The moon peeked out of the horizon; duskrise was upon them.

Jynn bowed. "Preparations are complete, Your Grace."

"Stand up, Jynn!" Sora said, holding out a hand to the caster.

His eyes rose with a smile. He took Sora's hand, who pulled him into an embrace.

"How fare you, kin?" Sora asked, his voice cheerful. "It's been a good while."

"Well – and how is His Majesty this night?"

Sora gave a small laugh. "Very well, myself. Are the horicons saddled and packed?"

"Indeed, we can depart when you are ready."

"Excellent." Sora's voice echoed through the dark and empty Grand Hall. "Make haste. Let's not waste precious night."

As a twenty-five-year-old caster, Jynn was born of Nim in Vahar'gul, in the mystic hills and forests of West Eden, He was blessed with the gift of the Magi. Not all Nimborn were granted this gift however: at birth, only ones who the Old Gods deemed worthy were granted the abilities of a Sigilcaster – or Signcaster, as some called them.

Jynn was one of the few bestowed with such power, and was exceptionally gifted in his art, learning more complex sigils like kinesis and illusion by the time he was only of six years. Sigils that even the more pronounced scholars failed to execute, let alone a Nim tot. By age ten, he was rivaling the top casters in all West Eden. Word made it around the land and eventually into the ears of King Azrael.

At eleven, he received a sealed invitation directly from Lord Azrael himself, who requested an audience with this miraculous little sigilcaster. Honored, he traveled by king-sent escort to the royal palace in Providence, Central Eden. He arrived on a pleasant summer's night and was escorted to the throne by some heavily armored highborn guards. Many court servants and royal bystanders gathered and watched the Nim child, fascinated, as he walked through the tremendous gold-trimmed, ivory doors of the throne room.

Earthlight beamed through the enormous palace windows, and the checker-tiled, marble floor gleamed with the light of flickering torches and candles. A rug, the same white and gold of the door, stretched across the center of the room, while several intricately, sculpted marble pillars lined the approach to the throne. At the end stood a pale, sickly man, dressed in fancy regalia of fine leather and silk. Rings of varying gemstones lined his fingers and a golden crown littered with jewels sat crooked atop his head. Next to him was a small, curious boy who looked the age of no more than five years.

"Welcome, sigilcaster!" the sickly man called, his voice frail and raspy. "Welcome to Providence. I must say you are smaller than I had expected."

Murmurs and quiet laughter spread amongst the crowd.

"I am Azrael Ryzael," the king said. "Please, child, tell us your name."

Not hearing the question, Jynn stood quiet, gazing around at a room full of wide, watchful eyes.

Azrael cleared his throat. "Perhaps you did not hear me?" His tone hinted a slight impatience. "I say again, what is your name?"

"Oh, Jynn, Your Grace." His eyes were drawn to the boy at the king's side. He took notice the boy had bruises littering his body. His left eye was blackened and his lip, swollen. He tried to watch him without making it obvious, seeing that the bruised boy kept mouthing something from behind the king. The boy discreetly put his hands together, in a praying gesture, and nodded his head slightly. It clicked. He felt so drawn in by it all, he had forgotten his manners. He swung an arm to his chest and performed a gracious bow in front of the King. "My name is Jynn, Jynn of Vahar'gul. Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is a great honor to be in your presence."

The King smiled. His stained-yellow teeth fit well with his aged, wrinkled face. His long, salt and pepper hair matched his scraggly beard, both thin and splotchy. Small sores spotted his head and what was visible of his arms. If Jynn had to guess, he would say the King was at least in his late fifties, maybe older. Little did he know; the dying King was only thirty-two.

"Well met, Jynn of Vahar'gul." The King sat down in his enormous throne, placed a hand atop the curious boy's right shoulder, and watched Jynn with anxious eyes. "Let us see what the young signcaster can do, shall we!" he bellowed to the crowd.

They cheered. Most of the people watching had never even seen a Nim before, more or less an advanced caster.

"Go on then," Azrael said, "Show us what your magi can do."

Jynn focused himself, and in an instant, his hands glowed brilliantly with a colorful plethora of light. His arms danced through the air leaving a floating bright-red sigil. He finished and again glanced up at the boy who watched with fascination. Jynn reared back and thrust a hand through the circular sign he had drawn loudly shattering it into hundreds of pieces. Instantly, both his hands combusted with fire and the crowd let out a collective gasp.

His body danced like a cyclone. Spinning and whirling, flailing his flaming hands through the air, and ending with a fiery palm raised towards the ceiling. Out of his hand spewed a mesmerizing hot flame that ascended towards the towering marble ceilings of the throne room. The crowd and the curious boy stared in amazement at the Nim child, but Jynn could tell by the sour look on the King's face that he was unimpressed.

"Is that it, boy?" Azrael barked. "I had expected more than a stream of fire pissing from your palm. Where is this powerful Nim prodigy of which was foretold?"

The fire retracted back to Jynn's palm, and he dip his head in embarrassment.

"I'll say it once more. Show us the true power of what this," Azrael threw up his hands in a patronizing flourish, "Magi, can do! If your means was to impress me with a bit of fire, it will require more than that."

Jynn stared into the King's solemn faded brown eyes and nodded. He almost felt a spark of anger strike him. Pissing from your palm, he thought, laughing to himself, A bit of fire huh? He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, hands still ablaze. With arms out, he held one hand parallel atop the other. A small light began to form. It grew larger by the second until he had a melon sized, swirling orb of fire.

The audience watched with bated breath as the raw energy of the large fireball crackled and hummed. Its white glow grew hot as a miniature sun shining between his hands. He opened his eyes. No longer the color of his innocent crystal-grey, they ignited and blazed the same scorching red flame as his hands. His eyes fixed on Azrael's. He felt the corner of his mouth tug into a wry smile.

He gritted his teeth as he turned and threw the fireball with great force. It whizzed through the throne room, blasting through a palace window, shattering it with a loud crash. Without slowing, it soared up and into a clear, night sky. He turned, held up a hand, placing his index finger and thumb together. "His Grace requests power?" he said, smiling at the King. He snapped his fingers.

The fireball detonated, erupting into a booming inferno that could not only be seen, but heard for miles. The whole city of Providence lit up as large embers rained down from the night sky, showering the city like a barrage of flaming arrows from an enemy siege. The force of the explosion shook the palace, nearly shook the whole city even.

There was an outcry of screaming and horror as Jynn surveyed the crowd now. His eyes still blazed. Besides striking fear into the people of Providence and shattering the throne room's window, the fireball did no major damage other than setting a few tarps of lower city market stalls and large castle tapestries alight. It was clear enough to convince the King that Jynn was indeed who the stories said he was.

Azrael stood. "Enough!" he roared, turning into a violent cough.

The crowd calmed, as did Jynn, his eyes returning to their normal state, hands still glowing a multitude of color. He raised one, drew a subtle white sign, and pierced it with the other. He held up an arm and quickly clenched a fist together. Within a blink of an eye, all the flames in the entire city extinguished. The burning tarps and tapestries, lanterns, candles, and even the torches of the throne room, all snuffed out. Everyone stood in an unsettling darkness. The only presence of light was the faint beams from the earth and moon streaming through the windows. Drained, he dropped to all fours and in that moment, there was complete and utter silence.