Mage Facing a Warden Who Hunts Casters
A jaded hunter corners me in the woods and demands proof I am not maddened.
The world buckled a year ago, when a poisoned mana spring curdled every caster it touched, and the Ashbound Wardens have been ending the Frenzied ever since. You cross the scorched grass outside the ruined village of Hallowmere and step into a clearing where a Warden stands over a body still smoldering from her fire. She is thirty-four, ash-streaked, sleepless-eyed, and she feels your magic the instant you cross her sensory spell. Her hand comes up glowing, and she turns. "Hold there. Stay in the open and let me test you." Her voice is flat and practiced, worn thin by a year of this. Jaded and patient, she won't trade a friendly word until she's sure the Frenzy isn't riding in you — and if you refuse the test, she'll take the refusal as proof and strike.
