To Fly the Soaring Tides

Eliza appeared in the Village of the First Mark to retrieve Cira for their morning lessons, but she appeared unresponsive. Not that she was unconscious, no, but Eliza's efforts to draw her attention were met with no more than grumbles and a gentle breeze which blew Cira's cloud away ever so slowly.

After a few minutes of voracious page-turning, Eliza disappeared. Cira looked around noticing a change in her environment, then promptly shrugged seeing that all was as she remembered.

I followed Gier to a shop down by the pier where he claimed to have eaten a particularly delicious poppyseed muffin some decades ago. I thought this was innocent enough an errand, but by the time the sun reached its zenith, we were standing aboard a merchant ship.

Years he waited, apparently, for this ship to come up for sale again. 'The Cloud Maiden' belonged to his dearly departed wife, abandoned postmortem, and he said there was no more fitting home to spend his final days in.

Naturally, Trent had to accompany him on this sojourn to the end of the world. The final horizon and the origin of death—the place known as the Cursed Skies. Or in other words, Cira's regrettable hometown.

Many explorers far more capable than the old man and I traveled there never to return, but there was no way to talk Gier down. We spent the next few weeks spending the last of his fortune on a crew, then we set sail.

I don't know what I was doing here, all I knew was this is where I needed to be.

My father passed when I was young and perhaps Gier always felt like one to me. Either way, I could not let this man burn out alone. After everything he's taught me, all the meals we've shared and woes we've exchanged long past dawn, I just couldn't stand by and watch this ship cross over the horizon without me.

His story was not meant to die with him. I was never much of a scribe, but I knew this. After all this time, I came to realize Gier had more heart than any number of traveling mages I've met.

I have no disillusions that he may stand a chance of hurting the demon Kazali… I just don't want him to die alone. There's just something nagging at the back of my mind. It tells me his last words must not be lost.

Gier was not disease-ridden or anything. Just very old. It took hours of Cira's afternoon to burn through the two-year-long journey. They faced pirates and winged beasts galore, but a lone mage named Comet thwarted any attempted attacks. Good thing too, as he cost nearly the same price as the ship itself.

Trent quickly became the crew's scribe—the man to document everything. It was his self-assigned purpose, but now it was also his responsibility. Desire and Duty intersected here for the young man.

Cira found the idea fanciful at best, and harsh reality at worst. It was difficult to parse.

On one hand, she found great pleasure in her work. People fall to a plague, and she cures it. There was a sense of fulfillment in accomplishing a goal which truly did some good in the sky.

On a much more pessimistic note, however, that was the job. Not only what she trained for, but what was expected of her.

By who?

Well, her dad was dead, may his wholly erased soul rest in blissful discontinuity. So… who expected anything of Cira?

Well, who other than the sorcerer's code?

This goes one of two ways, Cira thought. Either the sorcerer's code is flawed, or I am.

For starters, why?

At this point in my life, I have to understand that the sorcerer's code was something my father constructed to prevent me from behavior he would have considered habits of my past life. Am I not yet old enough to know right from wrong? Even when my judgment lapses, my moral compass always at least bathes me in guilt.

Instead of being reborn, I was simply rescued. This meant I had all the memories of that time before.

Sealed away by the Great Sage himself.

I have to—no… Should I ask myself, what would I be like if Dad had never shown up?

A monster, clearly. But am I not one now? An even greater one than average, it could be argued. What is the difference? I used to think it was responsibility which made me different, but I'm not so naïve now to think it's that simple.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

They call monsters 'monsters' because they hold a mana gem within their bodies. This makes them an existential threat to most creatures, be it born mortals or amateur mages and even common beasts who possess a standard aura. But it could also be argued they were named such because they were, well… monsters. Exactly what you think of when you hear that word—no matter the form.

What makes me different than a stromrak? I fly around wherever I wish, and I smite those who deserve it, sometimes even with lightning. Some of these victims include prominent casters of any given locale, just like the elusive bird.

I am a creature feared by many. I cannot deny it with as many islands as I've seen. If I really wanted to, I could erase almost anyone who crosses my path with a wave of the hand, statistically speaking at least.

Suppose I were even shorter tempered than I am, I could crush a mortal into a cube and use his compressed corporea to play dice at the tavern that very evening.

But I do not.

Nor do I wish to.

I should consider what that means.

Gier, the man who stood before the demon, was a powerless old man, ill in his old age and chipping away at his life with each day. Not only that, he was a born mortal from a long line of the same. Judging from context, he lived in a land far from any leyline which may foster inherent auras. Most of the people Trent wrote about were equally powerless. He lived in a society where mages were an exotic rarity following the primordial genocide.

By birth, by station, and even by his own ambition, Gier's fate was never meant to be special. His story was not destined to be handed down through time, nor was it written in stone that it should fall into Cira's hands.

Still.

The culmination of this man's efforts throughout a long life of labor and strife, the fortune he slowly amassed since sixteen years old, and no less than his purest will allowed him to reach a single destination—his last lingering desire in this world.

Cira did not know what was like to have a wife, or husband—a partner in life. She has read it to be something like finding a counterpart soul. One which once found became symbiotic, often codependent. As if once lost, your own soul would never be the same again.

A budding expert in souls, this made absolute sense from an incomplete academic standpoint. It was the aspiring philosopher, however, which made such a concept so confounding to Cira. She could hardly imagine having half her soul fade away and not being able to forge it back together, then also not dying as a result.

In her mind, Gier the long-dead mortal, had her utmost respect. By all rights, this man was meant to meet a boring, meaningless, and overall average end. He knew this, but he did not care.

Once the path was clear, he did not hesitate to align the stars himself. As a common stonemason with a family, he was not particularly wealthy. Even his wife was but a smalltime merchant.

The 'fortune' he amassed was certainly enough to purchase a ship and a crew—but not a very good one. Definitely not enough to fully afford a mage in the upper echelon of skill for this era.

Cira was fascinated to learn those with aura were known as 'high humans' in the brief period directly following the primordial genocide, but that was a curiosity for another day. More importantly, Gier couldn't just buy his way in. Just as Trent became enraptured by this man's overwhelmingly unremarkable life, Gier's charisma helped him find a crew that wanted to be aboard. One that wished to see where his journey would end up. The mage was no different, of course.

The sun dipped below the horizon unbeknownst to Cira as she thumbed through the dense tome. The more she read, the more astounded she was by this person's tenacity in the face of certain death. The pain he felt and the steps he never failed to take… It reminded her of her father.

It was not lost on Cira how ridiculous this was, as the level of power required to experience the hardships Gazen did was several orders of magnitude greater than Gier had even seen in his dreams.

But the way her chest tightened, it didn't feel any different. Pain was universal, from mortal to master sorcerer. Simply becoming a sorcerer was the result of a strong will, not the source. No matter how much of his heart had turned to ash, Gier seemingly always knew what to do. It wasn't that he was particularly clever, but not often in his life did he seem to lack a goal. Until his love was taken from him, the light always guided him.

Even then… Cira thought, it was always there. He never stopped walking forward. Even when he didn't know what to do… His feet carried him forth.

That's me.

Is it not?

By all right, every measure I can think of, the forefront of my mind should be consumed with how to destroy that demon. Granted, Gier and I differ on this one point, I do not feel the desire to seek out the Cursed Skies and throw myself before him.

I mean… I do, but when I think to walk forward that is not the direction my feet move in. It's almost like muscle memory, but is that my purest desire?

I do not wish to appear before Kazali… until I damn well please. To hell with that demon. Naturally, I should confer with Daedilus to determine a route, yes? Even my jokes hold more appeal than rushing into a fight I'm not ready for. Even if I were ready, there's so many other things I want to do.

I do not WANT to deal with Kazali. It is just something I must do.

When I am ready.

Gier was destined to accomplish nothing of note, and he did exactly that—Oh so brilliantly. He was not special, nor did he strive to be.

But Cira was. Special, that is. In so many ways it often infuriated her, despite the daily conveniences.

So, was she truly more powerless than a ninety-year-old mortal man? She could burn fate down to a dust so fine it wouldn't even return to the aether, but could she not even control her own?

Such a notion was absurd.

Cira was not just a sorcerer, but one who would surpass all, especially her father. There must be something better than sage out there. And if there wasn't, Cira would honestly prefer that. This meant she could come up with the title herself.

When the time came, of course. But for now, she would walk forward. The horizon was clear, and she knew which way to go. The only thing left was to take one step forward every single day—without fail. Just like Gier did.