ability. Magic had been judged by results; the school turned it into numbers. A master no longer earned their place by taking the head of a living catastrophe but by raising their core. Growing it to contain five hundred units was aa noteworthy accomplishment but not particularly difficult—anyone with the know-how and patience could do it.
A master caster did not necessarily make a master fighter or leader. In Lucas’s experience, it was rare for someone to live up to the title.
Jacoby was one such person. He’d faced kingdom-ending threats. He hadn’t merely learned magic; he’d innovated within his field. If he lacked anywhere, it was that he was not a natural leader—why he had faded into obscurity despite fighting alongside the famed Dunwayne. Still, when circumstances required it, he stepped up.
He was undoubtedly the best the Traditionalists had to offer, which made it all the more unfortunate that he wouldn’t be with them long. He was strong for his age, but the strain wore on him. As Jacoby’s right-hand, Lucas saw the effects more than most. The old hunter was slow to wake and often lost in flights of fancy even when handling serious matters. His mana control remained impeccable, but his body was failing. In the air, under his affinity, he moved like a bird; on the ground he shuffled and groaned when rising.
The man should be retiring. It was their failing that they could not allow him that.
The others at the table should have been picking up the slack. Despite being half Jacoby’s age, they were not worth a quarter of him.
They were not all bad. Lucas was fond of Grayskin, a remaining leader of the Steelskin guild. Broad and taciturn like most of his guild, the man was a wall of flesh and will. He rarely spoke at meetings, but when he did, his arguments were sound. He tended to side with Jacoby, something that raised his esteem in Lucas’ eyes.
Of the five others around the table, only three were tolerable. Independents raised by the Traditionalists to serve as muscle, they owed their loyalty first to the Traditionalists. Many masters had fallen against the Menace; these three had survived because they had followed orders when a retreat was called. They resented being chained to a faction on the brink of annihilation; they were talented enough to be welcomed elsewhere by powerful families and merchants, yet they squatted in ruins, maneuvering against an enemy that could swat them away like flies. That made them unpleasant, but cautious; they also tended to side with Jacoby.
The last two were nuisances at best, problems at worst.
The Traditionalists were not bound to one guild. Initially, they spread influence among the many institutions to have eyes everywhere. Over generations, stewardship warped into conflicting loyalties, members using their positions to bolster chosen guilds. Those from the Shadow Wolves and the Torchbearers were among the worst offenders. Lucas didn’t think himself petty, but he admitted to a private thought that these men ought to have died in the battle rather than cause more trouble. They were angry, looking for targets to vent their helplessness on.
Lucas had no proper place at the table. He was an aide, fetching water and the like, but he was in the room to bear witness. That, and to be close enough to his mentor to act when asked.
“I don’t understand why we’re dragging this out,” Oswin growled, slamming his fist on the shoddy table and making it tremble. He wore a cloak lined with dark fur, a signature of the Shadow Wolves guild; the torchlight made his scowl look bestial. “If we had the Authority, we could wipe these upstarts out in a night!”
“I agree,” Alric mumbled, head bowed as he fiddled with his robe’s sleeves. “How long are we supposed to live like strays? I understand caution, but we aren’t acting.”
“How many times do we have to explain it to you idiots?” Peter, the Shield Wall, groused, his enormous weapon leaning against the table. “We aren’t worried about the rebels. We’ve never been. The problem is that damned woman and her monstrous pets.”
“Fighting will draw attention,” a pleasant voice muttered from below a wide hood. Lucas had never seen Jeanne, the Drowning Rogue’s, face and knew no one who had; the bookies betting whether she was disfigured or beautiful would never pay out. Lucas was out several silver.
“We must play dead, like a mouse, yes?” Thomasson, the Bold, laughed, his joviality at odds with the gloom. Age had lined his face and silvered his hair, but there remained youthful energy.
“What is playing dead going to accomplish?” Oswin continued. “We should be out there, reclaiming the city. There are people who depend on us.”
Jeanne scoffed. “You are alive to complain because the lady of the city has not deemed us worthy of her attention. I would like to keep it that way.”
“I enjoy living!” Thomasson added with another laugh.
“Cowards!”
“We’re not cowardly, we’re sensible,” Peter said, glaring. “We can’t afford to offend her or draw her notice. A pitched battle in the streets would do that.”
“Unless you want the Menace looking for the Authority,” the hooded woman said. Every face at the table darkened—undoubtedly the worst possible outcome.
“If the Tome woman wanted us dead, we’d be dead,” Aldwin grumbled. “Since she’s chosen to leave us be, we should take advantage of the peace, grab what we can, and get out of this saints-forsaken city.”
A wave of dissatisfaction rolled around the table. Despite everything, most were loath to abandon the city. Lucas felt no such sentiment. Whatever was worth preserving had been crushed by enormous purple limbs. He would prefer they head south, where monsters were plentiful, and rebuild without a temperamental noble looming over their shoulders.
“Enough,” Jacoby snapped and the room quieted aside from his hacking coughs. Lucas handed him a glass of water in moments; the man thanked him with a glance before fixing the others with a glare. “We aren’t going after the Authority because there’s no point. The armory cache is impossible to reach without drawing attention. If we move recklessly, the kingdom’s forces will line up to take us out. Nowhere will be safe.”
“There are weapons in all the caches,” Oswin argued.
“Very few. Altogether, less than two dozen. Further, their condition has deteriorated.” Jacoby sighed. “We wouldn’t have this problem if we’d brought them out to be studied years ago. What’s the point of a legendary sword that shatters with one swing? Bah!” He drained his water and raised his voice. “We can’t touch the Authority, but I agree we should move. Leave the rebels alone. Lady Tome has been named the new countess of the territory. The rebels will have the Menace to deal with. They’ll disappear on their own. We need to focus on reestablishing ourselves. Leaving is out of the question.”
He raised a hand against the many opinions that rose in answer. “There’s no choice. We cannot go after the Authority when we can’t protect it, and we can’t leave it behind. That only leaves rebuilding. And I don’t mean only our homes and guild halls. We must rebuild our reputation.”
“Who cares?” Oswin barked. “We couldn’t wipe our asses with our so-called reputation in that battle.”
Jacoby sighed, the image of every elder forced to endure the temperaments of youth. “So we should run about like scoundrels? Listen here, boy. Reputation is not something you can spend like crowns. It saves your ass when you least expect it. Think about this. Why are we still alive?”
The room fell quiet. Jacoby continued, measured and logical in his argument—precisely the sort of explanation Lucas respected. “Our enemy was incredibly strong. Lady Tome could have hunted us to the last man, woman, and child. She could have erased the hunters of Quest. So why are we still alive?
“If all she knew of us was how we behaved the last month, we’d be dead. Our swords and spells didn’t save us. The Authority didn’t save us. Do you know what did? Our families. Our roots. Everything we built aside from the guilds. Why do we need a reputation? Because we are alive and must live here. It could be a generation before we can safely move the Authority. Two or three. Do you want to spend decades at odds with a woman who can destroy us at any time? Decades being hated by neighbors who blame you for the worst tragedy of their lives? Does that sound like a good idea to anyone?”
“I understand your points well, Master Jacoby,” Thomasson said, his smile waning. “But I can’t agree. Our families have spent generations defending an ancient treasure that has done nothing for anyone in a long time. I don’t think it’s worth risking our lives, let alone those of future generations. It pains me to say it, but maybe our best chance is to gather followers and leave for greener pastures, no?”
Lucas could feel the table about to erupt, but Grayskin’s hum cut the tension.
“The Authority is not a treasure trove or armory. It is a contingency—a legacy left by our ancestors for the day our lands were invaded. We face great peril, but there are greater issues still. This was never a privilege to be dropped when inconvenient. It is a duty.”
The hunters grimaced. Jacoby seized the solemn silence to hammer home more truths. “You kids underestimate what it means to start again. Quest was built with the capital’s support. Unless you have vaults of gold, you’ll go to hostile land so neglected it hasn’t been properly cultivated in five centuries with nothing but the clothes on your back and whatever you can drag. You’ll be miserable roughing it. The civilians you bring will die, to the beasts, harsh elements, or the clans. Don’t think you can get by without them. How many of you can maintain gear? Build a proper house? Make soap, for saints’ sake.” He scoffed. “Presume it works out. Then what? How will you feed yourselves? Make money? If you think you’ll hunt for a living, you’ll face competition from the hunters who stay. It’ll be a mess.”
“So we just sit still while life shits on us?” Oswin grumbled, but without fight. He understood the realities as everyone did.
“No one said duty had to be pleasant,” Jacoby said. “All we can do is make things the least unpleasant as possible. Starting with—”
The sentence broke as a wave of sound assaulted Lucas’s ears. The hunters were on their feet in an instant, even Jacoby, though he did not stand straight.
“An explosion?” Aldwin asked, sharp-eyed.
“Think the little lady has come to finish us?” Thomasson said, smiling with hard eyes.
“I’ll check,” Jacoby announced. “Find your groups and organize, whether it’s for a fight or a retreat.”
He did not wait. He shuffled to the door and, with a sudden burst, rocketed into the air. Lucas followed, a part of him marveling at the newfound ease. Lucas had known flight before Jacoby—he had used wind to shove himself about, creating a rough shell to protect against force. It was brutish and unsustainable. Jacoby’s methods were elegant; he mimicked nature to add efficiency. His spells cost a fraction of others and allowed for greater mobility. Where Lucas stumbled, Jacoby flowed as if born for the sky.
From above, it was clear the Purple Menace had not come for them. Lucas’s lips twisted in a sneer as he saw a dozen bodies entering the camp, fire trailing in their wake. “What are they doing?” he shouted, his anger laced with disbelief.
“We can find out later,” Jacoby huffed. His eyes glowed and his voice seemed to come from everywhere, surrounding the camp. “The rebels are attacking from the east side of the camp. Oblige their death wish.”
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Henry Rybolt
Tftc
