Oren shimmied deeper into the corner of his trench bunker cot, no longer caring if he tracked dirt onto his ragged, filthy blanket. A shudder ran through the bunker. The hanging trench lamp lighting the dim room sputtered and swayed from an earth-rumbling shock.
“They must be using enchanted munitions to cause this much ruckus,” Lieutenant Tilly muttered, his voice tight. “It’s unlike them to use their mana on artillery for a standard shelling.” The ground rumbled again as another volley impacted the earth.
“I wish mana had never been found,” Oren mumbled to himself, the words barely audible over the distant concussive impacts.
“Hah! You’d have to go far back in time to stop that.” Ren’s voice, raspy and unexpected, broke through the rumbling.
Surprised that old Ren had spoken for once, Oren involuntarily blurted, “What do you mean?”
Ren stared at Oren through the flickering, gloomy light, causing Oren to try and find even more of a corner to crawl into. Ren’s voice, low and deliberate, filled the space. “Me old da’ once told me, ‘Mana was used by our ancient ancestors,’ though you’ll never hear anyone affirm that today, lad.”
“But… ancient magic is a myth, a fairytale,” Oren stammered, his eyes sceptical.
“That’s what you’ve all been told. But where do you think the tales come from, eh?” Ren challenged, a knowing glint in his eye.
“If the myths of ancient magic were true, then so would the old beasts of the dark.” Oren’s voice was a barely a whisper.
“Aye, that they would.” Ren’s slow smile was unsettling.
“Ignore him, lad,” Lieutenant Tilly advised, his voice cutting. “Those are nothing but stories. We’ve only ever had lesser magic.”
“Until they found the mana,” Oren murmured, almost to himself.
“Aye, until now, lad,” Ren affirmed, his gaze fixed on Oren. “Until now…”
Waylen Ashwood 