As Cyrus pulled himself onto the crackling leaves, a jolt of pain wracked his body. He gasped, teetering forward, but Sylven gripped his shoulder, and guided him away from the gaping hole.
"Are you alright?"
Cyrus slumped against a tree, and pulled back his tunic. His shoulder was swollen, and purple, and black spots speckled the surrounding skin. A small patch of grey skin rose from the center, reminding him of the stone boar.
"If I'm to be honest, no. I don't think I am," Cyrus said. He released his tunic, and rolled his shoulder, stretching out the muscles. "Myrel said the man we're meeting in Phisloke is an Alchemist, right? Can you still get us to him from here?"
Sylven scanned the surrounding woodlands, growing from the side of the mountain. "Depends. We'll need to figure out where we are first. If you have the strength, then we should climb a bit higher, and see what we can find."
Cyrus nodded, and gingerly pulled on his pack. They followed an old deer trail up the mountain, hiking until the trees grew sparse, and the land below revealed itself. Beyond the rustling green leaves of the forest, there laid a wide expanse of golden plains, and sparkling rivers.
Sylven rubbed his chin as he studied the landscape. "We were fortunate. We managed to reach the west side of the mountains. From here, as long as we follow the rivers, they'll lead us to the ocean. Once we're there, it should only take a few days before we reach Phisloke."
"Good. We must go. Something tells me I won't make it long," Cyrus said. He ignored Sylven's worried glance, and started down the mountain, each step sending a lance of pain into his body.
…
Six days later, Cyrus sat before the campfire, staring deep into the flames. Sylven squatted beside him, roasting two hares he had caught earlier with magic. The rich aroma of the meat permeated the air, sprinkled with a touch of salt.
Cyrus leaned back against the stalks of wild wheat, and shifted his gaze to the clear night sky. The stars gleamed in the night sky, mixed with violet and golden clusters. A flicker of light shot through the sparkling sea, vanishing in the distance.
"Here. It's ready," Sylven said. He handed Cyrus a stick with one of the hares, and took the other for himself.
"Thanks," Cyrus said. He tore into the meat, downing every bite within minutes. When he finished, he tossed the stick into the flames, scattering a cloud of sparks.
Sylven glanced over, his eyes creased. "How does your arm feel?"
Cyrus sighed, and glanced down at his right arm. The skin had a pale grey color to it, and moved slowly as he bent it, as though he was fighting to move it through a pool of mud. "No better, but at least the pain is gone. Along with every other sensation, that is."
Sylven lowered his head. "I see, and your magic?"
Cyrus stretched out his consciousness, spreading it through the stalks of wheat. Their life thrummed at the edges, but interacting with them proved impossible. He shook his head.
"Still out of reach."
"I feared as much," Sylven said, shoving his stick into the dirt. "We'll need to hurry. The ocean can't be far now. We can smell the salt in the air."
"I hope you're right," Cyrus said. He laid back on his mat, and flexed his fingers above his face. "I fear it'll only be days now before my hand turns completely to stone."
"To be honest, I'm surprised it hasn't yet," Sylven said. "Petrification usually takes only hours to fully convert a full grown man into stone. To think you've lasted a week, and still have your hand is an incredible feat."
Cyrus laughed, and let his hand drop. "You flatter me, Sylven. Perhaps that's why my magic isn't working. It's busy keeping me from becoming a statue."
"It's possible," Sylven said. He positioned his pack behind him, and leaned back. "Why don't you get some rest. I'll keep the first watch tonight."
"I appreciate it," Cyrus said. He yawned. "Wake me when it's my turn."
"I will," Sylven said. He tossed another stick into the flames as Cyrus closed his eyes, and allowed the sounds of the vast plains sweep him into a slumber.
…
The following day, the sun beat down on the golden plains, without a cloud in sight. Cyrus lowered his hood, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He fought against the exhaustion of a restless night, and each step pulsed through his feet, and into his body.
Sylven strolled leisurely beside him, carrying both their packs, along with his sword and dagger. His lips moved silently as he memorized different spells, and his bright blue eyes flickered as he scanned the wheat.
Cyrus plucked a stalk from the ground, and twirled it between his fingers. "Say. You've been to Phislock before, right? Is it similar to Galeden?"
Sylven paused mid incantation, and scratched his neck. "Yes, and no. Both kingdoms are known for being good choices for moving wares, but the way they handle it is vastly different. Phislock's harbor plays a large role in the shipping industry, while Galeden stands in the center of the upper continent, making it the focal point for travelers and caravans."
"What about their politics and religions? Or their view on magic?"
"As far as I know, both kingdoms are ruled by a king, and follow the doctrines of Osyras, who they believe created this world, and all beings within. As for their beliefs on magic, I'd say they follow the common fear of most people, which is to avoid it at all costs."
"Do they have reason to fear it?" Cyrus asked.
"Of course. There have been times in history where a warlock or wizard acquired a great connection to the aetherial realm, and used it to rule for eons on end, before dying from assassination, or more often, a miscalculated incantation."
"Their kingdoms rose and fell, leaving behind nothing but dust and ash. Over time, people learned to avoid magic, and those associated with it, including the other races. It's why our world is split the way it is now."
"I see. I didn't know that," Cyrus said. He pondered the idea of having enough power to rule over the lands. Such thoughts were terrifying.
Suddenly, Sylven grabbed Cyrus's arm, stopping him. "Raise your hood. I see someone ahead."
Cyrus covered his head, and scanned the plains. A dark figure stood no more than a hundred meters away from them, hunched over the wheat as they stared at the ground. Their loose dress flapped in the wind, yet not a single strand of hair on their head moved.
Sylven frowned, and slipped off the packs, setting them off in the wheat.
"What are you doing?" Cyrus hissed. "We should keep walking!"
"Hold on. I want to check something," Sylven murmured. He waved Cyrus back, then headed towards the stranger. His smooth voice spread through the air. "Hello. Would you mind helping us? We've gotten a bit lost out in these plains, and we can't seem to find …"
Cyrus furrowed his brow as Sylven trailed off, and stopped in front of the stranger. After a moment, he glanced back at Cyrus.
"Grab our stuff, and come here. You need to see this."
Cyrus's frown deepened, but he picked up the packs, and hurried over. As he approached, his eyes widened. The hunched figure was no more than the statue of a young woman, carved from a stone similar to obsidian.
"She's so… lifelike," Cyrus said, admiring the woman's soft features, adorned with slightly parted lips, and saddened expression. His gaze trailed up to the woman's eyes, lined by individual eyelashes, and his heart shuddered. "Gods above… You don't think…"
"She's been petrified," Sylven said. He squatted beside the woman, and rummaged through a third pack, stuffed with rotten food, and an empty water skin. "She must have been out here for a while. I don't know where she was going, but it's clear which direction she came from."
A trail of sunken footsteps lead away from the woman, heading in the opposite direction she faced. Even now, her two stone feet were inches deep in the dirt, and a group of flowers sprouted through her tattered boots.
"What should we do?" Cyrus asked.
Sylven stood, and grabbed the packs from Cyrus. "We follow the path. If we're fortunate, it'll lead us back to Phislock, or a nearby village."
"And the woman? Are we just going to leave her here?"
Sylven sighed. "I'm afraid we don't have a choice. We have no idea if touching her would infect us, and we have no tools to dig a hole. My magic's of no use here either. I can't exactly conjure a grave to bury her."
Cyrus gazed at the forlorn woman, alone in the sea of golden wheat. "I suppose you have a point. Still, it's a shame to just leave her out here."
He rubbed the back of his head, then squatted beside the woman, and pressed his hand into the dirt. The warmth of his aether swirled through his body, then flowed out into the surrounding dirt.
When he stood, Sylven arched his brow.
"What did you do?"
Cyrus shook his head. "I'm not sure. I had this feeling, like I was supposed to. It's hard to explain."
"Hmm. Well, as long as you're alright, perhaps we should get going."