Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

Pierre noticed too. He glanced briefly at his mother, a sigh escaping him as he turned and slipped an arm around Jennifer, guiding her towards the staircase.

He left them there, a deliberate exit that communicated his wishes clearly, though he knew full well that his silent plea might go unanswered.

When the sound of Pierre and Jennifer's footsteps faded, Fiona stepped forward, her gaze steady. "When will you come back?" she asked, her voice calm but tinged with worry.

Jaegar took a slow, deep breath. "Probably soon," he replied, though the truth of his words felt uncertain. He wasn't sure how long his journey would take, but he saw no reason to burden her with his doubts.

Fiona studied him for a moment, as if trying to etch his face into her memory. Her expression softened, and a faint smile crossed her lips. "Jaegar," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "you be careful out there."

The warmth in her words reached him, and he nodded, feeling a strange comfort in her concern. "Thank you, Fiona."

She lingered for a moment longer before nodding, turning away to disappear down the hallway towards her room.

Jaegar watched her go, a myriad of emotions crossing his mind, but he pushed them aside, focusing instead on the journey ahead.

Yet, as he turned to leave, he sensed a presence at the top of the stairs.

Pierre stood there, his silhouette framed against the dim light. His expression was difficult to read, a blend of curiosity and something else—something caught between frustration and resignation.

Jaegar met his gaze, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

He understood Pierre's unspoken warning, as well as the concern masked by his stoic demeanour. With a final nod, he turned away, leaving Pierre and his family behind as he stepped out into the night.

—— ∗ ——

As the political machinations unfolded in the castle of Laevyes and Ofken Legned had begun, another tale was beginning to unfold on a lonely road leading to the county of Malmure Pasture.

The deep of night had settled over the land, casting the world in shades of silver and shadow.

Three moons hung low on the horizon, their ethereal light barely penetrating the thick blanket of clouds that smothered the sky. One of them was closer, while the other two were at a much larger distance, distinct in size.

Winter had only just begun, but already its icy grip tightened around the land with unnatural ferocity. The wind howled across the barren plains, carrying with it a cold so severe it seemed to freeze the very air itself.

Along this desolate road, a small caravan made its way through the biting cold.

At the front and rear, riders on horseback pushed forward against the relentless wind, their cloaks billowing behind them like dark wings. Between them, a carriage creaked and groaned, its wooden frame protesting against the harsh conditions.

Inside the relative shelter of the carriage, two figures sat facing each other in tense silence.

On one side, a young man in his early twenties, his frame slight but wiry, dressed in a cheap formal suit that had seen better days. His hands, calloused and strong, gripped a spear that lay across his lap. The weapon seemed to pulse with an inner light, barely perceptible but undeniably present.

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Across from him sat a clergyman, his robes marking him as a high-ranking member of the Church of the Great God Dhastyes. The older man's eyes never left the spear, a mixture of awe and apprehension evident in his gaze.

The only sounds were the howling of the wind, the rhythmic clopping of horse hooves, and the creaking of the carriage wheels.

The young man's eyes darted nervously from the window to the clergyman and back again, his grip on the spear tightening with each passing moment.

Suddenly, the relative quiet was shattered by a sharp whistle cutting through the air. Before either occupant of the carriage could react, arrows thudded into the wooden frame, their points piercing through in places.

The young man, as if switching off his nervousness, instantly moved, taking hold of the arrows and inspecting them. His expression changed into that of a serious mask.

"We're under attack!" the clergyman cried, throwing himself to the floor of the carriage.

In one fluid motion, the young man kicked open the carriage door and leapt out into the frigid night, spear at the ready. As his feet touched the frozen ground, time seemed to slow.

The Knights have spread out, circling the carriage, shouting to protect both the young man and the Father.

As it was night, they couldn't clearly see the attackers; it was a wide path, but the trees and bushes on the both sides of the road made it impossible to see where the arrows came from.

But the young man looked in certain directions. He could see them now—dark figures emerging from the shadows of the surrounding hills.

He signalled the knights, and they looked at them and identified them as bandits. These barren lands often attract the eye of these bandits looking for loot and gold on the travellers.

Bandits, most likely, drawn by the promise of rich travellers on the lonely road.

In the moonlight, he counted at least a dozen, armed with a mixture of bows, swords, and crude clubs.

For a moment, fear gripped the young man's heart. He pushed his thoughts and focused his mind on the immediate task. He gripped the spear tightly and as if in response to his fear, the spear in his hands began to glow more brightly.

A warmth spread through his body, driving away the biting cold. With it came a clarity of mind and a certainty of purpose that he had never before experienced.

In that moment, he knew what he had to do.

He charged forward; the first bandit reached him, sword raised high for a killing blow.

Time seemed to slow even further as the young man moved. The spear in his hands felt like an extension of his own body as he pivoted, letting the sword whistle past him harmlessly. In the same motion, he brought the butt of the spear up, catching the bandit under the chin with a sickening crack.