Lorebook: Mageflame
On the Origins and
Uses of Mageflame
LORE
Mageflame, or magelight as it is sometimes called, was not, in fact, named for its discoverers - though credit for its initial creation lies with the alchemists of the Ma’sayifra Kingdom. Instead, its name was borne from the simple, grim truth that it burned mages particularly well. It burned everything well, to be sure. But for those who wielded magic, the flame is more than fire - it is suffering made manifest. Magelight clings closely to those touched by the arcane, igniting with a hunger that seems to feed on the very essence of magic itself.
Before ignition, mageflame resembles a thick, inky tar, dark blue in color and nearly opaque, a substance that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. When the first alchemists prepared it, they took care to store it in iron or thick glass containers, for even a stray spark could transform the sluggish, tarry liquid into a bright and ravenous blaze. Upon being lit, mageflame burns with an unnatural brilliance, a blue so bright it casts its surroundings in cold, ghostly light. Its flames dance higher and more fiercely than common fire, refusing to be doused by water or dirt.
The earliest uses of magelight were less cruel, at least by design. Originally, alchemists of the Ma’sayifra Kingdom created it as a defensive measure, a means to secure their fortresses and outposts that dotted their growing empire. Poured down fortified walls or set to the tips of arrows and siege weapons, it clung to enemies and consumed siege engines alike. But as word spread of its particular effect on magic users, its purpose darkened.
Over the years, the Wardens and the High Marked of the Second Order have taken a perverse satisfaction in this fact, finding dark amusement in the nickname their liquid fire has earned. For them, mageflame is not just a tool of destruction, but a symbol of the divine retribution they believe they wield. It is a fire that does not simply consume. It purifies.
To be caught using magic - or even suspected of doing so - rarely leaves one with more than a few days to live. There is, of course, often a trial. The Second Order, for all its faults, can never be accused of failure to follow procedure.
The subject of any inquest is to be brought before a local Justicar, who presides over the hearing with all the gravity just such a position demands. Gathered with the Justicar may be various government officials - local magistrates, middling bureaucrats from some provincial hamlet, and, on occasion, a representative from whatever passes for a constabulary. Each is compelled to dutifully attest to their knowledge of the accused, recounting the events that led to this dire moment.
Testimonies are then reviewed, evidence weighed, and a disposition offered by the Justicar and whatever small council they kept. These councils - typically comprised of Redemptors, Diviners, and Imperators - wear titles that implied wisdom and authority, though in truth, they are often former Wardens themselves, more comfortable with an axe than with parchment. Their histories as soldiers of the faith made them swift in judgment, and even swifter in execution.
Occasionally, a local bishop-turned-Diviner might insinuate themselves into the council, securing a seat through favors paid to the Second Order - often in the form of a Writ of Remission or other well-placed tokens of gratitude made payable to the Justicar themself. Yet, despite these machinations, the outcome of any trial is almost never in doubt. Deliberations rarely last more than half a day, as they typically only mete out a single sentence: death.
To be sure, the doctrines of the Second Order speak oft of redemption - of offering apostates and heretics a path back to righteousness. The ruling Prefects regularly publish treatises that expound at great length upon the virtue of Redemption. Prefect Elorien himself was well known for such proclamations:
"No soul is ever fully lost, for the Fates weave paths unseen. Redemption comes not through swift judgment but through allowing one to find their way back to the Sacral Thread. It is not for us to tear asunder what the Fates may yet mend. Offer mercy, for in mercy lies the true hand of the divine."
- Prefect Elorien, Sermons on the Fourfold Mercy
These words echo from pulpits across Atheria, reminding the faithful that even the most corrupt may be saved. But in practice, few Wardens care to listen. They know the truth better than most: mercy is dangerous. After all, magelight is not just a tool of fire - it serves as a reminder. A reminder that in the eyes of the Second Order, there is no sin greater than magic, and no fire too hot to cleanse it.
And so, even when trials are held, Wardens will do everything in their power to avoid bringing in anyone who might survive the ordeal with breath still in their lungs and skin still on their bones.