All was blackness and haze and smoke, the tumult of an angry crowd ringing in his ears. Flashes of bruising pain glanced across his body, as if he were being struck by flying objects. Then, a sharp, pulling pain at the base of his skull and a deep oily voice hissing in his ear, “Fight it all you like. You are mine now, mage, and you will never escape me.”

Fyron jolted awake, lunging for the dagger he kept by his bedside, his breaths short and ragged. The covers clung to his sweat dampened skin, making him feel trapped, and only added to the panic rising within him. Panic was a glaring orange in his mind and he struggled to contain it in a box constructed from the many blue shades of calm. When that did nothing to ease the fear, now beginning to tinge red with the feeling of imminent danger, he drew on his surety that it was nothing but a dream and wrapped the panic in a velvety soft blanket woven from the green of relief. 

As the alarming red-orange began to fade away, coated and overcome by the blues and greens, he scrambled for writing implements and paper. His dreams, when he had them, had always been important in some way. Some giving insight into the lives and psyche of those around him, others warning of future events best avoided, and still others were glimpses into his own mental or emotional growth and development, things he needed to work on and change. 

This dream… The details were already growing blurry and indistinct in his mind but he knew this one was more important than most. He sketched what little he could remember of the vague shapes he had seen, quickly jotted down the words that still rang in his ear provoking shudders of distaste and loosening the shackles on his fear. 

“Mage.”

Fyron knew what all of Thyr did, perhaps all of the empire, that mages were powerful. And dangerous. Many a noble family boasted of a mage within their bloodline hoping to secure more power through intimidation. But most of the mages they boasted of so readily were barely able to use the power within them, and even then were cast aside quietly when the marks became too extensive. 

As philosophers had always said, power in any form comes with a price, and for mages that price was a blemish upon their skin, the pattern of which matched the type of magic they practiced and grew darker and larger with every use of the power. Earth mages were often marked by vines, leaves or flowers. Storm mages, jagged bolts of lightning or swirls of cloud. And then there were the bone and blood mages. Though not inherently an evil power, bone and blood magic had the tendency to become darker far easier and more quickly that the other varieties. Bone mages were well respected, often finding work in tending the dead or healing broken bodies. Blood mages sometimes also worked as healers, but most became soldiers, mercenaries or hunters. 

Fyron did not think of bone or blood magic as taboo, much to his mother’s dismay. As long as all parties were willing, or already beyond other means of help, who did it truly harm? He shook his head, clearing the idle musings of his tired mind. He carefully folded the paper he’d so carefully recorded his dream on and stumbled back to bed. Tomorrow his father would chose an heir. And while their family was not one of great influence or great wealth, Fyron prayed his father had the good sense not to leave his eldest in charge. Fyron loved his elder brother, he did, but the man was irresponsible to an extreme. If left in Dafyd’s hands, the family would be destitute inside a decade. 

As Fyron switched his sweat soaked blanket for a fresh one from the closet, he heard a door slam. He rolled his eyes as he crept to the door to sneak a peek. Speaking of Dafyd… 

The young man in question staggered up the stairs, a mostly empty bottle of some kind of alcohol clutched in one hand. His clothes were in disarray, the elegant brocade vest he’d left in nowhere to be seen. There were bite marks, bruises and mage burns covering every inch of exposed skin, and Fyron didn’t doubt they covered much more skin beneath the once fine fabric of Dafyd’s clothing, they always did.

Fyron shook his head, easing his door closed and falling into bed with a small smile on his face. If Dafyd was going to play the irresponsible cad, at least it would leave Fyron with an opening. Surely his father wouldn’t name Dafyd heir after such a blatant display of his unsuitability. 

He stole one last look at the drawer he’d stashed his notes in and sighed, rubbing absently at the small lightning bolt behind his ear, as he drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow he would argue for his place in the family. Only then could he make use of his dream and plan for the future.