The Great Mage war took no prisoners. Casualties on both sides grew by the day as the conflict dragged on—four years now, for those who had managed to survive that long. Many had not. It was to be expected; those who sought to impose stricter laws on the chaos of magic were bound to face resistance from those who felt their freedom was to be diminished.

For all its inconsistency and potential for harm, the arcane arts held a beauty rarely seen by the eyes of man. That was the cause Osric fought for. It was what had driven him to pull himself from the rubble of his collapsed magi circle, battered and faintly caressed by death’s embrace, to the nearest cathedral—a neutral safe haven in the war.

His recovery took a year, and even then it was incomplete. Osric’s body protested his use of magic, only appearing in small spurts of crackled energy, and robbing him of the very thing he fought for. The other priests and priestesses had long given up on him, letting him spend days on end in the cathedral’s courtyard to test the limits of his dampened abilities. But there was always an exception. You were his.

“I will rest when my body drops from exhaustion, Cleric,” Osric called over his shoulder when he heard your approach. Only you would be up at such ungodly hours to check on him. The pale light of the moon reflected off his sweat-soaked skin as he strained, silently begging for a spark of magic to course through his veins. “Until then, turn your worries to more important affairs. Or, if it is willed, pray your God has mercy on those who need it.”