P r o l o g u e

Life is a journey, not a destination … the fun is in getting there." – Ursula Le Guin

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The room was illuminated by bright sources of energy. Darkness was rarely found except for the natural shadows that formed from the bright—almost holy— room. As if it were an angel’s abode, he walked. His wing-like cape draped his shoulders, and hung from him like the thinnest of liquid.

His eyes squinted as they looked upon the darkening light. He stopped and then knocked.

“Bring him in for his next assignment,” said a man from a desk, his eyes never diverting from the task in his hand.

There he arrived, a boy of nineteen: proud, powerful, and respected enough for the throne-room guards to open their crossed pikes. He kneeled in front of the man whom had called him, though he felt, nevertheless, unwelcome.

“I am here, as always,” said the boy, disgustedly.

“Yes, yes,” said the man, brushing off the blatant rudeness with a wave of his hand, just to continue with his speech. “Back to business.”

The boy scowled, though unnoticed. “Of course.”

“I need you to kill someone before the war between the two nations tomorrow, Ephraim,” said the superior blandly.

“Though I just returned, must I again? I just stopped England from punishing the United States for treason! What more do you want from me? George was not a fun guy, I must say. Quite rude, and he spits when he talks.”

“That is your job,” the absolute controller started, “and I pay you handsome rewards. Must we speak of this every time I order you for a Correction? You are the Head Guardian of Time! You entice Fate to do your bidding by your power! We need you, Ephraim, and you know that. You’re just taking advantage of that fact.”

The guards looked at Ephraim quizzically (almost murderously). He regained his composure in fear of combat, getting out of his kneeled position and dusting off his clothing unnecessarily. “Who—well, when—is my target?” Ephraim asked in a bored tone.

“Lord Fianne, Wingèd Seraph of the Queendom of the Moon, after, Camelot” said the king.

“Oh,” Ephraim replied slightly cheered, not even caring about the “Fianne” portion. “Camelot,” he said dreamily, “ The Time of Arthurian Reign. The Golden Age of the Britons!”

“Do not be fooled. When has your job ever had to do with what you expect it to be? Someone has broken the thousand-mage enchantment on the Stone!”

“The one that held Excalibur?” Ephraim replied, dumbfounded.

“Precisely,” the Superior encouraged. “And your job is to take that charlatan off the throne of Arthur’s and take Excalibur away from him in time to put it back on the Stone with all the proper enchantments.”

“I’ll need one thousand mages,” droned Ephraim.

“I think two very special sorcery-practitioners of said time shall be enough.”

“Morgan le Fay, and Merlin Ambrosius?” Ephraim sighed. “I have to go back to my previous occupation? I’ll need to practice before I am capable of doing that.”

“Already arranged,” the Superior said, his nose still in his writing. “You shall go back to your original teaching job in Winguard, School of Sorcery.”

“Good, and what about this… erm… Fianne person?”

“Though he can hurt no one by will, he can surely hurt any person with their own power tenfold. Thus, he may be your best adversary.”

“I am not that weak,” replied Ephraim sharply.

“We shall see,” retorted the Superior calmly.

“Yes, we shall,” Ephraim said, stifling unintelligible compliments at the person in front of him. “However, in which time-period does he reside?”

“2010, the Era of MMORPGs, Ephraim,” the man said, chuckling. “Instead of staying an MMORPG, a game turned into reality. You’ll have to correct this.”

“Fine,” he said as he turned around, wishing to walk out. “Get my transport ready for Winguard. I shall deal with Fianne later.” Thinking that the guards were too slow at opening their closed pikes, Ephraim imploded them. An invisible barrier around him stopped his clothing from being blood-spattered and not wishing to dirty his footwear, he hovered over the pool of blood that blocked his path, thus, exiting the office.

“What a waste,” the man muttered to himself once Ephraim had left, massaging his temple. “The Essences these days are so impatient.” He sighed, reverting his attention back to his paperwork humming a tune of, for some reason, Sabre Dance.