To the Stone City

[Magus]

He exhaled with a soft sigh, relaxing his muscles as though an immense pressure had been lifted up off him. Magus closed his crimson eyes and tilted his head up at the sky, spreading his arms apart and let the sun soak on his pale flesh. “Ah…”

The wizard set the spike at the base of his scythe gingerly upon the centuries-old road and rolled his head round his neck, eliciting a sharp series of nasty pops from his vertebrae, as well as a quiet grunt of relief.

Magus could not explain why, but something about being in the Nexus felt oppressive. It was as if some kind of metaphysical force was squeezing him, draining him. And as soon as he’d crossed the threshold into Camelot, it was gone. His eyes opened partway, forming a lazy half-lidded gaze. He cast it to his side, appearing disinterested but absorbing all he could of his surroundings.

Not gone, he reminded himself. Just out of reach, maybe. If Omni was indeed responsible for the Nexus and all of the other worlds connected to it, then there was no reason to believe that formless power would not someday envelop him again. Perhaps it would come more strongly next time.

He dismissed it with a regal scoff. There was no reason to become paranoid. Besides, he reasoned, he had work to do. The first order of business was to find this library Thrall had spoken of.

A library containing knowledge about the whereabouts of the creator of the Omniverse, and how to get there. Almost immediately, Magus decided such a library could only exist at the focal point of this world; the capital of its most powerful nation.

Perhaps it was simply the capital of Camelot. Really, Magus had no idea if Camelot represented the entire world he stood on proper, or if it was merely a kingdom within it. “Hmm,” he considered it may have been prudent to have had inquired about that.

No matter now. The Fiendlord strode ahead on the only path available for him, ascending a steep hill immediately beyond the gate he’d passed through, and paused at its crest to get a lay of the land.

And it was remarkable, indeed. A sea of rolling meadows split by an ancient cobblestone road sprawled before him, the gorgeous green grass flowing on and on for miles beneath a perfect azure sky.

Lakes and forests seemed to spring up in all directions and teemed with life. He watched a group of deer race off to somewhere on his left, and a fox scampering down the trail off in the distance. Villages and people dotted the landscape much further off, and, more incredible than any of that, was what he saw in the sky.

“It’s… Zeal…” he stood there for a long time, mouth agape. Never, anywhere or anytime, had he ever seen a floating island other than his home, the Kingdom of Zeal. The nobility, those gifted with magic, resided in the most opulent luxury on a floating archipelago, suspended high above by unfathomably powerful enchantments.

Although this was only one island in the sky, he knew it must have been the seat of some amazing power. His mother had ruled all of Zeal from atop her floating empire, and realistically, although those who lived on the surface were technically not of the empire, they were effectively bound to her will as well. Unless, of course, the kind people of the surface preferred not breathing over being slaves to her demands.

He wondered if the social structure was similar here, in Camelot. He wondered if those with power lived on that floating island, and the unwashed masses lived in their collective shadow below.

If it really was like Zeal, those on the surface would be living in abject poverty, in primitive huts and hovels, using Stone Age tools and trading for shiny things. Or perhaps the underclass had progressed to the medieval era, as reflected by Thrall and his guards.

Schala always pitied the surface-dwellers. Even now, Magus knew not why. At the same time that they were eking out their meager existence with their limited abilities, their superiors flourished with mighty technology not even rivaled by the present day in Magus’ world.

The people of Zeal were simply better. That’s why they had left their simpler brethren below. It was the only way. And still Schala would find pity on them, as if they hadn’t chosen ignorance.

“Huh?!” Magus gasped, stirred back to reality by a haunting melody. Shrill, melancholy notes lilted into the air and hung there, slowly, solemnly replaced by others. He silently cursed himself, wondering how many times he would allow his wandering mind to get him caught up in these situations.

The Fiendlord hurried toward the source of the music, spying a young boy dressed in all green playing a flute-like instrument. Standing tall, Magus strode toward him. Though just a boy, perhaps he knew which way the library was. Or at the very least, could point him in the direction of someone who did.

His eyes went wide and he froze in step as a cold chill washed over him. That wasn’t a song the boy was playing. Each note was suffused with incredibly powerful magic, for a purpose Magus wasn’t yet aware of.

The mage’s eye twitched. It must have been the flute; the boy couldn’t possibly have wielded magic so strong. Magus could feel it. The primal roots of the song’s energy swirled and spread through him, through everything.

Magus dashed toward the boy in hopes of both ascertaining what he was doing and startling him into stopping. Somehow he knew if the song was silenced, so too would the magic be silenced. His cape billowed out behind him as he dashed through the field, and then was frozen in time - in mid sprint - along with the rest of the scenery.