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Azyr Braelle had always known he would follow the same path as his maternal family. A path paved with dirt moved to unearth ancient artifacts; a path of dust fallen from the covers of hand-bound books in the libraries of Illior’s oldest university. A path washed away in a flood that was the aftermath of his own lapses in judgment.
That path became inaccessible, and he knew the consequences of his mistakes would take years to subside. And so he made a choice that was once beyond consideration. He left the country he had always considered home and sought a new life in Rahli with his father. Azyr was no stranger to Rahli and had fond memories of his childhood summers spent with his paternal family but the Rahli of his childhood was no more.
With the passing of the Arcanist Protection Act simply existing in the country became dangerous, not only for himself but for his family. His magic was of a nature that even those who were not gifted could sense that something was different about him, that something about him was dangerous. For those without the gift of magic, being able to sense that another person was able to use magic was the same thing as using that magic, and the punishment for that was death.
In the six years since moving to Rahli, Azyr had become intimately familiar with all of the ways arcanists could be found and punished for their perceived crimes. His previous life had led him to believe that the gods were long since dead, and seeing so much death should have only reinforced his atheistic views.
Perhaps, if he were not seeing with his own eyes how the sacred forest of Kairos had spread and how magic seeped from the trees like an unseen sticky sweet syrup, then he could blind himself to the truth.
Perhaps, if he had not realized the magic from those killed beneath the trees’ canopy fueled the forest, then he could turn his nose from it.
Perhaps, if it weren’t for the nightmares of the old gods and the wars between them that plagued him more with each passing year, then he could dream himself a different reality.
Perhaps, if he had not initiated the rite for a god whose name he did not know, then he could have continued to believe that the gods were dead.
Perhaps it was time he allowed himself to believe.

Description

Azyr Braelle had always known he would follow the same path as his maternal family. A path paved with dirt moved to unearth ancient artifacts; a path of dust fallen from the covers of hand-bound books in the libraries of Illior’s oldest university. A path washed away in a flood that was the aftermath of his own lapses in judgment.
That path became inaccessible, and he knew the consequences of his mistakes would take years to subside. And so he made a choice that was once beyond consideration. He left the country he had always considered home and sought a new life in Rahli with his father. Azyr was no stranger to Rahli and had fond memories of his childhood summers spent with his paternal family but the Rahli of his childhood was no more.
With the passing of the Arcanist Protection Act simply existing in the country became dangerous, not only for himself but for his family. His magic was of a nature that even those who were not gifted could sense that something was different about him, that something about him was dangerous. For those without the gift of magic, being able to sense that another person was able to use magic was the same thing as using that magic, and the punishment for that was death.
In the six years since moving to Rahli, Azyr had become intimately familiar with all of the ways arcanists could be found and punished for their perceived crimes. His previous life had led him to believe that the gods were long since dead, and seeing so much death should have only reinforced his atheistic views.
Perhaps, if he were not seeing with his own eyes how the sacred forest of Kairos had spread and how magic seeped from the trees like an unseen sticky sweet syrup, then he could blind himself to the truth.
Perhaps, if he had not realized the magic from those killed beneath the trees’ canopy fueled the forest, then he could turn his nose from it.
Perhaps, if it weren’t for the nightmares of the old gods and the wars between them that plagued him more with each passing year, then he could dream himself a different reality.
Perhaps, if he had not initiated the rite for a god whose name he did not know, then he could have continued to believe that the gods were dead.
Perhaps it was time he allowed himself to believe.