Ardor functions very similarly to muscles: though some are born with natural advantages, one can develop and grow Ardor through effort. For example, a creature born with Magus-type Ardor has a natural aptitude for manipulating arcanum through the power of its soul, but that hasn’t stopped arcanologists from making it their own. 

Ardor energy is measured in three ways: signature, purity, and concentration. 

Vendrethaisen’s Teachings

Beylesa Trased

Beylesa strode through the streets of Canar with a portion of Cannar’s guard behind her, eager and motivated. Her armor clinked and shifted as she walked, her warhammer slung over her shoulder. 

She had rallied the guard at Keep Verth and led them to the town’s defense shortly after the raid had commenced. From the reports, the most bloody battle could’ve been a lot worse. There were war mages. 

The mercenaries—evidently finally arriving—had taken them out before they became an issue shortly before she arrived. And praise Vadai for that, she thought. Even mercenaries could be helpful on occasion.

Something crashed in a nearby building. She turned towards the noise, cracked her neck, and signaled to the Cannar guard. She approached the door, motioned her allies closer, then threw the door open. There was a broken vase on the floor beside a table. Beneath the table, two small, green-blue eyes peaked fearfully at her from a face covered in ash and soot. A child. She slowly stepped in, motioning the guards behind her to search the other rooms.

Beylesa slipped her hammer through its loop and crouched down, removing her helm. “Hey,” she prompted with a warm smile. “It’s okay now. They’re all gone.”

The little boy withdrew further into himself and clutched something tight to his chest as he shuddered. He had a long gash on his leg, probably from the vase.

Beylesa sat cross-legged on the floor before him. “I can help with that,” she said, motioning to the wound. 

He shied back even further.

Beylesa felt another surge of fury towards the raiders for forcing this helpless child into the position he was in. She swallowed it back and switched tactics. “Who’s that?” she whispered conspiratorially as she tilted her head and motioned to the thing he was clutching to his chest: a doll with the stitched head poking out from between his ashen arms.

The kid glanced down at the doll. “This is O-… this is Olivieri,” he stuttered.

“Olivieri. That's a lovely name. Did you come up with that?”

“No. My da had- had her when he was little,” the boy said, relaxing slightly as he recalled the information. “He ga-… he gave her to me.” 

Mirrors, he can’t be more than five or six years old. 

She pushed down another wave of anger and scooted forward slowly. The boy was too focused on remembering to notice her gauntleted hand brush against his leg. In that instant, she focused a small portion of her power and willed it to channel through her hands. A faint golden light emitted from her fingertips. The golden flecks in her brown eyes flashed brightly momentarily as Beylesa felt a fraction of energy leave her body, go through her fingers, and course up the boy’s leg. The wound sealed and scabbed over. Within the instant, it was like it was never there.

The boy relaxed slightly. “She’s a… she’s a warrior. She protects me wh-… protects me while I sleep.” He raised the stitched doll and turned it so that Beylesa could see.

“She must be very brave.”

“Y-…yeah,”

“I know a lot about dolls, you see.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I know they’re only as brave as the person carrying them.” Beylesa heard iron-toed booted footsteps approaching her and stopped just a pace or two away. “So you must be brave, you know that?”

He looked at her, smiling slightly. “Y… you mean that?”

She nodded and smiled in turn. “What's your name, little one?”

“Thennaren.”

She reached out and ruffled his short, red hair. “That’s a good, strong name, Thennaren.” She smiled. “Do you know where your parents are?”

“No, I-”

A cleared throat behind Beylesa interrupted the boy’s response. She suppressed a sigh as she slowly turned and regarded the guard with a flat stare. “I hope you have good news.”

The decorated soldier shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his simple cane. Those had come into fashion among the upper crust over the last half-decade. This one looked like it held a sword: beneath the handle was another few inches of ribbed wood. She would’ve added a small hand guard if it were hers.

“Some people in Stillstone Courtyard want to see you. They’ve some questions for you, supposedly.”

“And I presume that, in my stead, you will find this young boy’s parents?”

Captain Caresthial—less comfortable on an actual battlefield—fidgeted with his cane again under her scrutinizing gaze. “Yes, of course,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. “Right away.”

“Good.” Beylesa stood up, flashing the kid—Thennaren—one last comforting smile. “We’ll find your parents. Don’t worry.”

The boy smiled back a toothy half-grin. Beylesa nodded and stalked out the door, heading back the way she came.

Beylesa came across the bloody battlefield where she had been mere minutes before, soldiers walking between the bodies of the fallen, tearing off patches to give to the families of the dead, along with a sizable pile of coins. Guards passed, leading the shackled goblinoids that had surrendered to the holding cells. Her gaze picked out a group of people on the far side. One of them – a human with an angular, clean-shaven face sheathed in a sleek, flint-gray articulated half-suit of plate mail – was rifling through a hobgoblin's coin purse. He raised one to the sunlight, apparently scrutinizing it. Typical greedy mercenaries. Knowing her luck, it was probably the ones she had called for. She began to walk toward the group.

“… interesting how the coins minted in Cannar have a unique design. See? All the towns have slight but distinct differences in their coinage,” The armored one said, holding the coin up for another human – dark-haired, pale, and bearing no armor – to see. “This one was stamped just this year!”

Dark hair’s gaze flicked to it and then to Beylesa as she approached. The armored one started… scratching the coin.

Beylesa stopped a few yards away, next to a severed head. “I heard that you were the ones that took out the war mages.”

The armored one – human, likely – raised a gauntleted hand, eyes still locked on the coin as his other hand scratched it furiously. “That was me. Hi.”

An elf stepped up. Her exposed, light umber skin was laced with scarcely visible tattoos and scars. “Sorry for my companions’ impoliteness. Are you Beylesa?”

Beylesa nodded, crossing her arms. “Beylesa Trased. And I assume you are the ones I called for? The mercenaries?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed slightly. It seemed like she didn't miss the veiled venom in those words. “Evangeline Alrinious of the Eldar.”

“Yirnamint Baldet,” the golden-haired one piped up, idly twirling a silvery, ornate flute between his fingers. “The sour-looking one is Vyrnamint, my brother. People get us mixed up a lot. Mother wasn’t very creative, as you can tell.”

The armored one looked at Beylesa. “I am Ajin.” His slate gray armor seemingly wrought of steel feathers made no sound as he stretched out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Beyle.”

Beylesa shook the outstretched hand. “It’s Beylesa,” she corrected, then looked back at Yirnamint. “Baldet?” she mulled over the name. “Like the noble family?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of the Baldet Bards?”

“Yes, I-”

“So why exactly did you call us here?” Vyrnamint cut in, shooting his brother a glare. “The messenger didn’t specify the pay, only that it was ‘a lot’. By the looks of him, ‘a lot’ could've been a claw or two. So how much are we getting paid?”

Yirnamint smiled at his brother. “Now, see, that’s entirely unprofessional.”

“It’s an honest question!”

Beylesa reached up and ran her fingers across the length of the scarf tied around her left wrist. “Questions for another time. Right now, we need to focus on the defense of Cannar. We’ve pushed them back past the inner wall, but not much further. Most citizens are safe in Keep Verth, but we’re boxed in.”

The group shared glances. One by one, they all nodded their assent.

“Then we have an accord?”

“More or less,” Evangeline replied as a brief smile stretched her lips. 

Insincere, Beylesa noted to herself. The elf’s – Evangeline’s – eyes didn’t smile with her mouth. Typical of a mercenary.

The armored one and Evangeline perked up simultaneously. Evangeline turned to Beylesa, eyes accusatory. “I thought you said you had pushed them past the inner wall.”

Evangeline Alrinious

Evangeline and Ajin crept silently along the rooftops towards the inner gate. Evangeline suppressed a chuckle as she remembered Beylesa’s shocked face, as Ajin had levitated up the walls. Ajin’s mentor had been copiously generous to him. Levitating boots, shifting sword… mirrors, his fragging armor was made of mithril. But its metallic feathers of were burnt to a dull gray. Ever since Evangeline had met the eccentric warrior, she’d found that odd; she’d seen mithril before, and it wasn’t as reflective as polished silver, but it had possessed a blueish tint and was semi-reflective, adopting slightly the general coloration of the surroundings. And far as she could tell, the gray wasn’t paint. She’d asked, and Ajin had answered vaguely about different forging process, alloys, and other metallurgic mechanisms, but she saw right past the veiled excuses. She only knew it was mithril by its texture, weight, near-soundlessness, and Ajin’s word. 

The Baldet brothers had taken to the roofs too: Vyrnamint had ran straight up a wall and Yirnamint teleported beside him when he was at the top. But they’d taken an alternate route as they neared the courtyard and dropped back to the roads a few streets back to flank the forces. Evangeline had mentally commanded Bertranth to tail them; the twin magi weren’t great at close-quarters combat. 

Evangeline skittered up the incline of a house, crouching just behind the ridge and beside the chimney as she peered over. Her heart lurched as she saw the gate and the courtyard before it. Bodies, both guards and civilians, were lying dead in vast puddles of crimson. There were numerous goblinoids; a good dozen or so hobgoblins and meogoblins each, and about three dozen goblins. They had prisoners, too – numerous women and children. They were leading them towards the gate. A few captives screamed as a goblin lunged for a red-haired child, dagger stopping just short of the child’s heart. The child was sobbing in terror, clutching two halves of what looked like a doll. 

The wretched creature broke out into chortling laughter and got into the child’s face. Fragments, it licked the tears off. Evangeline felt her fist tighten on her bow. Trembling. Eyes alight with fury, she shakily drew an arrow and sighted on the goblin who now jeered at the prisoners a few yards away from any of the captives. She felt a gauntlet fall onto her shoulder. Evangeline whipped around, punching instinctively with the arrow towards Ajin’s face, but stopped short. His dark green eyes held hers, unwavering. The skin around his eyes was knotted and webbed with restrained anger, the creases long etched by an unspoken life of wearying conflict she could tell he hid behind a jovial veneer. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” she hissed. “Why not?”

“Wait for the others to get here,” he whispered, unhooking his bow from his back and stringing it deftly. “Vyrnamint will be able to take most of them out at once while keeping the hostages safe.”

With a sigh, she knelt atop the tiling and watched, settling beside a chimney. Goblins were typically savage creatures, but they were somewhat more orderly under the supervision of hobgoblins. Instead of killing the civilians below, they would likely take them hostage, using them as bargaining chips.

That was good. That was exploitable. Still, the itch about her wrists and neck as she saw the orange hands clutching at the child again grew unbearable. She began to rub at her bracers to banish the memory of the shackles physically.

Evangeline was about to give in and loose an arrow when the unmistakable red marble-sized light streaked south through an alley. Scarecely a heartbeat passed before a fiery blast erupted in the goblins’ midst. 

She had witnessed this trick twice before; apparently, Vyrnamint could mold the spell around people and objects. Ajin had told them about a method of arcane study that enabled the user to do such things. Elemurgy, he had called it, with the common title of evocation. Vyrnamint, when asked, revealed that it was intuitive, just like his magic. 

The goblins fortunate enough not to be in the blaze scattered, all semblance of order lost as they fled back towards the gate, followed by three meogoblins. Most of the captives shook off their shock and raced away, but a handful stayed sitting there as if in a daze. Someday, Evangeline thought as she shook her head, he’s going to mess that up.

The blast had brought down a handful of hobgoblins and meogoblins, and the few standing were burnt badly. That left around half the meogoblins left. They spread out a bit at a barked command, the hobgoblins giving up on the goblins, moving quickly north through the courtyard.

Evangeline heard a loud, discordant melody from a north alley, and the lead hobgoblin’s armor turned red with heat. Shrieking in agony, he clawed at the straps of his armor, throwing himself to the ground and rolling around as he was cooked alive in his metallic shell. She put two arrows into his neck. Another from Ajin found its way beside her arrows, silencing the monster for good. But in doing so, they had revealed their position, in doing so, losing the element of surprise.

While the meogoblins funneled into the north alley, the hobgoblins drew bows and let loose a volley of arrows toward the pair on the roof. Evangeline ducked behind the chimney to avoid them; arrows whizzed past and snapped against the stone barrier. From the plinks of arrowheads meeting armor and subsequent whip-like cracks of a bowstring near her, Ajin risked injury to get a few more shots in. That was uncharacteristic of him. There was probably a mage.

Evangeline peeked over the chimney, sighting the north alley, mentally commanding Bertranth to attack. Soon, roaring, screams, and flesh tearing echoed about the courtyard, accompanied by the flashes of light and crackles that signaled flung spells.

She saw a hobgoblin reaching for a hostage. Bowstrings cracked simultaneously, and the hobgoblin fell. Evangeline reached for an arrow but was left grasping at empty air. Cursing, she looked to Ajin’s quiver. He drew the last arrow and fired it into the chest of a meogoblin trying to flee Bertranth. It grunted with the impact, slowing for a moment. That was enough time for the panther to tear into it.

“Virrie, SHADES,” Ajin roared, holding Kar’nek high, his body rising a few feet into the air. A second later, he was engulfed in swirling black smoke. The globe dropped to the ground and flowed towards the hobgoblins, undulating back and forth as Ajin swung his blade through their ranks.

Mirrors take that man, Evangeline cursed. That was their “special move,” as Vyrnamint liked to call it. Now there wasn’t going to be any more for her. She plunged to the ground, coming up rolling. The globe faded to reveal Ajin standing among a group of bleeding, steaming, hobgoblin bodies, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his face.

Mirrors take him.

Yirnamint strode out of the alley, straightening his clothes. He lifted the blood from them with a wave of his hand and compelled it to fade to nothingness. Vyrnamint was a bit worse for wear. He held his left shoulder, and blood trickled down the side of his face. She glanced at Yirnamint, crossing her arms. He smiled sheepishly at Evangeline.

“Again?”

“Yeah. Those furred hobgoblins can reach far.”

“Meogoblins.”

“Look, I’m just asking to put his arm back where it should go.”

“I’m not going to heal him this time: you can do it just as well as me.”

“With normal healing, yeah! But I don’t know how to pop the arm back into place.” 

Yirnamint looked at her with pleading eyes. Ajin was helping one of the hostages to his feet, a stunned expression on the hostage’s face.

Evangeline took a long, deep breath. Nodded. “After we get these people to safety.” 

She heard the rasp of a sword extracted from its sheath. Evangeline whirled to Ajin. His eyes narrowed, and his blade leveled at an old woman’s chest. The woman looked up and met his cold gaze.

“Ajin?” Evangeline asked tentatively, brow furrowing. He spared her the barest of glances. He flicked his wrist to slice across the elderly woman’s throat. Evangeline and Yirnamint cried out, but before the weapon could bite into its target, she melted into the shadows like liquid. Ajin cursed under his breath and whirled around. 

Blades jumped to Evangeline’s hand. She heard the crackle of destructive magic behind her: Yirnamint and Vyrnamint preparing spells.

“STOP!” 

She saw the old woman clutching a wicked-looking knife to a squirming red-haired kid’s jugular. Blood trickled down his neck. The kid had his eyes pressed shut. Tears streamed down his face. Next to the kid lay a woman spread-eagle on the ground. Her slashed gut gushed blood mixed with her long, fiery hair.

“One move, one sound, I cut the boy. Understand?” the old woman called in far too deep of a voice, far too foreign an accent, far too stilted words.

An illusion, Evangeline realized with an inward groan.

Ajin

Ajin’s mind whirled through dozens upon dozens of scenarios, analyzing movements and positioning. Each one resulted in that kid’s death. He felt helpless. 

That terrified him more than he ever would care to admit. 

With an instinct he didn’t know he still had, he reached deep inside himself, mental fingers grasping as his real fingers twitched on Kar’nek’s hilt.

Please.

It was like trying to touch molten earth.

“Drop your weapons and walk backward. All of you!” 

Kar’nek clattered to the ground. Ajin’s legs felt bound to boulders, transmuted to jelly, and set in molasses. He picked his way over the bodies and stopped when his back struck a wall.

The disguised hobgoblin backed away from Ajin towards the gate, dragging the kid. A faint ruby-red line spanned his neck. Ajin fought hard to keep himself from rushing forward. He stood a dozen meters away from the pair. A few moments ago, his Sense alerted him that his eyes were lying to him, that many of the “woman’s” features were slightly depressed from what he saw. That probably saved his life. But he hesitated. That might cost a life regardless.

The kid’s teary eyes fluttered open, glanced at the twitching red-headed woman, and wailed. It was a horrible sound: anger, hatred, pain, and terror mixed into one discordant note. It was a hundred times worse than the din of battle, the scraping of metal against metal, and the cries of the dying. 

Ajin knew it far too well. He gritted his teeth against the wretched cry, shutting his eyes. He couldn’t do anything. He was that helpless little boy all over again: body battered, bruised, and burnt as he lay in a pool of his own blood. The memories and pain came back to him like vengeful wraiths. Better a crimson-stained battlefield than that.

Ajin forced his eyes open against his demons’ compulsion with his jaw set. The loner was now but a few steps away from the open gate. The kid sniffled. Why had he stopped crying? 

The child’s puffy eyes were locked on something on the street, closer than the felled woman. Ajin followed the kid’s gaze. A doll. It was severed in two and stained by copious amounts of blood, but Ajin could make out what it was depicting: a smiling warrior, its sword raised. 

The child’s chest heaved up and down with deep breaths. Exhaled slowly. At the same time, Ajin’s keen ears caught a scrape from an alley near the gate.

A faint tendril of yellow mist shot through the air from the alley. As he drew the blade across the kid’s exposed throat, the condensation formed into the tall figure of Beylesa, her eyes blazing with golden light. 

She wrenched the blade with a gauntleted hand and forced it away from the kid’s neck, twisting the knife from the hobgoblin’s hands and turning it back on him. She slammed the weapon three times into his body, each strike exploding with a blast of golden light and emphasized with a shout of rage. The hobgoblin barely got to let out a scream before he was completely consumed by the light, wounds bursting gold, smoke billowing from his mouth and eyes.

Beylesa threw the weapon aside, hands streaming with amber vapor. She brushed the kid’s shoulder, and the scratch on his neck sealed. Without wasting a single motion, she slid to the woman’s side. She had stopped twitching. Beylesa put both glowing hands on the long gash across the woman’s stomach. A circular symbol formed over the wound.

The deadly wound disappeared in the blink of an eye.