Micaiah watched helplessly as the fierce young woman collapsed. Had she just threatened his life? Yes. Had her ruthlessness and bloodlust actually unnerved him? Also yes. But if the boy could be believed, they were on the same side. Weaver help him but he wanted to believe that.

Micaiah felt a pang of longing as he watched the boy gently gather her into his arms. He had originally started the Underground because he wanted to protect people like her- like both of them. But others had tried to turn his efforts into a rebellion both from without and within. He had seen what a taste of power could do to a person and he wanted nothing to do with it. His Underground was nothing more than a simple waystation, a temporary safe haven. That was all it could be.

Once the unconscious girl was secured across the saddle of his horse and all clues to their identities erased, Micaiah stared at the macabre work of art before him. Unable to be rid of all traces of magic, as he would have liked, Micaiah settled on using the gruesome display as a message. He slowly and painfully gathered his fire at his fingertips and began to burn his message into the earth at the murderess's feet.

He hadn't finished his second letter when the boy intervened, lightning crackling at his fingertips,"I can do that more efficiently, I think. What message did you intend?"

Micaiah sighed, balling his trembling hands into fists before waving him forward with a huff, “Be my guest. I want it to say ”We protect, we avenge. Short, simple and to the point.”

The young man nodded and expertly scorched their message into the soggy, still half frozen ground, thawing and drying it as he went. Then he added a flourish at the end, a flowering branch and a lightning bolt crossed and crowned with flame, a simple skull nestled between.

Micaiah eyed the symbol, torn between appreciation of the boy’s talent and distaste at what he assumed was branding for his organization, “Why?”

The boy shrugged, “The Underground is a symbol of hope for mages with nowhere else to go. It needs something to represent it, a way to announce that it does actually exist in more than just rumors and a way to label its people and safe houses. This seal is just detailed enough that it will be hard to copy. It represents the four recognized magic disciplines and is crowned with fire, a power most often link to you, because you lead us. The Underground is more than just a place to hide, or a way to escape persecution; it is a place where we mages can help other mages, a place we can belong, a place free of the dangers the outside world often presents. It needed a symbol, and now it has one, along with a message that, as you said, is short, simple and to the point.”

Micaiah shook his head, overwhelmed. His decade of half assed attempts at helping mages had just become a whole social movement in an instant at the hands of a young man barely of age. Could it really be that simple? Could he build something as great as what this young man had described from the pitiful foundation he currently had?

“Name.” 

The kid looked confused, “What?”

“What’s your name, boy?”

Smirking, the young man dropped into a flawless half bow and introduced himself, “Fyron. Second son of house Kyde. Assuming of course that they haven't disowned me yet and that they weren’t the ones behind the attempt on my life.”

Huh. Perhaps he and Fyron had more in common than he had initially thought. Not that it mattered. Micaiah never allowed himself to become close to any of the mages that passed through. He’d lost enough friends and loved ones, the easiest way to ensure he lost no more was to not make any more. But for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to picture a future where he and young Fyron were friends, comrades, partners. Or more.

Fyron shifted in his uncomfortable chair, tingles working their way into unmentionable places as blood began circulating again. It had been hours since they had arrived in Aarov, since Micaiah had insisted on carrying Jerika to this comfortable guest room. The former prince had been quiet, almost sullen, as they traveled and Fyr wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. According to the maids, the cook, the housekeeper, even the gardener, the admittedly handsome man had a fiery temperament, throwing himself into each task with an enviable zeal. That he’d been quiet and standoffish was concerning.

 Despite his concern for Jerika, Fyron found himself watching the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of their host, hoping for a chance to talk to him. He sighed, reaching out to clasp Rika’s cold hand. 

“Ri, wake up. I know we haven’t really known each other long but we've really only had each other to talk to, you know? A few weeks with you feels like… I don’t know, it feels more meaningful, more real, than years spent with childhood friends chosen by my parents who, let’s be honest, probably think I'm dead.”

Fyron laid his head onto their joined hands and whispered to her until his exhaustion caught up to him. He couldn’t sleep, unwilling to possibly miss the moment she woke up, but his eyes closed and his mind wandered. He felt tears falling from his eyes but couldn’t be bothered to rouse himself enough to wipe them away. Hours passed, only marked by the light and warmth of the sun filling the room as the day progressed. 

The light was nearly gone again when he regained awareness. A thin blanket covered his shoulders and the bedside table now bore a plate of fruit and a glass of water. The door behind him opened quietly, footsteps too heavy to be a maid's, stopping only a foot into the room before quietly leaving, the door clicking shut once more.

Fyron shook off his stupor, pressed his dagger into Ri’s hand, and quietly chased after the retreating footsteps, “Micaiah!”

The man froze when Fyron urgently whispered his name. Fyron carefully closed the door all but a crack and gestured that Micaiah should come closer. The larger man stalked closer on impossibly quiet feet and stopped in the fading light that shone through the crack in the door.

“We need to talk.”

Micaiah’s voice was gruff but quiet, “It can wait.”

“No, it can’t. There are things that must be discussed before she wakes. I’d like to make a plan now. It will help with her anxiety if there is already a detailed strategy in place. Changes can be made of course, but the basics must be set now.” Fyron shook his head, his eyes finding her still form through the cracked door as he continued, “She was overwhelmed, that’s why she collapsed. I'd like to keep it from happening again by slowly adding in information, responsibility and planning.”

Micaiah nodded thoughtfully, “I can see your reasoning but what exactly do you need to plan other than what supplies you will need and which direction you will head in?”

Fyron stared at the man in shock, “You’re gonna just keep going as you are? Losing more and more people to the Shadow Houses? Giving people hope of a home and safety only to break their hearts and send them into the wilderness? Really? That’s the kind of man you are?”

Micaiah reeled from the venom in Fyron’s words, was that really what he’d been doing? Had he been giving people hope, promising them a home, only to tear it away from them? He knew how much something like that hurt. He knew. 

“I…I don’t… I don’t know.”

Fyron softened slightly, “Micaiah, whether you know it or not, the Underground has spread far beyond you. There are innkeepers and stableboys, priests and thieves sprinkled across the continent funnel endangered mages this way in the hopes they will be safe. They send them toward you. But rather than keeping them safe, you shrug your shoulders saying you can’t protect them and send them right back out into the world. This cannot continue if mages are ever to have a chance for more than slavery and death.”

Micaiah nodded slowly, “You’re right. I need to do more, to be more. But where do I even start?”

A small smile curled Fyron’s lips and he beckoned Micaiah into Jerika’s room, to the small sitting area before the fireplace, “We’ll start at the beginning, with what we have. The foundation of any building is the most important part.”

“Why do I have the feeling this is the beginning of something big?”