Far to the north, two shapes in green and blue resided upon a rocky hillside. The stars hung like glass shards in the limitless black above. Wind sang in the distance, and all was tranquil. The Sheriff sat beside a campfire, cooking a rodent skewered on his sword. A bundle of supplies lay at his side, and two horses slept next to a tree at the edge of the firelight.

　　Looking much like a larger version of the bundle, but in a black military uniform instead of grey linen, was the body of the Traitor. Cloth strips bound a deep stab wound in his chest. He breathed shallowly, chest rising and falling in time with the flicker of the fire, but soft breaths were better than none at all. His head rested on a rolled-up green cloak covered in dark stains. A pile of black armor was stacked at his side; the torso plate had a hole through the center. The dagger responsible for this puncture mark sat on top of the pile, steel blunted and point twisted from the force of the near-fatal blow.

　　The Sheriff had been helping set up a police task force in a southern province when word of chaos in the Capital had reached him. By the time he returned home, thousands were dead, and the city was scarred with a path of ash. The Sheriff had rushed into the palace, fighting his way through the rising flames. Even the Sun King himself had not survived the rebellion. Only the Marshal of the East, now named Traitor to the Sun Kingdom by the rumors, had still clung to life—and then only barely.

　　The Sheriff had taken his injured colleague to the wilderness, fleeing Sun Army loyalists who would seek to avenge their slain King—fleeing one fanatical loyalist in particular, if the Sheriff were to be exact. The Marshal of the West`s dagger was uniquely recognizable for the intricate glyphs etched down its blade in some arcane language of the Northern Mountains.

　　The Sheriff gazed into the campfire before him, imagining how it would feel to scoop the orange wisps of flame into his hand. The Marshal of the West had shown him this simple trick countless times, citing it as the simplest of basics, the most fundamental barrier-to-entry after which all other skills would spring forth. With sufficient technique, willpower, and practice, any student of the Fell Magicks should be able to accomplish it. The Sheriff reached into the fire.

　　Skin reddened and blistered from the heat. It hurt, and the Sheriff`s hand was back at his side before he realized that he had moved. He hissed, half in pain and half in frustration at his own weakness. The Marshal of the West had never flinched from the sting of open flame. Pain was only a prison to the simple-minded.

　　Mastering his will, the Sheriff thrust his hand back toward the campfire. Flames retreated from his hand, cringing from the seared flesh instead of embracing it. When the Sheriff could bear the sting no more, he snatched his hand back and curled up around it. A soft whimper escaped his mouth. How had the Marshal of the West held fire in his hand, on his sword—or even upon his head, if the legends were to be believed—without even a hint of discomfort?

　　The Sheriff tugged a cloth bandage from his bundle and wrapped his hand. As he worked, his eyes fell upon the Traitor`s prone form. The rumors claimed that the Marshals of East and West were exact mirrors in power and prowess; if holding a fire was such a basic technique, surely the Traitor would be able to teach it to a willing student. The Sheriff lightly poked the Traitor in the shoulder.

　　Unlike the previous fourteen times, the Traitor gasped and woke. His head jerked to the side, and wide eyes flashed back and forth before settling upon the campfire. From there, the Traitor`s gaze slowly drifted down to the dead rodent, the sword, and finally the person holding the sword.

　　"You... you are... Sheriff? I yet live?"

　　"Didn`t think you had it in you to break your oaths and end a legend," said the Sheriff, turning back to the campfire. The rodent stuck on his sword was fully cooked, which was just slightly more cooked than his hand felt. Using the unburnt hand, he propped the sword and food against a stack of armor plates to cool.

　　A soft sigh escaped the Traitor. "Oaths are merely words; they have no more power than we permit them. I did what needed to be done. Anyone in my place would have done the same."

　　The Sheriff scoffed. "The Marshal of the West didn`t. I definitely wouldn`t. Not if it meant my head. That`s a fundamental difference between us."

　　 The Traitor rolled onto his side just enough to wave a gloved hand through the flames. When the hand emerged, a wisp of light hovered above his palm. Kind tourmaline-green eyes twinkled in time with the dance of the flames.

　　"It need not be," the Traitor said.

　　During the second week of voluntary exile, the Traitor grew strong enough to stand, and the Sheriff fashioned him a wooden stave to lean upon as he hobbled about the hillside. Although the Traitor`s injuries were healing without complications, he still had considerable trouble with swinging a weapon or lifting heavy weights. Nevertheless, the Traitor practiced his polearm skills with the stave every morning.

　　Nearly a month into exile, under the rustling treetops of the hill that had become his new home, the Traitor grew solemn in the midst of an evening practice. He cast the stave onto the dark ground, pressing a hand to his heart and the deep gash beneath it.

　　"Twice I have sworn my flame to another`s lead; twice I have found that leadership wanting. I see now why the Sages remain in the mountains, distanced from the world below." The Traitor looked to the sky, and a million points of starlight reflected like pine needles in the depths of his eyes. "No more shall I heel before a mortal`s whims. No more war under my command, no more needless suffering and destruction by my fires."

　　The Traitor dropped to his knees, arms outflung to the vast black above.

　　"Hear my oath, O Stars—from this day forth, I shall serve the will of Nature alone."

　　A meteor trailed through the night, and the Traitor remembered a time long ago when two brothers watched falling stars from the foot of another mountain. Rumor held that the stars were brighter when seen in the north, and his memories seemed to agree, but he could not determine if the brightness perceived then was due to a different sky or a more hopeful observer. In any case, that time was gone; that time could never return. As more lights traced the curve of the distant sky, warmth traced the curve of his face.

　　Hours later, the Sheriff found him lying flat upon his back, watery eyes locked upon the infinite mystery of the star-speckled void. The Sheriff prodded him with his own walking stick until he gathered the willpower to climb upright and return to camp.

　　At dawn, the Sheriff asked of the Traitor what he had begged of an Alchemist long ago: teach him the fire arts of the Northern Mountain Sages.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

　　The Traitor utterly refused.

　　"The Marshal of the West was right: you are not ready. As my old master once said, The student must study before the teacher can teach.` Only one who has already learned to Seek can truly grasp the power of flame. Besides..." The Traitor turned away, bowing his head, "Such power is a burden I would not wish on anyone. Least of all a novice who has barely grasped the arts of steel."

　　"What`s that supposed to mean?" When the Sheriff received no answer, he grabbed the Traitor by the shoulder. "I`m the best swordsman in the land. What`s wrong with my sword skills?"

　　The Traitor sighed, carefully disengaging the Sheriff`s hand from his shoulder. "If you have to ask..."

　　But the Sheriff could not accept refusal once again. "I saved your life. You owe me a life debt. The least you can do is repay me. Isn`t that how it works with you honorable types?"

　　The Traitor was not impressed.

　　"Do not speak to me of honor. Saving a life is not done for the promise of repayment. There is no debt between us." Pity sprouted like grass in the Traitor`s gaze, but it was not without a trace of guilt. "If you cross paths with my brother again, I cannot in good conscience leave you to die at his hands. You are not ready to learn the Fell Magicks, but I will help you fix your swordwork."

　　"There is nothing wrong with my swordwork," the Sheriff insisted, and he stormed off into the forest. In his offense, he brought neither a weapon nor his travel pack.

　　The elements soon forced the Sheriff to reconsider. As thunder crashed and rain drenched the world, the Sheriff thought long and hard. If he had learned anything from the weary years that came before, it was that any skill could be useful in the future. Rumors praised the Traitor`s martial skill throughout the land; the Sheriff would be a fool to pass up such a freely offered opportunity. By the time morning arrived, the Sheriff swallowed his pride, made up his mind, and dragged his sodden self back to camp.

　　"Teach me," the Student asked, humbling himself before his new Teacher. Water dripped from his drenched clothes and hair, casting him as quite the pitiable figure. "I want to learn."

　　"Do you know how the Mountain Sages take apprentices?" the Teacher asked one evening, stirring the coals of the fire pit.

　　The Student did not, but he hoped that such a tale would help him understand the Teacher`s power, and thus improve upon his own budding proficiency in the pyrotechnic magicks that he had long been denied. Perhaps he could even snare a Mountain Sage of his own to teach him, were he to follow the tale`s instructions.

　　In a voice of reminiscence, the Teacher began the tale.

　　Long ago, a ball of fire fell from the sky above the northern mountains. Those lands were cursed by the fallen star ever since. The mountains spat fire intermittently for years, and each eruption was worse than the last. One autumn, the skies turned black with soot, and the sun was not seen for many months. When the skies darkened, the crops withered, and the livestock followed soon afterward. That year, a famine struck the towns in the valley.

　　In one town, there lived a small boy with his mother, father, and twin brother. The boy and his brother scavenged for food in the streets, but there was little to be found. Just as their family`s crops had died, so had everyone else`s. One day, the boy asked his mother why the famine struck.

　　"The Sages have abandoned us," said the mother.

　　"Sage," the boy repeated, and he thought of the herb that grew abundantly on the outskirts of the village.

　　"Not that sage. Old Sages from the mountain," the mother explained, pointing east. Thus, the boy came to understand that there was something special about sage from the eastern mountain, something that could fix the famine.

　　In the days after that revelation, the boy`s brother began to behave strangely, jumping at shadows and lying awake all night. One night, the boy worried that his brother had taken ill from hunger, and so he went out to fetch water from the well. When he returned with a pail of water, he heard his parents arguing and weeping:

　　"... not enough food for two. Think of this as a gift."

　　"My poor little son..."

　　"Nothing we can do about it. If not one, we`d lose both."

　　"How can you say that? He`s your son, too!"

　　As the boy listened from outside the door, he knew that the worst had befallen his brother—and here, his father was calling this tragedy a gift. However, although the boy wept, he found that he could not blame his parents. The boy and his brother were too young to work the fields; what little food they gathered was less than what they ate, whereas the parents made just enough to guarantee a single daily meal for everyone. Now that his brother was gone, there would be more food to go around.

　　Plainly, the boy and his brother had been a burden upon the family, and the boy understood this. He also realized that he could lessen this burden. He left the water bucket on the doorstep, along with five copper coins and every scrap of food begged from the neighbors that day, and walked off toward the mountains. If sage could indeed resolve the famine, then the boy resolved to find it and use it to fix all of the problems.

　　The boy journeyed long and far afield, searching until his strength gave out. Eventually, it was not sage-the-herb that the boy found on that mountain, but a true Sage Curator of Ancient Magicks.

　　The Sage appeared in a beam of starlight when the boy was sleeping in a hollow tree. After witnessing the Sage command the forces of nature with wondrous magicks, the boy begged his rescuer to teach him how to protect the world below.

　　Over time, the boy learned all that the Sage would teach. Years later, equipped with the knowledge of the ancients, he descended to the world once more to fulfil his mission.

　　Thus concluded the tale of the Villager who Sought the Mountain Sages.

　　The Student looked thoughtful when the tale finished.

　　"Interesting. I`ve heard another version of the same story, but a few details were different." In the monotone of someone reciting a passage from memory, the Student elaborated. "The boy asked his father why the famine happened, and the father said, It`s because of the rats.` When the boy was confused, the father explained: Big rats. Big, fat rats. They eat what isn`t theirs to take.` After hearing that, the boy climbed the western mountain to learn how to get rid of the rats. He found a Sage collecting rocks by a stream, and he pestered the old fellow with questions until the Sage agreed to teach him something useful. In the end, however, he couldn`t let go of his original purpose. The Sage told him, If you still love the mortal realm after all that you have learned, then seek your destiny below and squander no more of this old teacher`s efforts.` The boy respected his master`s wishes. That day, he left the mountain and never looked back."

　　"Another version? I never heard of such." The Teacher scowled. After a moment, however, the Teacher`s eyes widened. "Oh. Indeed, there must be another version of this story." Misery flickered in the Teacher`s gaze as he stared into the embers of the campfire. He dipped a hand into the flames and drew it back, cupping a wisp of light in his palm. Orange flickered to green and back, unsteady despite the stillness of his hand. "Just one other."

　　Fingers curled, and the handheld flame extinguished. The Teacher brought that fist to his chest, pressing it to the bandages over his heart, and he did not speak again that night.

　　At last, the Teacher could teach no more of swordplay; the rest, the Student needed to discover on his own through time and experience. The Teacher prepared to depart for the north to further study the magicks of nature among the volcanic ranges of the Mountain Sages. He kept only some food supplies, the clothes on his body, and the knife that had almost taken his life—the latter for sentiment alone.

　　The Teacher would no longer wield a weapon. After all, what need had the Sages for crude implements of wood and steel? He bequeathed his armor and weapons to the Student, as the youth would undoubtedly make better use of such in battles to come. Even with a near-fatal hole through the breastplate, the remainder of the armor was of the highest quality and would surely serve the Student well in future conflicts.

　　"Use your gifts wisely," the Teacher advised. "I cannot teach you more, for you already have all that you require."

　　Disappointed, the Student nevertheless understood that his Teacher`s resolve would not be swayed. The Student expressed profound gratitude for the Teacher`s teachings, yet his time as a forest dweller had come to an end. The Capital called once more, with its grand cities and grander prospects for advancement; where chaos and revolution had torn the nation apart, a capable Sheriff might achieve heroism by helping the new Crown restore order to the land.