"Are you sure this is the best way to improve, Dara?" Jiro yelled from on top of one of the smaller hills situated in the middle of the valley. His hair was longer than the last time Jackson had dreamt of him, stretching down to his mid-back. It was perfectly ornate and well-groomed, which wasn't surprising given his general disposition. The air was just as warm as it was last time, but it was clear some time had passed—and given it was summer again, at least a year had passed.

  Dara flashed his typical wide grin. "Of course it is! That's how I learnt it!"

  "Last time you used that justification, I ended up almost drowning!"

  "Exactly! Almost."

  Jiro sighed, but it didn't stop him from throwing himself off the hill. Wind swirled around him, seeming to slow his descent. As evident by the ensuing thump, it clearly wasn't slow enough. Dara suppressed a little snigger. He didn't like seeing his friend hurt, but the injuries would be minor, and it was a rare occurrence to see Jiro stumble in such an inelegant manner. Dara walked over to the fallen boy and offered him his hand, pulling him to his feet.

  "That could've been worse," Dara said.

  "It could have been better as well."

  "You can't expect to be perfect when you've only been at this a year."

  "But I could expect to be doing alright at the least."

  "Well, it took me a few years before I could properly control wind. Never really liked it, ya know? It also seemed kinda redundant given everything else."

  "Regardless, I would have liked to have seen myself improve to a more substantial degree," Jiro said with a sigh, shoulders slightly slumped.

  "Hey, I'm sure you've done better at the other stuff," Dara responded, trying to be reassuring. "How's about the Formsmithing?"

  "I really wish you would not keep giving such extraordinary powers such silly names."

  "It's not silly. It's creative. Plus, you're always the one trying to categorize and define all this stuff. Memorable names are important, ya know?"

  Jiro held a firm, playfully dismayed gaze. "It is going... somewhat better. I cannot control it the way you do—I need something to base it off."

  "But that takes all the fun out of it. Where's the improvisation? The pizzazz? The showmanship?"

  "It is plenty fun. Just because you may find it fun to cast a sword without a mould doesn't mean you can't have fun making a sword that actually works in a sensible manner."

  "Fine, how about you base it off this?" Dara began using his magic—Formsmithing, as he had called it—to change his body. His arms seemed to break easily apart, although Jackson felt no pain through his shared senses with Dara, before reforming into the foundation of wings on his back, his hands being added almost haphazardly onto the end of the long appendages as his skin was stretched thin across his misshapen skeleton.

  "That is," Jiro began, "most disturbing."

  "But not unimpressive, right? So how about you try copy it?"

  "If you insist..." Jiro stared long and hard at Dara's new form, the mockery of wings jutting out from his back seeming no less disturbing.

  Dara could see something in the way he looked at the form. It was analytical, focused. He knew Jiro wasn't overly fond of the way his magic could be so unnatural, but then again, it never made him stop asking Dara for guidance. He liked the way that made him feel—the idea that someone else depended on him. But more than that, he liked having a friend. Jiro was the only other person he had met who could use magic, and that gave the two a bond stronger than any other Dara had met. Even though it had only been a year and a bit since the two of them had met, Dara felt as if he'd known him for a lifetime.

  Jiro strained, attempting his transformation, but nothing happened. "See? It is not as easy for me as it is for you, especially with that as a reference."

  "Damn. You progressed pretty quick with air and stuff, so I thought you'd get this right away."

  "Maybe it is simply something I cannot do."

  "Don't say that. This is magic we're talking about—it can do whatever the Hells we tell it to, you just gotta scream loud enough."

  "I can scream as loud as I want, Dara, but without a suitable reference, I find it improbable that I will ever become even suitable with 'Formsmithing.'"

  Dara scratched his chin in thought before he had the idea of pulling out a book Jiro had traded to him in return for more guidance. It wasn't like he kept asking Jiro to trade for the guidance—he was more than happy to give it to his friend—but Jiro insisted, saying it was the "proper way" to do things. He flipped the book open to the page talking about some king from a nearby city—Ulrill, he believed it was called—and held up the image of the man to Jiro.

  "How's about you copy this fella?" Dara suggested.

  "Well... I suppose it is a better reference than before. Hmm, I will do my best."

  Jiro focused again, and Dara could witness Jiro's Tincture flaring to life around the boy's body. The change was a lot less violent than Dara's had been—Jiro's features reorganizing themselves in a tidy and systematic manner, almost gliding across his features to their designated positions. His skin wrinkled slightly, his hair changing colour in a wave starting at his scalp simultaneously. When the process was over, Jiro was the spitting image of the old man from the book.

  "Did it work?" Jiro asked, his voice unchanged.

  "Hells yeah it did! I mean, that was pretty different to what I expected, but—"

  Before Dara had a chance to finish, shouts of alarm came from beyond the shrubbery that constituted the entrance to his field. The pair of boys turned, seeing smoke rise in the direction of the village Jiro was from. The boy went pale.

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  "We have to go help, Dara. Now."

  Dara didn't argue. He could care less about that village—but it meant something to Jiro, and so it meant something to him.

  The two ran out of the field and witnessed a cacophony of echoing screams and roaring fires. People lay strewn about on the floor, their top halves completely separated in messy, serrated cuts, their insides piling on the floor beside them in messy clumps. Houses—alongside the people inside them—burnt as bright as the sun, lighting up the evening sky alongside the men and women of the village. Collapsed rubble from houses littered the paths, crushing a number of more unfortunate souls beneath their weight whilst revealing cowering citizens, huddling as close to the corners as they could.

  Jiro's face had gone from white to red as anger coursed through him. He grabbed one of the shaking citizens by the arm. "What the Hells happened here?" he yelled.

  The man was too shocked to respond to the question at first, but after a slap across the face and a firm repetition of the question from Jiro, he was better able to answer. "Monster," he said, his voice barely a whisper in the screeching flames.

  Jiro let the man go, shooting a look at Dara that seemed to say, come on. Dara just nodded along, not understanding the full weight of the situation as a creature from the depths of human cowardice stepped into view.

  It was extremely lanky at the midsection, its body barely wider than a sturdy tree branch, but its shoulders and ribs bulged out a good few feet. The thing had multiple legs—an uneven amount on each side of its body—all different lengths with varying numbers of joints and toes on the mismatched feet. Its skin was pure black, with spots of red flicked across its spiny back. Spikes shot out at seemingly random points on the creature’s body, but the longest one was situated at the base of the creature’s skull, extending just past the back of its head.

  What gripped Dara the most was none of that.

  It was the eyes.

  Three sets of blinding white, strewn out across a triangular head that ended in a long, sharp point. The eyes seemed to stretch more the further back on the head the pair was—but all locked onto Dara and Jiro. The thing's jaw widened, a toothy grin expanding past the back of the creature’s head, as if its body changed to accommodate the sickening smile. The teeth revealed from the act were misshapen mockeries of human teeth, with a few that resembled screws or bent pieces of metal thrown in for good measure.

  "Cruthru..." Jiro whispered, the fear clearly gripping him even as he tried to stay angry—to stay strong.

  "It took too long," the Cruthru began, its voice shifting constantly from a high pitch consistent with claws on a chalkboard to a deep, guttural echo that would befit creatures from the deep sea. "It took too long to find my liege."

  A shudder ran down Dara’s spine.

  This thing had a master.

  A ball of fire shot out in front of Dara as Jiro activated his magic in an attempt to harm the creature. The thing didn’t even flinch.

  "Dara... we need to kill this thing," Jiro said with a shaky but resolute voice.

  "Your fire did nothing, Jiro. We can't even hurt this."

  "I DON'T CARE!" Jiro yelled, grabbing Dara by the shoulders. "THAT THING NEEDS TO DIE. I NEED IT TO DIE."

  Jiro pulled a sword from one of the corpses, holding it up to the Cruthru. Then, he charged.

  Dara tried to yell after him, but it was no use—Jiro couldn't, or didn’t want to, hear him. The boy charged down the monstrosity, grabbing hold of the air around him to push himself forward as fast as an arrow as he flew toward its head. He sent forth a quick slash aimed at the creature’s neck—one that would have connected had the beast not dodged to the side, looking like a tidal wave crashing through reality as it did so.

  "Pest," the creature yelled as it slammed one of its uncannily long arms directly into Jiro’s chest, pinning him against the wall as one of its fingers stabbed right through the boy's shoulder.

  "Jiro!" Dara yelled, now charging into the scuffle with the same intensity that Jiro had shown earlier.

  This thing had hurt his friend.

  Rage flooded Dara as he wrapped his Tincture around as much ground as he could, causing him to be pushed away into the sky with a jolt. Now a decent few feet above the beast, Dara reached out to the flames engulfing a few of the houses and clutched them within his Tincture before hurling them toward the Cruthru, which slithered out of the way to avoid the onslaught—dropping its grasp on Jiro in the process. The boy fell to the floor, clutching his shoulder, but got to his feet within seconds.

  Dara dropped to the floor beside Jiro, the two preparing their next round of attacks. The Cruthru saw that and smirked.

  Within a blink, the creature had closed the distance to the boys, slashing with its claws across Dara’s chest, branding him with a strip of several asymmetric claw swipes.

  Jiro tried another swipe at the creature, this time aimed for one of its many ankles, but the leg bent itself at an awkward angle, allowing the blade to pass swiftly underneath before the leg came crashing into Jiro’s side—accompanied by a crunch on his ribs. He spewed blood onto the ground, but didn’t fall.

  The Cruthru showed surprise. Clearly, Jiro was more durable than it had assumed.

  In that moment of distraction, Dara—still slumped on the floor after the attack—raised chains of earth that wrapped around the creature’s other legs, keeping it from moving too much. He reached out to the air next, throwing it against the creature at any angle he could with all his might. The thing barely flinched—but that was better than the complete absence of pain it had shown earlier.

  Jiro began to slash at the creature's bound legs, using a careful series of earth pushes and air control to manoeuvre around the constant needle-like jabs the Cruthru was sending out with its free legs and arms. It took some effort, but Jiro made the creature bleed.

  Dara rose, the pain subsiding slightly from pure adrenaline. He flung himself into the air again, this time bringing with him a chunk of earth. He shot toward the creature’s head, slamming the rock across its face, forcing its mouth open in a screech. Once again, he reached out for the flames, but the creature slammed its head against Dara mid-air, causing him to tumble to the ground like a fly that had been haphazardly swatted away.

  This thing wasn’t stupid—it wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice.

  The creature strained against its bonds as Jiro continued his assault, hissing as its legs began to crack and change—transforming into the thin, spindly legs one would expect to see on a spider. Jiro jumped back, confused as to how it had escaped the chains, but the Cruthru caught him with a stab—puncturing through the right side of his abdomen and spraying his blood across the floor.

  His scream echoed in Dara’s ears as the boy fell to the floor in a heap.

  Dara stretched out his hand, weakly trying to reach Jiro, but he was too far. The creature held up its hand and transformed it into a two-pronged pike made of jet-black chitin before aligning it with Jiro’s head.

  This thing was using Formsmithing—and far more expertly than Dara had thought possible.

  He tried to stand, but he was too weak. His various injuries, coupled with the loss of blood, made him unable to do much of anything—so he did the only thing he could.

  He begged.

  "Please... not Jiro. Don't take him," Dara's voice was a solemn, spiteful whisper.

  The creature, however, heard. It only smiled at him.

  "The path is in motion."

  It lowered the pike, allowing it to just graze Jiro’s back—leaving a permanent snake-bite scar between his shoulder blades. Then, it left.

  Walked off into the forest, becoming a shadow in the night.

  At one point, Dara swore he saw the thing's eyes staring back at him through the darkness—but then it was gone.

  Dara pulled himself across the floor to where Jiro lay. Their wounds weren’t fatal, but they should have been.

  Maybe magic had helped them take the blows? Increased their endurance?

  Dara shook his head—now was not the time.

  "Jiro..." he croaked.

  The boy was conscious—Dara could see his eyes staring intently at the sight in front of him.

  A pair of villagers—a man and a woman.

  They bore a striking resemblance to Jiro.

  The blood that pooled around the corpses seemed an ocean to Dara—vast and deep.

  Jiro didn’t blink. His eyes remained focused on his parents.

  A single flower remained intact in front of the corpses, most others burnt or destroyed with the village.

  A single ranunculus flower—stained red with the blood of man.