After the Storm: A Slice of Life Fantasy Adventure, page 1
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
After the Storm: Chronicles of a Retired War Mage 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21 (Ysolde)
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
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Copyright 2025 Jack Bryce
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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To the fleeting sense of peace.
After the Storm: Chronicles of a Retired War Mage 1
Chapter 1
Peace at last.
I took a deep breath, then let it all out as I planted Ashwaker’s butt-spike in the churned mud and locked my knees so I would not drop. The crystal cage at the tip of my artifact-level staff still glowed violet.
I felt nothing in my hands. I felt nothing anywhere, if I was honest.
Zaroth Karn lay at my boots in two ugly halves. Purple robes, ribs, phylactery shards—everything mixed with bone dust and the oily sludge that passed for his blood. The blow that destroyed him had come from my hand, though the nine-layer storm I had dropped minutes earlier had already ruined his wards.
Now he looked small. I hated how small he looked. For all the destruction and death he caused, he should have been titanic.
Galen leaned on his staff, chest heaving. “I swear the bastard’s jaw kept chanting after you split him.”
I nodded. Talking hurt my head. Most of the power from my last Destruction weave still raced inside my nerves. Lightning Mana Burn: every heartbeat felt like a hammer.
Brina stepped closer and flipped a loose tentacle behind her shoulder. Her skin glistened, that soft blue-purple catch-the-eye shade that never failed to fry my concentration. Her battle robe hugged her hips, torn high on one thigh. “Well, that jaw’s silent now,” she said. “If it moves again, I’ll pull it clean off.”
Galen gave her a dry smile. “You kept your sense of humor. Good sign.”
She winked. “You still have one ear and three-quarters of the other. Also a good sign.”
I tried to laugh. The sound that came out felt like gravel. I looked past them at the slope where Karn’s Army of Bones had stood. Black smoke twisted upward. No banners. No movement.
No Camling, either…
Galen followed my stare. “We lost people. I know.” He pushed up, using the staff as leverage, and walked over. The lines on his face looked deeper than usual. “Any trace of him?”
I shook my head once. “He was with the left vanguard. They took the brunt when the first wave hit.” I worked spit into my mouth. It tasted like metal. “I felt his signature burn out. That was an hour ago.”
“Camling was eighty yards from me when the ground split,” Brina said. She drew a slow breath. “I tried to gate him. Too many arrows in the air.”
I opened my fist and stared at the palm. Blisters crossed the old burn scars. “He’s gone,” I just said.
He had been my mentor, my teacher.
Brina moved to my side. She didn’t touch me—she knew better with the charge still dancing on my skin—but she stayed close. Her perfume cut through ash. Sweet sea salt and something spicy, sharp enough to spark memory. “Camling bragged about you,” she said. “All the time.”
“He did,” Galen said. “Half the strike force rolled their eyes at the boy-genius stories. But when you roasted Karn’s Seventh, no one doubted you anymore.”
I wanted to thank them. The words tangled. I grabbed Ashwaker and pulled it from the mud. The staff hummed low, hungry for more mana. I fought the urge to feed it. “At least tell me Karn’s phylactery is gone,” I said.
Galen squatted by the corpse. He jabbed a finger through the cracked sternum. “Crystal mesh heart. Shattered. Task forces got his back-up phylacteries. He has no anchor left. He’s gone, Liam.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s over, then.”
Wind shifted. Smoke blew across the ridge and carried the rot-sweet stink of dead things. Brina rolled her shoulders. “I’ll start marking coordinates for recovery crews,” she said.
“Give it a minute,” Galen said. “Liam limps worse than a three-legged mule.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Brina looked me over, amused. “Gold Circle boys and their pride.” She clicked her tongue, lifted both hands, and shaped a quick rune in the air. A thin arc of pink-white mana vented off my armor, draining heat. My vision cleared a notch. “Feel better?”
“Yeah.” I exhaled long. “Thanks.”
She smirked. “Keep thanking me. I like it.”
Galen snorted. “Flirt later. Debrief first. We still need to report to the Grand Concord Seat.”
I slung Ashwaker across my back. “I’ll write the dispatch. ‘Karn dead, army destroyed, minimal friendly casualties.’”
“Liar,” Galen said.
“Standard officer optimism,” I answered.
Galen reached into a pouch and pulled out a slim hip flask. He offered it. I ignored the shake in my own hand as I took a swig. Harsh brandy hit my throat and belly. The burn felt human, and that was good.
“You good to walk?” Galen asked.
“I can walk,” I said.
“Then we find Camling,” Brina said, voice soft now. “Even if all we find is bones. We bring him up the hill, wrap him, send him home.”
I swallowed hard. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
We turned away from the lich’s body. Karn would rot in the mud. Camling deserved better. I set one boot ahead of the other. Ashwaker thumped against my shoulder. Sparks snapped across the crystal cage, faint and tired.
Brina fell in stride at my right, tentacles brushing her back like glossy purple whips. Galen paced my left, muttering small diagnostic cantrips, eyes scanning for pockets of necromantic taint that might still burst. We moved as a unit again, just like before the war had stripped most things that felt normal.
Smoke rolled, but gray light pushed through. I leaned into it, part of me hoping the sky would open with rain and wash the taste of death off my tongue.
But we kept walking. We had a friend to find.
That evening, laughter and victory songs hammered at the canvas walls of my field pavilion. Somebody out there kept striking a drum made from an old legion shield; each thump rattled the lantern hook over my head. Officers passed bottles. Healers passed out on cots. A thousand people tried to forget a thousand ghosts.
I sat alone on a folding stool, elbows on my knees, Camling’s letter open in my hands. The parchment looked small against my gauntlets, and the ink had smudged where rain hit my pack during the march. His precise script still showed through the blotches.
Liam,
If you read this, it means I failed to counter one final spell or ward against one blade or spear. You’d think a scholar would know when to stay behind the line. I never did manage that lesson.
I wrote to the Concord registrar last month and put my name on a transfer of the deed. The farmhouse in Aerenvale—the one with the twin chestnut trees—now belongs to you. The roof leaks, the oven is broken, and the cellar stores more spiders than wine, but the soil is gentle. I planned to retire there, nag the roses, and complain about politics at the weekly market. You should do the same, minus the complaining if you can manage it. Be sure to have the village Elder Council formally confirm your settlement—elves are nitpicky about that sort of thing.
Promise me you’ll give that house a chance when all this madness of the war ends. Promise me you’ll grow something instead of breaking things for a living.
Your stubborn teacher,
Camling
“Grow something,” I muttered.
My hands twitched. Lightning scars glowed under the skin, faint blue pulses that matched the beat of my heart. I flexed my fingers until the glow faded. The cut on my thumb split again; a single drop of blood hit the letter. I rubbed it off on my trouser leg.
Outside the tent, Brina’s laugh—bright, wicked—rose over the noise. She deserved the celebration. So did Galen. So did every archer and pikeman who stood against Karn’s army. I didn’t feel like joining them. I’d spent fifteen straight years earning medals I never wanted; one more toast wouldn’t plug the hole Camling left.
I folded the letter along the tired crease and slid it back into the envelope. The wax seal, once neat, was cracked down the center. I traced it anyway, remembering the night he’d pressed that seal. We’d been bunked in a half-burned inn, rain dripping through broken beams. He asked me to pass the candle, then made me promise I wouldn’t open the note unless—
Unless this.
We’d had a lot of drinks, and we joked about it. But underneath it all, I had felt that strange sense of foreboding—as if I knew this day would come.
A slow exhale left me dizzy. Maybe it was blood loss; maybe it was the brandy Galen forced on me. I reached for the canteen on the table instead. The water tasted metallic, but it cleared my throat.
Through the flap I watched bonfires throw sparks into the night. Soldiers danced around one, helmets hanging from their belts so mouths could meet mugs. The sky above the ridge still glowed a bad orange from corpse pyres farther out. Even winning a war smelled like smoke.
Aerenvale.
I tried the town’s name in silence. I pictured fresh grass wet with morning dew, green nothing like the churned mud under my boots. I pictured two chestnut trees. I’d never seen them, but Camling said they arched over the front gate “like old friends holding hands.” There was a small bell between them for callers to ring. The image felt unreal—too small, too gentle for a man who just split a lich in half.
I pushed up from the stool and paced the length of the pavilion. The rush mat crumpled under my boots. Every few steps my staff—Ashwaker—caught the lamplight where I’d propped it in the corner. The violet crystal cage still carried a low hum, eager for more mana. I turned my back on it.
“Not again,” I said under my breath. “Not unless the threat is grave enough.”
My oath had no witnesses except the lamp, but it sat solid in my gut. I’d burn elemental patterns, sure. I’d throw wards and stitches and every neat trick Camling drilled into my skull. Destruction patterns, though—the big magic that shaved mountains flat and destroyed entire regiments—those went into storage with the rest of the war trophies. I had enough burn scars for three lifetimes.
The tent flap rustled. I half expected Galen or Brina, but nobody stepped in. Just the wind. The scent of roasted boar swept through the gap and made my stomach complain. I ignored it.
“Grow something,” I muttered to myself.
Twin chestnut trees—maybe I would plant something on that land, just to hear them laugh at the idea that a war mage could play gardener.
A cheer broke outside; someone must have tapped a new keg. Somewhere to my left, explosions of colored glamour sparks lit up the night—minor party tricks by Bronze-circle mages. I braced for the memory of real firestorms, but none came. Instead, I felt a thin line of calm settle across my shoulders.
The war was done. Karn was dead. My mentor was gone, yet he had left a map out of this ruin, written in steady ink.
I slipped the letter into an inner pocket of my coat. Then I sat again and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, letting the tent noise wash over me like surf. In the lull, I tried on the next sentence out loud.
“I’m going home.”
The words felt ridiculous—my home village was ashes—but Aerenvale counted now. If a man inherits a leaky house and a patch of ground, that patch is home by default. Simple math.
I shut my eyes and pictured the walk up a dusty lane, soft lamplight glowing in cottage windows, somebody baking bread at dawn. I let the picture keep rolling until the urge to grip my staff faded to nothing. I could hear Camling’s laugh, that patient rasp that always carried a smile. He used it when I botched lessons, when I blew half a hedge to cinders, when I knocked him into a pond testing a pulse spell. I heard it now and felt the corner of my mouth lift.
Outside, three horns sounded—a ceremonial call to the Grand Concord standard. Time for the grand speech, no doubt. A chisel of pain cut behind my eyes; I was in no mood for speeches.
I stood, stretched the cramp from my legs, and reached for my travel kit. Dawn marching orders would land sooner or later. When they did, I’d request immediate leave and write the dates myself if bureaucracy tried to stall me.
“Chestnut trees,” I said, as though Camling might hear. “I’ll ring your damn bell at sundown every night.”
I paused at the tent flap, one hand on the canvas tie. Celebration thundered outside: drums, cheers, glasses clashing. I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped through. The wind slapped my face with cold air rich with woodsmoke and spilled ale. The stars above the ridge looked hard and bright, like new nails hammered into dark wood.
I gave the crowd a nod and made for the quartermaster’s post to file my leave. The war could celebrate without me. My future waited under chestnut branches in an elven valley I’d never seen, and I intended to reach it alive, unarmed, and free of the taste of Destruction magic.
Chapter 2
A week after the final report reached the Concord Seat, I walked away from the army with nothing but a travel pack, my battered armor, my staff, and a signed furlough that promised no one would drag me back for the next twelve moons. The first two days I kept to the main military road, swapping stories for food at supply wagons headed the other way. After that I cut south and let the war disappear behind me, one mile at a time.
Blackened wheat fields lined the ruts. The stalks had burned down to stumps during one of Karn’s pushes; scavengers had picked through what little survived. Farther on, an orchard sagged, branches white with ash. I passed a boy kicking loose apples off a half-dead tree while his sister stuffed the fruit into a sack. Their coats hung off them. I boosted three apples with telekinesis—quick, casual—polished them on my sleeve, and handed them over. The girl’s freckles scrunched when she grinned.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Pay it forward when you can,” I said.
“Mom says the Grand Concord will send seeds,” the boy told me.
“They will.” I meant to keep walking, but the kid’s hopeful tone touched me. I reached into my pouch, fished out a silver coin, and pressed it into his palm. “Tell your mom to buy salt pork before prices climb. The army will be coming through here, so everything will get more expensive.”
They hurried off, jabbering about real meat. Hope, right there in a canvas sack and a coin.
Around noon on the fourth day, I crossed into the stretch of scrub that had been my own county. The road stones here lay cracked where a flame skip had rolled over them last spring. My home village used to sit three miles east. I didn’t bother turning off the path. The place was gone: char piles, a few stone corners, nothing worth the walk. I pictured my mother’s herb shed, the way that mint scent used to slap you in the face when you opened the door. All of it was dust now.
