DAY 1
Eight comets streaked through the afternoon sky. Eight Great Sinners heading home. A single man led the rough formation, his dark hair rippling behind. They used gravity magic to fly, instead of walk like any other normal magicians. Only they weren't normal magicians. They were magicians of the Divine Staves. So far, the journey had been uneventful, an easy silence hung loose between them, the wind would snatch any words away anyway. The scenery speed past them and sometimes changed so rapidly it was hard to make out tell-tale landmarks. Even so, it would be nigh on impossible to get lost. In these now familiar mountains, in this now doze-inducing sun it was so easy to relax. So easy to relax that what happened next came as surprising as it was disastrous. The blow came from one side, a slash of darkness across the picturesque blue sky. And the air seemed cold for just a moment before the spear of magic burst through someone's Borg, hitting her square on the right temple. That someone was Sheba. The girl fell from the sky, her hair and limbs trailing behind the main weight of her body, a fallen comet. The girl's shattered Borg dematerialised, she gave no cry.
A moment of shock followed, then Setta dove down after her and managed to snatch Sheba out of the air before what would have been a fatal impact with the ground. Solomon felt rather than heard the commotion. Perturbed, he turned to find his allies crowded around a motionless Sheba. They murmured urgently to Setta who answered most of their questions with a stern 'I don't know.' A searing rage filled his veins. Hunting out the offenders was easy as they were shuffling frantically in the undergrowth, undoubtedly attempting escape. Solomon growled quietly at them and opened himself to the Rukh, his livid fury seeking a different kind of punishment for those that hurt his companion. A third eye glared wide. His rage settled and gathered into shapes. Letters that tumbled from his mouth. Words of violence, words of death, words of pain. Words that filled his own head and screamed at him. He'd never said these condemning phrases before, never even known them in all his studies. But as they struck, Solomon knew those words were a slow, helpless death. A bitter part of him felt they deserved that, and worse. The other part of him had momentarily drowned.
During his attack, Solomon had found the magicians' magoi more concentrated, heavier and slightly impure at the same time. And despite his mood, the man was fascinated by such a discovery. One conclusion had rapidly been drawn by such information, though. The squadron had been honed for assassination. He cursed his carelessness. This event would have been so easy to avert. Just a little more caution, just a little more expansive in their security and Sheba would have been fine. After ordering Arba and Ugo to scout the area, he personally flew in to check on the young woman. Sheba was limp in Setta's arms, her skin unnaturally pale and breathing shakily-she was breathing! A wave of relief lessened his anger, converting some to unease. Still suspended like stars in the sky, the remaining five could only watch anxiously as their healer began the usual protocol after any injury. They needn't be worried, Solomon knew. Setta had done this countless times in the past, but the man still couldn't dismiss that pool of unease in letting Sheba-of all people-get hurt. The darker-skinned healer nodded imperceptibly, adjusted his glasses, closed his eyes and exhaled. Delicately, he delved into an existence of swirling warmth.
Meanwhile, Arba was searching for the aftermath of the work of her former master. She'd noticed the dark gleam behind Solomon's eyes, the way they sagged momentarily after his spell. To put it bluntly, those symptoms were a signal of a dark magic forgotten to time. Those symptoms were a signal of the toll it would take on his mind. A toll that would lead to insanity. She knew of this from ancient inscriptions she'd managed to catch a glimpse of in David's captivity. Back when Arba was little more than a girl and the idea of David's child had not even been considered. She knew that if Solomon lacked the strength in soul, there was nothing anyone could do. But Arba couldn't be sure, maybe she was wrong. Silently, she prayed to be mistaken in her own judgement. But when she came upon the dying figures, the woman was assailed by horror. This was it. There was no doubt. This was what she had glimpsed by chance, carved in that chalky clay. All of them-and there were nearly fifty of the pitiful magicians-were clawing at their scalps with bony hands, their skin now taut on flesh and bone. Blood leaked from their heads onto unrelenting fingers. Hair littered the ground. They groaned loudly or screamed silently, eyes wide or squeezed shut. Arba sobbed once, stricken by the scene of madness.
Setta let his own magoi intertwine with Sheba's, careful to erect a thin membrane between them so the two entities wouldn't merge into one. That would be laughable if not for their situation. This wouldn't take long. As he worked his way to the sight of impact, Setta unveiled truths that his patient herself was too embarrassed to announce. Sheba loved Solomon. Her conviction of this was written so deep he was surprised not to have noticed such earlier. It resonated everywhere in her magoi. Even in this state of mind, Setta had the politesse not to pry. He probed deeper, movements ever more gentle as he neared her head. It would certainly not do to cause more damage in this part of the girl. Then he felt it. A dense rope of darkness that was worming into her very brain. And he knew it was her brain because of the complex latticework of magoi that kept it working. He would have shuddered if that was possible. Following the strand, Setta found the dark seed's roots. The ends ever pulsating, forcing themselves deeper towards her destruction.