'I'm going to slice off your head and shit in your skull!'

And the evening had started with so much promise. Sander tried to recall how he and old Ragnall had come to this. The Jolly Cooper tavern was their first port of call tonight. Sander liked the place. It was always full but never too rowdy, and there was something about the smell of wet dog by the fire, combined with farmer's armpit and mouldy sawdust, that he found reassuring. And they served an incredible local black ale called Night Mary, which not only had the perfect balance of fruit and malt with a lingering after-taste but was also strong enough to get you perfectly merry in under a pint and a half. He and Ragnall had decided to kick off the Springtide weekend with a few drinks here, a little warm-up before the main event later, but Ragnall never could hold his ale and it wasn't long before he started spouting off.

'Kelish are a desperate lot. The marshes flood every year, so they build their homes on stilts. Why don't they just move? Idiots, every one of them. And have you ever tried trading with them? Shifty buggers. Can't trust 'em as far you can kick 'em,' the old man said as he downed his tankard, shaking out the final drops. He tossed it away and immediately started drinking from Sander's. 'And that lot up in Eriworth are no better. Place is a refuge for pig fornicators.'

Lugham Village was a crossroads for traders, and the Jolly Cooper tavern offered travellers a warm bed, cheap beer and the best sausage and mash in onion gravy in the Newlands. Looking around, Sander could see quite a few folk from Andraste and Eriworth and elsewhere, and they were glaring with tight lips and clenched jaws as Ragnall carried on with his rant. And most - if not all - of them were armed as they waited for some kind of signal for the fight to kick off.

It was the pig fornicator comment that made the big red-faced man step up and make the skull-shitting threat. Problematically, Ragnall was a hedge wizard, and most hedge wizards looked, and smelled, like tramps. And this being the Springtide weekend, Sander wasn't in his official robes, either, so this big fellow didn't know whose skull he was threatening to defecate into.

Sander stood slowly. Anxiety attacks had kept him up for most of the previous night; he was in no mood for any kind of fight, verbal or physical, so he raised a placating hand. 'Friend, I apologise for my companion's behaviour. Now, you've both had a lot to drink. Words were said, that's all, mere words, so let's put this-'

'Shut it, son, before I take your arms off and shove 'em up your arse!'

'That's a unique threat, and one I take seriously, of course, but you should know-'

'Any fights and I call the Guardhouse!' Astrid, the Jolly Cooper's owner, yelled as she pointed a many-ringed finger at the red-faced man. 'You. This one might look like a vagrant, but he's the King's Mage, and his mate is a mage, too, so you'd best kiss and make up like real men.'

Sander watched as the red-faced man tried to parse all this new information. 'This long-haired pissant is the King's Mage?'

'Sander Bree.' He extended his hand, but the red-faced man didn't take it. 'Certainly no vagrant, so thanks for that, Astrid, and yes... the hair is real.' Sander took great pride in his long blond hair; it hadn't been cut since he turned forty and reached to the small of his back. He gave it a shake in the hope of getting a laugh.

None was forthcoming.

'Uh... and I am indeed Mage to His Majesty King Steffen Henning Mathias Bhaltair of the House of Ultan. Or Bhalty, as I call him,' Sander continued, desperately hoping that levity would win the hour. The laughs still didn't come, so he waved the joke away. 'I don't. He'd kill me on the spot. Well, he'd try to.'

The red-faced man's eyes flitted from side to side. He'd made a fool of himself and was looking for a way out that would leave him with some shred of decency. 'And him, too?' His voice was dry and cracked now as he pointed at Ragnall. 'The one who smells of dung?'

'It's compost.' Ragnall exhaled heavily as he got to his feet. 'My own special blend. It's good for the mushrooms,' he added. 'And if you don't believe I'm a mage, then watch this...'

'Raggy,' Sander warned, 'don't do anything silly.'

Ragnall closed his eyes, slowly raising his arms to the sides like a bird's wings. Candles on every table shimmied and the hound resting by the fire perked up at some noise beyond human hearing. The crowd began to back away.

Ragnall's sandalled feet left the dusty tavern floorboards and he levitated into the air.

It was a simple piece of magic but one that never failed to impress ordinary folk. There were 'oohs' and 'aahs' from those gathered, and one person even tried to start a round of applause, but it soon faltered to nothing. Sander tutted and puffed like a parent with a boastful child. 'All right, that's enough, down you come, you big show-off.'

Ragnall rose above the wax-caked iron chandelier and soon found his head scraping against the timbers. He brought his hands together like he was cupping water to drink, then raised them slowly.

And everyone in the room rose with them. Including the dog.

People yelped in shock, dropping their tankards as their legs kicked in the air and flapping their arms as they reached for something to grab on to. A few began praying; others begged to be let down, and one old man vomited and began tumbling over and over.

The dog took it in his stride. He'd seen it all before.

Even Sander was airborne. Arms folded, and looking decidedly unimpressed, he wondered if he should counter with some of his own magic, but he knew that would only make Ragnall even more grumpy, and that's when things could get out of hand.

'Ragnall!' Sander said. 'Let us down. Gently.'

Ragnall half-opened his eyes, a twisted grin on his face. 'I can keep this up all day, y'know.'

'Yes, we're all very impressed. Come on.'

The patrons of the Jolly Cooper found themselves slowly sinking to the straw-strewn floorboards. When they landed, they shared terrified looks and the room remained silent save for the crackling fire.

Ragnall let himself descend before the red-faced man. He was coming down from the high of magic and, with the drifting, yellowed eyes of a seasoned drunk, Ragnall looked into his antagonist's face and said, 'Now piss off back to Eriworth, you pig fucker.'

The red-faced man inflated again, but Sander stepped between them and steered him towards the bar. 'Whoa, whoa, whoa, no, let's not start that again. Where are you from, friend? Let me guess, Port Byle, yes? I grew up a little way down the coast, y'know? Tell me, does the Pride of Agrona still dock there? A magnificent ship. Here, let me buy you a drink...' He gestured to Astrid: Whatever he's having! She quickly poured him a large gin, and in moments, the red-faced man's anger was quelled by the warm glow of mother's ruin. 'Let's get everyone a drink, eh? This one's on me!' Sander added quickly, aware that everyone in the tavern was glaring at him with empty tankards in their hands.

Sander had hoped for some kind of cheer for his generosity, but his fellow patrons just picked up their conversations from where they had left off and someone started playing a fiddle. Ungrateful buggers, Sander thought to himself.

Being a mage had taken its toll on his nerves over the decades. He was thirteen years old when Ragnall had come to his village looking for apprentices. Sander's abilities were beginning to manifest and his parents had more than enough on their hands with nine other children to feed, so they were happy to take the old man's coin and wave their middle son farewell.

Sander had excelled at the trials and his skills soon drew the attention of local guilds and landowners looking for a mage. Then he struck it lucky: the king himself was looking for a new mage (the old one, Yon Wrightly, having passed away at the grand old age of two hundred and three). Sander always walked a fine line between confidence and cockiness, but this time it worked. He impressed King Bhaltair with his grip on court politics, the state of the economy, truth-seeing and negotiation strategies - all covered in Ragnall's extensive training curriculum - but to truly demonstrate his powers, he knew he had to try something incredibly audacious. Something that would not only convince the king and queen that their citadel and people were safe from invaders, but a feat that would have everyone from the Newlands to Eru, Myrista and Rigo talking about him.

Sander had stood alone in the long grass on a sloping rise about half a league from the walls of the citadel, a solitary figure buffeted by the summer wind. He asked the king to give the order in his own time for every available trebuchet on the walls to fire the heaviest stones in his direction at once.

Repelling flying objects was a fairly standard task for a mage. Having the skill to control more than a dozen was impressive. King Bhaltair took Sander's request at his word and fired over seventy rocks and boulders at the young man.

Sander knew that merely flinging the stones to the ground wouldn't be enough.

When he heard them launch, he raised his hand, closed his eyes and drew on the power of the Lapis Moon, visualising each stone in his mind. With an instinctive magical skill that came easily to him yet impressed everyone he met, Sander was able to move them around, swirling them like apples in a barrel.

They were transformed from hurtling projectiles into satellites orbiting the citadel. Seventy miniature moons and more, all imbued with enough magical energy to keep them circling in the sky around the citadel indefinitely. They added extra power and status to the citadel, making it a must-see destination for travellers and merchants alike, and gave nervous traders, and any potential invaders, something to worry about as they approached its gates. People called them the Mage's Moons and Sander promised to keep them aloft for as long as he was the King's Mage.

Sander soon found himself working as the youngest Royal Mage since records began.

For the first thirty years or so, Sander breezed through it all, but recently things had started to go sour. The queen died in childbirth. Sander had done all he could to save her, but death is beyond even the most powerful mage's control. After that, the king's flinty persona no longer had a cheerful counterpoint, and a once happy and confident court became a place where everyone was treading on eggshells.

And then Ragnall started drinking heavily. Sander had no problem with a happy tipple in the holidays, but whenever he visited his old master these days, he found him in a state of inebriation, railing against the world in general and sometimes - in his darker moments - muttering about a vision he'd had of a great change, the end of magic, the end of everything.

This didn't help Sander's increasing anxiety attacks one little bit. All winter, he'd found himself waking up just as he was dropping off into a deep sleep, his heart racing, convinced he was having a heart attack. He would sit up, gather his breath, lie back down to sleep and exactly the same thing would happen again.

This summer would be Sander's fiftieth. He was tired and longed for a break. He'd been looking forward to the Springtide weekend for some time and the last thing he needed was Ragnall picking a fight with everyone they met.

Satisfied that the Jolly Cooper had returned to its normal self, Sander began to move back to where Ragnall now sat cross-legged on the floor. A man slouched on a barstool, wearing the yellow robes of a Brother of the Faith, gripped Sander's arm.

'Use your magic while you can, wizard,' he slurred, with breath that could light a candle.

'Actually, if you were paying attention, my friend, I didn't use any magic.' Sander reassured him with a friendly pat on the arm. 'As my tutor used to tell me: a big man starts a fight, the bigger man walks away.'

'Your tutor was an idiot.'

'Maybe. That's him there.' He shook his arm free of the Brother's grip and thumbed towards Ragnall, who was trying to pull himself upright using a barstool. 'The one who just had you lot floating in the air.'

Ragnall lost his grip and fell back to the floor. 'Me arse!' Ragnall wailed, getting a nervous laugh from the remaining onlookers. Sander winced. Ragnall was already a joke again.

'The word is out.' The Brother leaned closer, staggering forwards off the stool onto his feet and spraying spittle into Sander's ear as he whispered, 'Your time is up. You and all magekind. It's written in the stars. Astronomers agree that the blue moon will die and the hour of the Faith is upon us.'

Sander bristled at yet another doomsayer and gently but firmly pushed the Brother away. 'Y'know, Brother, you're starting to annoy me. I don't want to use magic on you, but it would be the easiest thing for me to stop your heart for a few moments, or make your brain explode, so back off.'

'Arrogant little turd,' the Brother spat, reaching into the folds of his cloak and pulling out a knife.

Astrid was yelling as the Brother slashed at Sander's throat. Sander stepped back, instinctively reaching out, finding the irregular rhythm of the man's heart. He gave it a gentle squeeze. The pain alone was usually enough to deter any ill-wishers.

The Brother's eyes bulged as he tried to say something, but all that came out was an insensible slur ending in a gargle. He fell face first on the floorboards.

Sander closed his eyes and listened. No heartbeat. The Brother was dead.

'Oh, shit.'

Sander's own heart nearly stopped. His chest felt numb and he thought he was about to have the kind of panic attack that usually woke him in the middle of the night. He'd never killed anyone before. It was something every mage expected to happen at some time - their power often attracted the foolhardy with something to prove - and he and Ragnall had discussed at length how to deal with such an occurrence, but nothing could have prepared Sander for the sight of the dead Brother lying at his feet.

'Ah...' Sander shuffled on the spot as the crowd around him began to dissipate. Some backed away, expecting him to kill them next; others took the time to gulp down their dregs before edging towards the door, having seen enough magic for one evening. 'M-must've had a weak heart,' Sander stammered. 'You can't say I didn't warn him.'

Astrid stomped around from behind the bar and grabbed Ragnall by the scruff of the neck, pulling him to his feet. 'That's enough! Winoc, tell the Guardhouse we've got a dead'un.'

'Yes, Mum.' Winoc, Astrid's spiky-haired son, took a welcome break from washing dishes and hurtled outside.

'You two.' Astrid flung Ragnall into Sander's arms, nearly knocking him flying. 'Out and don't come back.'

'I tried, Astrid-'

'OUT! You're barred.'

Sander left a few coins for the mess and to cover funeral arrangements and carried Ragnall outside in the first blue light of dawn. The main street was empty. Those who had fled the Jolly Cooper left only dust in their wake. A Springtide chill blew between the closed stores and quiet hostelries, swinging their dying lanterns and making doors and windows clatter and creak. It sweetened the air.

The moons were bright in the night sky, and most of the windows in the white stone homes that loomed in the hills and woods surrounding the village were dark. Sander tried to sort his thoughts in the silence, but it was soon broken by the clattering armour of the village guards closing in. There would be tedious questions and Sander would have to play the King's Mage card once again. To knowingly attack a member of the King's Court was punishable by death anyway, so hopefully this would all be over swiftly.

Thoughts and ideas began to crystallise in Sander's mind. Thoughts that had been stirring for a while. Thoughts of leaving and retirement. A man had died, and Sander knew it was time for a change.

'When this is all sorted...' Ragnall kicked at the cracked and flaky mud in the street. It hadn't rained all week. 'Want to go and wind up a troll?'