As Basic surveyed the eclectic mix of Serpen's followers, his eyes settled on one particularly unusual figure. This character had a distinctive bend in his spine and a nose that was long and curved, looking almost like a beak. Wispy white hair peeked out from his cloak, giving him a decidedly sinister appearance.

  “You there, what's your story?” Basic asked, his curiosity piqued as he finished his first serving of chicken.

  “Me? sss.” the man hissed back, the sneer evident in his voice. “Why, I am a sorcerer.“

  “And what is it that you 'sorcer', my good man?” Basic inquired, leaning in with interest.

  “I mostly work with cursesss, omensss, y'know, the standard crueltiesss,” the sorcerer replied nonchalantly.

  “I see, a man of standards.” Basic quipped, amused by the sorcerer’s upfront villainy.

  Turning his attention to another figure, who looked more youthful and less intimidating but dressed in dark robes, Basic asked, “And you there, stable boy, what of you?“

  The young man bristled slightly at the label but responded with a certain pride, “I be a grand recruiter, m’lord. 300 puppets I've gathered.” His tone was enthusiastic, almost lively.

  “Impressive work,” Basic commented. “Thank you my lord” said the young recruiter reveling in the honor. “Sorry about your pal Bronson, really a shame he had to betray our master.“

  “No, it's okay,” Basic quickly added, then whispered to a nearby beast-man with a chuckle, “You know of a Bronson? I don’t.” His eyebrows flaring to the assertion.

  As Basic entertained himself with the crowd, Serpen's figure loomed large as Viktor approached with a new batch of wine. “As a sign of loyalty between our parties,” Serpen declared, “Basic and I shall conduct a ceremonial drink.“

  “Parched I am!” Basic exclaimed, eager for a good drink.

  Viktor began pouring the wine, and as the cup filled, Basic's nose twitched at the scent of grapes. “Drink,” Serpen urged, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  Basic brought the cup to his lips; it had been a long time since he drank anything. Especially true for his favorite wine. Yet as the attention drew on his lips, he paused, placing it back down. “Something feels off,” he murmured, his expression turning suspicious.

  “Now, now, you are amongst friends,” Serpen reassured him, his voice smooth and calming. He swept his arms to his creepy followers and the grand feast before them.

  The room echoed with murmurs of camaraderie from the loyal subjects, encouraging Basic to feel at ease. With a tentative smile, Basic lifted the cup again to his lips. As he sipped the wine, the onlookers watched intently, each one curious or perhaps anxious about how Basic would react to this gesture of 'friendship' in a den of treachery and magic.

  Before the wine touched his lips, Basic set the cup down once more. The commotion from the crowd fell silent in tandem with the drink's descent. “I have a request,” Basic confessed, indicating he couldn't proceed. Serpen, impatient, motioned for his menacing assassins to edge closer, their muscles tensing in anticipation.

  “I can't drink without my friend Alistair. It wouldn't be right,” Basic admitted, his voice earnest.

  “Alistair?” Serpen paused. “My puppet you brought with you?“

  “His name is not Puppet! He’s just a shy and boring, sickly man,” Basic insisted, hoping to steer the situation.

  Acknowledging his control over Alistair, Serpen saw the request as trivial and consented. He swept his arms in a grand gesture, summoning the puppet “formerly known as Alistair” into the dining hall.

  As they waited, Basic was briefly distracted by the beast-man's animated tales of pillaging, which he found strangely fascinating. Soon, Alistair shuffled into the room, his movement sluggish and devoid of life, and took a seat beside Basic without a hint of recognition or awareness.

  “Here, my old friend, drink,” Basic encouraged, offering the wine. Alistair remained still, unresponsive. “You haven’t had a drink in days, Alistair, come on.” Still, Alistair did not move.

  “Perhaps he's not thirsssty,” hissed the crooked-nose man from earlier.

  Basic, undeterred, tilted Alistair's head back and forced his mouth open, pouring the wine down his throat. “There you go,” he said, a hint of tenderness in his voice. Alistair immediately choked on the liquid, his throat swelling and his face turning a shade of purple as the poison took effect.

  “I know bed maidens with more tolerance than you,” Basic chuckled, misinterpreting Alistair's reaction for drunkenness.

  Serpen signaled Viktor to fetch more poisoned wine, while Alistair collapsed backward onto the floor, convulsing violently.

  Basic stood up, addressing the bewildered guests with a wave of his hand. “He'll be fine, no need to worry,” he announced, his voice carrying a casual indifference that belied the seriousness of the situation. The onlookers exchanged glances, unsure how to react, confusion and horror crossing their faces.

  Viktor rushed in more of the wine, splashing droplets on a nearby guest who responded with a haunted glare. Basic reached for the wine, drawing curious looks from Serpen. Instead of sipping it, Basic reached past the cup for more chicken. Serpen, irritated, coughed sharply and snapped his fingers, causing the chicken to disappear. “Drink,” he suggested, pointing to the wine.

  Basic reluctantly lifted the cup and started to make a toast to the assembled lords, but paused again, lowering the cup slightly. The tension in the room built as everyone leaned forward in anticipation. Suddenly, Basic flicked the cup back up and chugged its contents, much to Serpen's relief. He burped loudly and set the cup down.

  “Have you ever heard that alcohol is poison?” Serpen asked, trying to steer the conversation toward the seriousness of his plot.

  Basic wiped a milk mustache from his lip, misunderstanding the question. “You know, I haven't had milk in a long while. I should have it more often.“

  “Milk?” Serpen was confused. “You have to drink the wine.“

  “But I drank from a cup?” Basic protested, thinking he had completed the ceremony.

  “No, that’s not the right cup!” Serpen exclaimed, losing patience.

  “You mean there's another ceremony?” Basic asked innocently.

  “No, you fool, you have to drink the poison—I mean, the wine. Just drink the wine,” Serpen corrected himself hastily.

  “Okay, okay,” Basic conceded, lifting the cup to his lips once again. As he pretended to sip, Serpen leaned over the table, eager for victory. But as the liquid touched Basic's lips, he immediately spat it out into Serpen's face.

  “Cranberries!” Basic declared, recoiling from the smell. “I'm allergic to cranberries!“

  Serpen screamed in pain as the poison mixed with the wine began to dissolve his face in a gruesome display. His followers looked on in horror as their leader writhed on the floor, his screams filling the room. As the life ebbed from Serpen, his magic that had held his crew in thrall dissipated, releasing them from their transformed states.

  The beast-man's hooves disappeared, and he looked relieved to be human again. The crooked-nose man seemed slightly disappointed by the turn of events, while the grand recruiter looked exactly the same as before, seemingly unaffected by the chaos.

  Serpen's agonized screams eventually stopped, and Viktor looked up at Basic with tears in his eyes. “You’ve killed him,” he accused.

  “No,” Basic said nonchalantly, echoing his earlier reassurances about Alistair. “He'll be fine, nobody worry. Not everyone can handle their drink.“

  As Serpen's followers absorbed the shock of their leader's demise, they began to murmur amongst themselves, unsure of what would come next now that they were free from Serpen's dark influence.

  “He’s dead…” the Beastman declared, staring at Serpen's mutilated head in Basic's hands.

  Basic, visibly shaken by the idea of having killed someone, turned Serpen's mutilated head toward the audience. “He'll pull through, won't he?” he protested, his voice tinged with denial and fear as Serpen's face, now a hollow crater, showed no signs of life.

  Basic struggled with the reality of what he had done, then came to a peculiar realization about his “incredible spit powers.” With a solemn vow, he declared, “I'll never slobber again.“

  Amidst the tense moment, Alistair slowly rose to his feet, his magic's influence visibly waned. “You drool even with your mouth closed,” he remarked, his freewill evidently restored.

  “Alistair! You’ve sobered up!” called out Basic in surprise.

  The beast-man nodded, “Our curses have been lifted.“

  As Alistair approached Basic with what seemed like an intent to hug, the tension briefly eased. But instead of an embrace, Alistair delivered a punch straight to Basic's face.

  “You got me killed!“

  Basic, dramatically affected by the punch, nearly cried out. “That hurt!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking.

  Alistair, immediately regretting the action, softened. “I thought… aren’t you strong? That didn’t hurt.” he apologized, trying to make sense of the chaos.

  “I don’t know anymore,” Basic sniffled, playing up his injury.

  The Beastman then intervened, “You should be grateful for your loyal friend's sacrifices. He saved your life afterall,” defending his dinner buddy Basic. The crooked-nose man added with a hiss, “Yeah, and I thought Ssserpen was a jerk. Come on, guysss, let'sss go.“

  As Serpen's followers departed the tower, they each gave Alistair disdainful looks. Though Basic’s mood couldn't be drowned, “Despite Alistair's barbarism, I forgive him for his reckless behavior.” He said, trying to spin the narrative in a lighter tone.

  Alistair, infuriated by Basic's casual dismissal of the gravity of their situation, started to shout. “My barbarism?” He paused, realizing Basic might not grasp the seriousness of his point. His adrenaline waning, Alistair felt the effects of the punishment his body had taken. “My eyes… are pulsating, as if flames consumed them. My throat… feels as if I drank poison.“

  “Why would you drink poison? Ha-ha. Probably all the dying that’s clouded your judgement.” Basic joked, trying to cover his tracks.

  Noticing the slash marks on his shirt and his evident wounds, then comparing them to Basic's unscathed appearance, Alistair expressed his frustration and confusion. “Seriously, how am I like this, and you like that?” he questioned, struggling to understand the disparity between their conditions.

  “You were right, Alistair. I’m a great hero after all.“

  As the grand doors to the dimly lit dining hall creaked open, a lone figure in shabby armor emerged, his silhouette etched against the flickering torchlight. Sword in hand, Sir stepped through with deliberate caution. “Basic?… Be careful,” he advised with a wary tone, aware of the lair's notorious resident, “you're in the lair of the serpent, the bane of my existence.“

  Basic, standing amidst the disarray of the aftermath, dismissively pointed toward a disheveled heap on the floor. “We meet again, Sir! No need for subtlety. Your friend is over there,” he chirped, motioning toward the grisly remains of Serpentine, not fully grasping the gravity of the situation.

  As Sir drew closer and his eyes settled on the gruesome sight of Serpentine’s mutilated body, his expression shifted from initial shock to a deep, contemplative calm.

  Basic, slightly embarrassed by the carnage and eager to lighten the mood, quipped awkwardly, “I think he’s in a deep sleep,” trying to mask his actions.

  Sir, moved by the scene before him, knelt solemnly before Basic, his sword laid respectfully across his outstretched palms, his head bowed. “My life’s mission was to end that man’s life,” Sir confessed, his voice heavy with emotion. “Five years I’ve searched for him… and a lifetime of agony…“

  Basic, sensing the significance of Sir’s words, stood a little straighter, absorbing the unexpected praise and responsibility now laid upon him.

  Sir looked up, resolve firming in his eyes. “And now, my burden shall be to serve you,” he declared, a vow of loyalty etching his features.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Alistair stepped between the kneeling Sir and Basic, his tone sharp but composed.

  “You honor him, Sir. Truly. Yet—“

  “I accept,” Basic cut in, smiling as if Alistair hadn’t spoken.

  Sir bowed his head, beginning to rise. “My lord—“

  “No, no, he didn’t say that,” Alistair snapped, yanking Basic aside. “Excuse us, Sir.“

  Sir stood there, confused and a little insulted.

  Alistair gripped Basic by the shirt and hissed, “Remember our quest? To save the realm, hmm?“

  Basic blinked. “Not specifically… but have no fear, friend. With the army I’m building, I’ll rid Gilgamar of evil—one person at a time.“

  Alistair shut his eyes, fighting the urge to scream. His tone dropped to a whisper. “We don’t have time for an army, Basic. For every person saved, a dozen are lost. This is a quest for you and I alone.“

  Sir, still hovering nearby, called out, “Is everything all right, my lord?“

  Basic waved him off. “What harm can a knight-companion be? He’s a mighty warrior, Alistair.“

  “He can’t be a knight,” Alistair muttered. “Because you’re not a lord.“

  Basic shrugged. “And who would check such a thing?“

  “They keep records—it’s… checkable!” Alistair sputtered.

  Sir, limping from his wounds, stepped closer. “You will not speak to Lord Basic like that in my presence.“

  Alistair clenched his fists. He’d lost his gold, been attacked by the gatekeeper, nearly turned to shadow—and now his grand quest to save the realm was being rewritten by a bald imbecile.

  “Oh look,” he said dryly, “is that Serpen still breathing?“

  Basic turned at once to the dead sorcerer, eyes wide with false hope. “Hold on, I can still save him!“

  He knelt to give the corpse chest compressions.

  Alistair took the chance to pull Sir aside. “Sir, I need a word.“

  The knight’s size had always made him imposing, but his injuries left him hunched and weary—almost mortal. For the first time since meeting him, Alistair wasn’t intimidated.

  “Basic and I,” he began, “are bound for Kingdomshire.“

  Sir’s eyes brightened. “So you were serious.“

  “Yes… Basic, as you’ve seen, is… not normal.“

  “The boy was touched by shadow,” Sir said reverently. “And yet his body remains unstained. He reached for it as though trying to embrace it.“

  “Exactly,” Alistair said quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to explain. I knew he was special before anyone else. But the truth is—it might be better if you served him from afar.“

  “Afar?” Sir echoed, narrowing his eyes. “And what claim do you have to Gilgamar’s power that I do not?“

  Alistair hesitated. “As I said, I knew his potential early on. I don’t pretend to understand what he is—but I have a hunch about his part to play.“

  “And what part is that?” Sir asked.

  Alistair glanced over; Basic was still pounding on Serpen’s chest with heroic determination. Satisfied he wasn’t listening, Alistair lowered his voice.

  “Basic… might be… evil.“

  “Evil,” Sir repeated flatly.

  “Yes. A light born of darkness. Surely you’ve heard the prophecy. Maybe not pure evil—morally gray, perhaps, or corrupted from something greater—“

  Sir turned away, calling to his lord, “My lord, are you—“

  Alistair darted between them. “Think about it! Why else would the shadow have no effect on him? Serpen must have tried to preserve his own life – the dinner, that was some sort of a peace treaty. The evil that rules Gilgamar can not corrupt him—because he is it. And yet, he’s undone by women and words. I saw him bested by the Rose Knight the night we met.“

  Sir frowned. “And what commoner should defeat a knight?“

  “It’s not about that,” Alistair said quickly. “Those with kindness in their hearts cannot be corrupted by darkness. Purity repels him like an arrow from a bow.“

  Sir crossed his arms. “You speak of hope as if it's dread. He who I owe my life to. If he’s willing, I shall accompany him to Kingdomshire and beyond—but from now on, allow me to stand his guard.“

  Alistair exhaled. Not the answer he wanted, but it was enough for now. Sir was still a wild card—but at least, for once, he was a predictable one.

  Alistair whistled for Basic. “Let him sleep, Basic. He’ll wake eventually.“

  Basic, of course, heard exactly what he wanted to hear. He jogged after Alistair, grinning, while Sir limped into formation behind them.

  Together, the three strolled out of the dining hall, their footsteps echoing through the warped corridors of the Crooked Tower. Down the spiraling stairs they went until the heavy doors loomed before them once more.

  Alistair pushed them open, and the trio stepped into daylight—only to find the courtyard alive with Serpen’s former followers, shuffling and laboring across the grounds like ants without a queen.

  “Oh, they're still here. Forgot about them,” Basic remarked nonchalantly, as if remembering a minor detail, he'd left off his daily to-do list.

  Sir, observing the confused crowd, noted, “There were hundreds more when I arrived. It seems many have taken their freedom and fled.“

  With a dismissive wave, Basic said, “Shoo, get, be gone,” treating the bewildered group as one might address a stray cat intruding on a porch. But the former puppets stood still, their expressions one of deep confusion and lost purpose.

  “They are waking up from a coma, my lord” Sir explained with a hint of sympathy.

  “Yes,” Alistair agreed, softening his voice. “They’re trying to remember who they are, what they are. There’s no telling how long they’ve been under Serpen’s control. Everything they know could be lost.“

  Feeling kinship, Sir gingerly congratulated Alistair for his regained consciousness, and the two shared a brief, meaningful embrace. Their moment, however, was interrupted by the sound of Basic's voice as he spun tales for a former puppet.

  “Okay, your name is Terrance, and you live in Lolliport. You were a mason, have three children, but your wife cheated on you with your butcher,” Basic declared confidently, fabricating a life story on the spot.

  The man, eager for any anchor in the swirling sea of his confusion, nodded vigorously. “I’ll kill that butcher,” he declared with newfound purpose, much to Basic's delight.

  “That’s the spirit,” Basic cheered, clapping the man on the back. “Go back and reclaim your life.“

  Saluting, the man rushed off, fueled by the false memories Basic had planted.

  “You recognize him?” Alistair asked, slightly amused by Basic’s antics.

  “No, but that’s a realistic life, don’t you think?” Basic responded with a grin.

  Realizing the ethical dilemma of Basic’s approach, Alistair climbed atop a nearby mound and addressed the gathered crowd, who mindlessly turned their attention to him.

  “It has come to my attention that Serpen Serpantine has been defeated. Slain in warm blood, and releasing you from a cold slumber,” he announced solemnly. “For some, it could be weeks, under his spell, and for others, years. You may not remember who you are. In this moment of uncertainty, you would be wise to distrust me, but I bear no ill will. I was a puppet just as you were. I too have come to terms with being dead, yet I shall continue forth. If you will have me, I shall lead you to a brighter future. Follow me to regain your past.“

  The crowd listened, some with tears forming, others nodding slowly, as Alistair’s words offered them a glimmer of hope in the midst of their confusion and loss. Basic hung back, skeptical of Alistair’s sudden assertiveness.

  “What is this plan you speak of?” Sir asked, keeping his voice low to avoid the ears of the gathering crowd.

  “We need help. Real help,” Alistair responded without looking back. “The fairies of Fairhaven can heal and protect these people. Perhaps they can undo Serpen’s curses.“

  “Fairies?” Basic scoffed, looking around as if expecting to spot one fluttering about. “What about minotaurs, or dragons? They sound more useful than some sparkle-tossing pixies.“

  Alistair stopped and turned to Basic, his expression serious. “This is no time for your jokes, Basic. We’re all hurt, look around you. Sir—the people here—they have all endured what you were spared.“

  Basic crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And you know where these fairies live? Do they live in this mushroom?” as he kicked the head off the nearest fungi.

  “I’ve read of a purple hewed forest that was said to be the beginning of our world,” Alistair explained, gesturing to the trees that surrounded them, which seemed to shimmer slightly under the setting sun’s light. “Powerful magic, once the home of Fairies and anything pint-sized. I’d say that’s where the bulk of Serpen’s power came from, perhaps now, it’s the source for all who whisper.“

  Basic mulled this over, then hesitantly voiced the unease that had been gnawing at him. “Don’t be so sure. I heard things, Alistair. Weird chants, stuff pulling at me as we passed through. Is it a fairy tale or a nightmare you’re after?“

  Alistair met Basic’s gaze, his eyes steady. “We don’t have much choice, Basic. If fairies are indeed still alive, then hope breathes for the realm. That, or we leave these captures to fend for themselves with whatever broken minds Serpen left them with.“

  Sir interjected, “I have to agree with him, my lord. We made a promise to the women in Rogue.“

  Reluctantly, Basic nodded, though his doubts remained. “Alright, fairy-man, lead the way. But if any creature starts to sing, I’m blaming you.“

  With a nod to Sir, who had been quietly observing their exchange, Alistair turned back to the crowd. He raised his voice, now infused with a blend of hope and urgency.

  “Follow me, everyone, your pasts await you!“

  With a mix of curiosity and desperation, the crowd began to follow Alistair into the forest, the trees welcoming them with an eerie, beautiful glow that promised either salvation or enchantment. Basic, still dubious but committed to the path chosen, followed close behind, his eyes scanning the shadows for any hint of the voices that had spoken to him before.

  But Alistair,” Sir asked quietly, “The fairies haven’t been seen in a generation. How can you expect to find what no longer exists?“

  Alistair leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I know more of the ancient times—and their magic—than anyone in Gilgamar. I’d bet my life the fairies are still out there, hiding in a world of their own making.“

  Sir regarded him with newfound respect.

  “I’m not as foolish as my company might suggest,” Alistair quipped, allowing himself a rare moment of pride.

  As the group reached a clearing surrounded by trees shimmering with golden hues, Basic and Sir lingered at the back, listening to the former puppets express their excitement about the magical realm of Fairhaven. Basic scoffed at each mention of the mystical beings, his skepticism clear.

  Alistair, standing at the center of the clearing, clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention. “Please, everyone, gather around. To open the path to Fairhaven, we must unite in spirit and purpose. Join hands and form a circle. We must be intertwined to prove our purity of heart. Then you must repeat back to me the song of friendship, these words are of ancient magic that grant us passage to their world.“

  As the crowd hesitantly linked hands, forming a large circle, Basic dragged a broken tree branch into the center of the gathering and sat down with a thud, making his disapproval obvious. He crossed his arms, watching the preparations unfold with visible disinterest.

  “Alistair, I'm perfectly fine here. Don’t worry, I’m with you all in spirit,” Basic called out as Alistair shot him a disgruntled look.

  “You must participate, Basic,” Alistair insisted, his tone a mix of irritation and urgency. “The circle must be complete; everyone must be included.“

  “Oh, so now you deny my friendship Alistair. How my heart bleeds,” Basic retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Alistair, resolving to accept Basic’s stubborn participation, instructed everyone to close their eyes, think happy thoughts, and follow along to a gentle melody. The song spoke of peace and friendship, floating softly in the air, mingling with the golden light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with their singing. Basic, sitting on his branch, watched the scene unfold, his face a mask of feigned indifference, yet his eyes occasionally flicking to the interconnected hands of those around him. Especially of Sir, who he had expected better from.

  As the melody of friendship hummed softly through the air, the weight on the branch next to Basic suddenly shifted. He turned, startled, to see a large, fat bearded man settling beside him, his presence enough to tilt the branch dramatically.

  “Ah! Shouldn't you… be in the circle of shame?” Basic asked, eyeing the man’s hefty frame skeptically.

  The giant man, with a merry accent, chuckled heartily. “Oh, lad, I've no need for such fairy gatherings. Their magic's too light for my taste,” he said, dismissing the circle with a wave of his hand.

  Basic nodded enthusiastically, as if he had found a kindred spirit. “By the gods! A man of reason.” he exclaimed, warming up to the conversation.

  “I'm Mashtin, Mashtin Potatus,” the overgrown man introduced himself with a broad grin, extending a hand that seemed as large as Basic’s head.

  “Basic—” Basic began, but Mashtin cut him off with a knowing chuckle.

  “Hairy, is that you?” Mashtin quipped, eyeing Basic's bald head with a twinkle in his eye.

  Basic paused, taken aback. “Hairy? Do you mean me? Well, I do have hair… just it’s hard to see sometimes,” he said, rubbing his smooth scalp perplexedly.

  “When you were a babe, you had the finest locks in all of Gilgamar. What in the world happened to your glorious mane?” Mashtin asked, his voice booming with curiosity.

  As Basic awkwardly tried to explain his lack of hair, Mashtin waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, but I know it's you who defeated that wretched Serpen Serpantine. He was a nasty bugger, wasn't he?” Mashtin said with a knowing look. “Tell me about that poison spitting spell of yours.“

  Basic shifted uncomfortably on the tilting branch, scratching his head. “Well, it was just… I simply believed hard enough.” he mumbled, feeling somewhat embarrassed that his most heroic feat was based on a fluke.

  Mashtin burst into hearty laughter, slapping his knee. “That’s not how magic works, ya lemon. You're a sorcerer, Hairy, it’s time you start acting like one” he exclaimed, mispronouncing Basic's name again with a twinkle in his eye.

  Basic's eyes lit up with the realization. “A sorcerer?” he echoed, his chest puffing out with newfound pride.

  “That's right! And you know what, lad? You should come with me to Dinglebat's School of Sorcery. Forget these fairy games. I'll show you some real magic,” Mashtin offered, gesturing expansively.

  Basic's excitement soared. “Really? But does your school rely on… friendship or something more self-serving?” he asked cautiously, not wanting to commit to more of the same mawkish magic he'd been avoiding.

  Mashtin snorted, “Oh, friendship is only half of it. The rest is proper magic—fireballs, lightning bolts, you name it!“

  That was all Basic needed to hear. “Well then, count me in!” he declared, ready to abandon the fairy-led quest for a chance to wield real wizardly power under Mashtin's tutelage.

  As the melodic tones of the circle's song filled the air, Alistair noticed the commotion where Basic and the large man were conversing. Focused on maintaining the integrity of the circle of friendship, he called out without breaking his grasp, “Basic, what are you up to now?” His voice carried over the singing of the other members.

  Startled, Basic panicked, realizing his plan to escape was on the verge of being uncovered. “Quick, Mashtin, get us out of here!” he whispered urgently.

  Mashtin chuckled and produced a broomstick, tossing it to Basic. Basic, ever the literalist, straddled the broomstick, expecting to soar into the air immediately. When nothing happened, he looked at Mashtin in confusion. “It's not working!“

  Mashtin rolled his eyes, amused. “It's a broomstick, you nitwit, not a horse. Sweep it like this!” Demonstrating, Mashtin started sweeping the forest floor vigorously with his broom, and to Basic's astonishment, Mashtin began to lift off the ground.

  As the transformation into Fairhaven began around the singing circle, Alistair sensed the shift and called out more urgently, “Basic, no!“

  However, the dark chants that Basic had heard earlier echoed in his mind, urging him to flee the magical transformation. Motivated by the sinister whispers, Basic mimicked Mashtin’s sweeping motions. Gradually, awkwardly, he too began to rise off the ground.

  “Come on, we haven't got all day!” Mashtin called out, already hovering a few feet above the ground.

  With a few more frantic sweeps, Basic managed to stabilize and hovered beside Mashtin. Looking down, he saw Alistair, Sir, and the rest of the men, now fully engulfed in the glowing transition to Fairhaven, fading from view.

  As they flew away, Basic looked back momentarily, the magical gateway closing behind his friends, leaving him torn between his newfound wizardly path and the friends he was leaving behind in the magical forest.