The village of Suntails Hollow buzzed with warmth as the feast wound down. Families sat together around large hearths, their laughter and stories rising in the crisp night air. For one night, the weight of winter's chill seemed a distant memory, replaced by the unshakable bonds of community.
At a smaller fire on the outskirts of the gathering, Tyrn sat alone, his flask resting against his knee. His lazy posture belied the sharpness in his eyes, which occasionally flicked toward the villagers enjoying themselves. His gaze lingered on Lucas for a moment before darting back to the fire.
Spotting him, Dorian nudged the others. "Look who's over there, acting all mysterious."
Lucas smirked. "It's probably because he doesn't know how to enjoy himself." He called out, raising his voice to carry over the noise. "So, Tyrn! Did you enjoy my duel earlier?"
Tyrn's eyes narrowed slightly, and he took a long sip from his flask before replying. "More curious than impressed."
The group walked over, intrigued. "Curious, huh?" Lucas repeated as they settled near him.
"That book of yours," Tyrn said, still leaning back. "It's not ordinary. Whatever style it teaches—it's old, focused. Deadlier than anything knights train with. I'd wager it's from somewhere rare. Maybe the Eastern Continent, though I'm not certain."
"Why?" Ryssa asked, her voice laced with caution. "Is there something dangerous about it?"
"Dangerous? Only if he forgets what he's fighting for," Tyrn replied, taking another swig from his flask. "Lethality without purpose is nothing but destruction. But I think you'll figure that out, piglet. Eventually."
His cryptic tone hung in the air as he sauntered off toward the darker edges of the square. They exchanged glances before Lucas shrugged. "Guess that makes me extraordinary."
Tyrn let out a small, dry chuckle. "You're something, piglet."
The group sat down around Tyrn without invitation, circling the small fire. He raised a brow. "What are you piglets doing now?"
"This," Dorian said, gesturing to the group. "It's called accompanying each other."
Ryssa nodded, her voice calm. "Yeah, it's better to enjoy the warmth of the hearth with someone by your side."
Tyrn hesitated, then allowed a faint, reluctant smile to cross his face. For a brief moment, he seemed less aloof.
Dorian broke the quiet. "Tyrn, why weren't you here for last year's Unity Festival?"
Tyrn took another sip from his flask, sighing heavily. "To safeguard something important for someone," he replied, his tone flat but guarded.
Bogo tilted his head. "What could be so special that it kept you away for an entire winter?"
There was a moment of silence as Tyrn gazed at the flickering flames. With a long exhale, he drained the rest of his flask in one swift motion and placed it to the side.
"This whole time," he began slowly, "I've been one of the Pillars."
He paused, waiting for a reaction.
Ryssa gasped loudly, bolting upright. "WHAAAAT?!" she exclaimed, her tail swishing in agitation.
The rest of the group simply blinked at him, their faces blank with confusion.
Tyrn groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is why I hate rural villages. You don't know a thing about the world outside your tiny fields."
Tyrn began explaining with a practiced patience, as though recounting a story told too many times. "In the Magic Kingdom of Caeluthas, mages and scholars from all over the world gather. It's not a kingdom in the traditional sense—there's no king or leader. It's a sanctuary for 'nerds,' as I like to call them. A place to uncover and store every fragment of knowledge the realm doesn't yet understand.
"They're neutral in every political matter, never aligning with any kingdom. They exist solely to support the pursuit of magic, always focused on discovery."
Dorian raised a hand. "And this relates to being a Pillar how?"
"Patience, piglet," Tyrn said lazily, though his gaze darkened. "The Magic Kingdom has twelve Pillars, representing mastery over twelve types of magic. Each Pillar is chosen to stand as the authority on their element. In short, the world looks at them as the greatest in their fields." He leaned back, staring at the flames. "I'm the Fire Pillar."
The silence that followed was deafening. Ryssa looked as though she were going to pass out. Dorian, Lucas, and Bogo sat frozen as though struck by lightning, their jaws slowly dropping in unison.
Tyrn gave a dry clap. "Oi piglet!"
The trio finally erupted together. "WHAAAAT?!"
Tyrn ignored their outburst and continued, his tone quieter now. "I wasn't always the Fire Pillar. I only took the position because Ryssa's grandmother left her seat vacant twenty years ago."
The trio finally erupted again. "WHAT?!"
The group's focus instantly shifted to Ryssa, whose stunned expression mirrored their own.
"What?!" she exclaimed. "You knew my grandmother?!"
Tyrn's voice softened further. "More than knew her. She was my mentor. The one who picked me up from the slums of the capital, saw potential in me. When I showed talent with magic, she took me under her wing, taught me everything I know."
Ryssa's breath caught as Tyrn continued. "Twenty years ago, she—and two other Pillars—left Caeluthas for an urgent expedition. I don't know what they discussed beforehand; they kept it from the rest of us. But I'll never forget her face before she left—like something was chasing her, something even the gods couldn't protect her from."
He clenched his fists. "I begged her not to go, pleaded for her to let me help. But she refused, saying it was her duty. And just like that, she vanished. None of them ever came back."
Dorian broke the silence, his voice tentative. "Is that why you're a Pillar now? To carry on her legacy?"
Tyrn shook his head, his expression taut. "No. I'm not a Pillar. I've been keeping her seat warm. She's still alive, and when she returns, the Fire Pillar will belong to her again."
The group sat in stunned silence. Even Ryssa seemed shaken to her core, her golden eyes searching for clarity in Tyrn's resolute gaze.
"But..." she began hesitantly, her voice trembling. "I don't think she's coming back. Even Grandpa said she—"
"SHE'S STILL ALIVE!" Tyrn snapped, his sudden vehemence startling them all. "And she will come back to take her rightful seat."
For the first time, they saw Tyrn's composure break. His hands trembled slightly, his knuckles white as he clutched the edge of the bench. His voice wavered with something raw, something close to desperation.
Without another word, he stood abruptly, his movements stiff with emotion. "Goodnight, piglets," he muttered, turning toward the village.
They watched him walk away, disappearing into the darkness toward his rented room at the inn. For a long while, the group sat silently around the fire, the weight of what they'd just heard settling over them like a heavy snowfall.
For the first time, Tyrn was no longer the enigmatic, lazy mage they had known.