"First, allow me to test your knowledge. How much do you know about magic, kid?"
Raoul leaned back. "Enough. My mother's always placed great importance in making sure I'm ahead of my peers by a few years." He pulled up all the fingers from his right hand. "I first learned how to cast a cantrip when I was five. My knowledge is mostly theoretical now, though."
"That solves half the problem," the man nodded, impressed. "How about the Cycles, then? Did they teach you that at school?"
"I know that Rynth builds upon the Cycles," He replied, his voice sounding as if he was reading lines from a textbook. "Our ancestors declared Awakening the first, and each subsequent Cycle is called as Man progresses in the field of technology." He drifted his attention from the man and to the wider environment around. He noted the distant glass tower built in a strange arch off in the distance, and then moved to the Living Tree that had been repurposed into a farmer's market, and then finally onto the mountain in the far edge of Cias Buril where a constructed open cage of tumbaga of enormous magnitude housed an angelic stone statue of similar height was. "I know we who are in Synthesis now take much inspiration from the past Cycles in how we manage, build, and expand civil—"
"Didn't really ask for the whole brochure," the man sighed in dissatisfaction. "I mean Driving. You don't truly believe the Cycles are just fancy titles given by whichever fat council decided Rynth was truly progressing on all fronts when it's not, do you?"
Raoul tilted his head. "You're referring to Drivers, then. The ones who employ control over the Cycles and use it to modify their spells in various ways."
The man snapped a finger in approval. "Bingo. You've heard of us, then?"
"Only in old blog posts. I've read a few articles, but I heard many went corporate and are now owned by private security and military companies. I was under the impression most free Drivers were long driven out of commission after everything turned peaceful."
"True, but that doesn't mean we've phased out entirely. Drivers who weren't needed anymore were repurposed towards other occupations. I used to be an adventurer, you know. Was an archaic job, but it was good fun. Spent most of my days running from Cias Buril all the way to Nnelto-Dais and the North Sento exploring ancient ruins and entwining caverns. Now I've taken up office as a sort of freelancer Driver."
"Wasn't The Fifth Cycle over three thousand years ago, Mister…?"
"Krocko. Krocko Heptiralyth. My coworkers call me Krock. And yes, but that didn't mean adventuring wasn't a thing a couple thousand years past that. I'm only fifty-two, but I still recall my glory days like it was yesterday. It's only 'cause of how fast everything's progressing that jobs like ours started to die out."
Raoul nodded. It was his first time engaging in conversation with a Driver, and he was every bit as odd as his imagination made it out to be. "I'm Raoul. Raoul Mestefi. So why were you staring at me, Mister Krocko? What part of me interested you so much to lock eye contact for almost five minutes?"
"Oh, that? Simple." He reached downward to pick up the cane he had set aside. He then tapped it against the floor routinely. "I noticed you were yearning." At Raoul's visible frown of confusion, Krocko chuckled. "Every once in a while, some folks get tired of living in today's world and begin to yearn for more. Those people start glowing, albeit only slightly. Little changes of fate start occurring. It's the world's subtle way of bringing together fellow would-be and current Drivers. In this case, it brought me to you."
A deep grumble followed his explanation. The two's attention directed to Krocko's stomach, and both laughed. Raoul's was a slight chuckle that was quickly stifled with a hand, while Krocko's was of a loud bellow. "Sorry, I passed up on getting to my usual burger joint early because you were so interesting." He stood up and tapped his cane once. "Tell you what, how about we take this to my spot? We can continue talking about this behind the comfort of an air-conditioned eatery and while stuffing our faces with burgers and fries. I'll treat you."
Raoul's reply came in the form of an anxious nod, and so they did.
The scents and sounds of hamburger meat being flipped to sizzle on char-stained grills and the mouthful chomps of glee from patrons quickly replaced the easing wind caress and electric vibe of Destagt. Krocko scanned the room in one sweep, nodding as Raoul pointed out a two-person table by the window that hadn't been taken yet. He nodded and led the boy to sit opposite.
"Not my usual spot, but it'll do." Krocko commented, and then pointed to the far edge of the table. "Go ahead and scan the QR code and order what you want."
"Very kind of you," Raoul flicked his smartphone out and began sliding through the electronic menu, muttering incomprehensible remarks at the wide selection of food despite the simple exterior of the restaurant. "What do you want, Mister Krocko?"
He raised a palm to stop him. "Just Krocko's fine. Never was a fan of fancy titles. And get me one Flehvian-style, two chocolate chip cookies, one soda float, and a sundae—the chocolate flavored one."
The boy raised an eyebrow at the slew of confections. "Do you have a sweet tooth? Each one of those would have my molars aching after the meal. Even the Flehvian's a sweet burger."
"Just a really good metabolism. When I was younger, I never had the money to buy the sort. Dad also never gave me much of an allowance, so I was stuck with the bare necessities. Now I've got money and choose to spend it stuffing myself with confections-de delight. And when you've got contingency wards packed with restoration and purification spells tattooed around your body that refresh when you pump Jati into it, you don't care much for health."
"Is that why corporate Drivers always seem to have good physiques despite being confined to office jobs for many hours at a time?"
"It is. But they sometimes do get sent out to quell unrest in poorer parts of the city, so there's a bit of exercise." He stood up in an instant, leaned over the table, and stared into Raoul's eyes intently. "Not the important part, though. Tell me, Raoul. Have you ever thought about becoming a Driver?"
The boy blinked, eyes stuck in an odd extended shut-open motion for many seconds before he forced himself to stop. "I can't say I have. Would this be an extended offer from you, Krocko?"
Krocko sat back down, arms crossed. "It could be. That depends on whether or not you display the qualities I'm looking for in a Driver."
"And those qualities would be…?"
"Where's the fun in that, now?" He leaned back into his chair and cackled. The other patrons all turned to silently chastise him with disapproving looks, forcing him to clear his throat. "Ahem. Anyway, I can't exactly tell you myself. Depending on the person I'm speaking to, I make up different mental points for them in my head that I want each one to hopefully achieve. Sometimes they're easily obtained, and sometimes they're difficult." He stretched out both of his arms to his sides, flexing them out into his full wingspan. A second later he shrunk the distance by half. "Yours is about middle of the pack."
"So… it's an arbitrary system you think up on the fly."
"Exactly. But don't worry, you're already doing pretty good. Now, will you answer my question, or do you want to wait until we've stuffed ourselves full?"
Raoul felt an itch on his lip, and he moved to bite the skin subconsciously. "Would you mind if I thought over my answer for a few minutes before I responded?"
"No bother." Krocko replied, a nonchalant wave following it. "Just don't think too much about it. You're not here to impress me. I'm just looking to hear what your inner thoughts are like."
It was always a bad habit of his, a strange faux pas he couldn't quite control despite his many attempts to remedy. It was always in three parts—overthinking was the first, closing his eyes was the second, and likening circumstances to children's stories his mother once read to him when things were simpler was the third. All three functioned simultaneously, fusing into a strange sense of mental dysmorphia.
Atop the peak of a heaven-piercing mountain was a town. As it was built on the very precipice of the mountain, the town and its surroundings were often covered in thigh-deep snow all year round.
Inside a comfy and well-heated multistoried cabin built at the edge of the town lived a small bird in its loft. When it was young, the loft was peaceful. The wooden beams it rested upon were wide and sturdy. The grain its keeper always fed it was of top quality, imported directly from the towns at the surface of the mountain where the sun always shone and the land was always fertile. The keeper herself was kind and gentle, and she spoke to the bird in soft sweetings while she fed it.
One winter, the keeper's husband suddenly passed away. The two had always spent their mornings greeting the bird, enjoying the way it brushed against their fingers as it ate from the grain in their hands. Grief struck the keeper. She feared the cold from then on. She barred every window, locked the lone door to the cabin, and only fed the bird when she was sure it would not wander too far. She told it the world outside had grown cruel, and that its wings were not ready.
The bird grew. The loft stayed warm, but it began to feel narrow. Its wings started to brush against the rafters when it stretched. A strange sensation would overcome the bird when it stared out of the narrow gaps in the planks nailed to the window. It wanted to fly, to soar through the skies and be free. And yet, every time it looked toward the shuttered window, it remembered the warmth of past years and feared it would fall.
It was unheard of in the town for spring to come. When it did, it was fleeting, but beautiful. Such a day came. The planks in the window had loosened from time passing, allowing more light to pass through and for more of the sky outside to be seen. It creaked slightly, indicating it had never been closed, only barred. The bird perched before the window for a long time, afraid that even looking might be a kind of betrayal.
But the light was warm. It liked the feeling of its rays on its feathers. The air smelled of rain and new growth. And the sky did not look as if it were primed to hurt it as its keeper had told.
The bird did not fly that day. It did not need to. It only stayed by the opening, letting the breeze ruffle its feathers.
And when the planks further loosened and the window further pulled open in time, the bird would be ready, not because it was unafraid, but because it had already begun to look outward.
Raoul opened his eyes, an intense fire of want burning deeply in his irises. He sat upright and matched Krocko's eye-level. He breathed deeply—perhaps the deepest he had ever done in his life at that moment—and responded.
"I haven't, Krocko, but I have thought of it now, and if you were to ask me whether I would want to be a Driver, then my answer would be yes."
Krocko smiled.