‘It is time,’ he thought to himself with apprehension. He sat back in his seat and pressed his eyes shut. He imagined the coach swelling in size as his power bubbled around him, pushing out a force-field that contained only him and his intent. His whole body trembled as his power reached its peak, and at once hurled the power forward. Seconds later, he sensed his success. Somehow, he heard the links of every chain wrapped around the gate snap in his ears like broken fingers. The bonds fell from their loops and pooled on the ground, and with a quickly-summoned wind, the gate creaked apart like an old secret from an old man’s lips.
He smiled; the Outlawed East enforced many rules, and many laws. The one they all spoke about was the first law, “this is our justice”, if anybody could call it that. But there was another that rose an edict above the rest: commit magick under the shadow of death. How wonderfully easy it had been to ignore.
A hot, stifling wind surged into the stagecoach, whipping the majihan’s braid like loose cord. It boiled through his lungs before he could fight it away, he had no doubt it was the kickback of the East’s sensors; he had invented them, after all. One more of his innovations that had betrayed his people, one more magickal device used against those of magickal blood by those who purported to despise it. Just a small enchantment would alert the wardens that there was a magus in their land, one more for them to track down and give to death. It was a fool’s rebellion, but as the riders enclosed around him, their weapons outstretched over the hedgerows, he knew he had no other choice. He snapped his fingers, and his Noxians surged forward, their pupils dilating as they moved at a speed faster than what was natural.