“There is no cure,” the baker said as she peered into the mage’s eyes.
His person was bare of any adornment save the many rings that he wore on his fingers, and when he folded those fingers together and laid them on the table, the stones upon the rings aligned as if they were the very planets in my home system.
“They were worlds once,” the man, the merchant, said, locking me in a gaze that seemed to vibrate from his carnelian-colored eyes, “before they fell into decay, and then just…fell.”
I wondered what value there was in dead worlds.
In those days, there was a magician who could cast a spell on a candle and link that candle to the life of a single person. So long as the candle burned, there was hope.
Those families who had the means engaged the magician to cast this spell when husbands and sons went off to battle. So long as the candle burned, their loved one was still alive. The highest winds would not snuff out the flame. But even on a quiet night, if the soldier died, so too would the flame on the candle die. Those families would know of their loss long before word came to them from the battlefield.