The Transmutation Domain is often misunderstood as the quiet cousin of more overtly destructive disciplines, yet its significance is not to be understated. At its core, Transmutation allows the caster to manipulate and alter the properties of inanimate material—primarily stone, metal, and other world-born substances. Unlike domains that conjure or evoke, the Transmuter refines, reshapes, and redefines the very structure of what already exists.
This domain has seen widespread adoption not only in warfare but also in craftsmanship, architecture, and engineering. The ability to alter the density, malleability, or tensile strength of an object has made Transmuters indispensable among blacksmiths, armorers, and builders alike.
In the hands of a warrior, Transmutation becomes an art of timing. Full-plate armor can be rendered weightless during travel, then solidified to impenetrable resilience when battle begins. Shields can absorb the force of a blow not just through design, but by subtly redistributing the impact across altered structure.
Yet mastery is no small feat. The experience required to modulate mass or stiffness at the exact moment of conflict demands intense focus and spira control. A poorly timed alteration may leave a weapon brittle or cause an armor plate to collapse inward from its own weight. As such, while the domain's effects may not always be visible, Transmutation is revered by those who understand the subtlety of control. It is a domain of tacticians, artisans, and perfectionists.
The broadsword weighed far less in Siegfried's grip than his old blade, but it was balanced well—clearly forged by a skilled hand. Mia had let him choose from her personal arsenal of weaponry. A temporary loan, she'd said. Until he earned something better.
She stood across from him now, clad in full plate that shimmered faintly under the morning light. Her visor was up, revealing calm sapphire eyes and a confident smirk. A heavy mace rested against her shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Come at me," she said coolly. "With everything you've got—no holding back."
Siegfried frowned. "You expect me to commit fully—just like that?"
"How else am I meant to see what you're capable of?" Her tone was flat, but not mocking. "If you're to improve, I need to know where you stand. Or are your wounds going to become your crutch?"
There was no arrogance in her words—just expectation. But something about the casual certainty in her voice set his jaw tight. He hated being underestimated. Still, he gave a curt nod and took up a stance, sliding one foot back and angling the borrowed blade across his body.
"If you are certain of it." he said.
"I am," she replied, her smile unwavering. "Impress me."
Siegfried inhaled sharply through his nose. Then he launched forward with a boat-step, broadsword cutting through the air as he closed the distance—ready to show her exactly what he was made of.
He vanished mid-stride—his spira flaring to life, his body flickering from sight in a blink.
But Mia didn't flinch.
She took one step forward.
The moment Siegfried reappeared—blade arcing down—he collided with a wall of armor.
Mia's plated shoulder crashed into his chest with thunderous force. The blow knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him sprawling, the world spinning as his back slammed into the dirt.
He lay there for a beat, winded, staring at the sky.
Heavy boots crunched beside him.
"Boat-steps," Mia said, peering down at him. "Flashy. But only ever good for two things—catching someone off guard, or legging it."
She offered a gauntleted hand.
"You were doing neither. That sort of brute force wastes more energy than it's worth—unless it's used with a plan in mind. If I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Siegfried took her hand begrudgingly, letting her pull him up.
"Good execution," she added, releasing her grip. "But next time—think about what you're trying to achieve before charging in headfirst."
Mia didn't press him—she simply rolled her shoulder, adjusting her grip on the mace.
Siegfried paced in a slow half-circle, settling into stance once more. The boat-step had been his trump card in dozens of duels back in Aldinia. It took him years to master, to trim away the instability and build the reflexes to land precisely where he needed to. How many noble heirs had he humiliated with it? How many swordsmen, caught flat-footed before they could even blink?
And now this woman—this armored stranger—brushed it off like it was a child's trick.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, steadying himself. Fine. He'd show her he didn't need gimmicks. He had skill, he had discipline, and he didn't need to win in a single strike.
Not this time.
"At your leisure." Mia said, her stance relaxed, weapon lowered—but her eyes were sharp, watching every twitch in his muscles.
Siegfried surged forward, this time without relying on any tricks. His broadsword carved through the air in a seamless chain of forms, singing with each motion—striking low for the backs of her knees, slashing across her gauntlet to bait a parry, thrusting for the vulnerable gap beneath the arm where even the best plate left space to breathe.
He flowed from one angle to the next utilizing his swordsmanship and natural skill to its fullest. A cut toward the inside of her thigh, where the armor gave way to allow movement. A flourish to shift her balance. A feint aimed toward the gorget seam, right at the base of her neck.
But Mia was a wall.
She didn't meet his speed with speed—she adjusted. Subtle turns let slashes glance harmlessly off her pauldrons. She angled her hips to let his thrusts skim past her cuirass. The haft of her mace moved like a shepherd's crook, catching the rhythm of his attacks and guiding them away, each block done with minimal action.
No wasted energy. No exaggerated swings. The absolute control of an experienced fighter.
He pressed harder, trying to overwhelm her—but her armor didn't hinder her at all, allowing her movements to remain smooth, even graceful, despite the weight she bore. It was like fighting the tide—an unbroken, patient force, impossible to stop.
Siegfried's breath came faster. Sweat ran down the back of his neck. His muscles burned with exertion, yet his opponent remained composed, barely showing any sign of fatigue.
And still, Mia had yet to strike back.
It irritated him to no end.
No matter the fluidity of his technique, the refinement of his footwork, or the precision of his cuts—Mia adapted. She moved as though she had fought him a dozen times already, reading his rhythm before he found it himself. Siegfried gritted his teeth, boots rasped against the stone as he pivoted once more into a low stance.
He was tired of losing.
This time, he abandoned the rigidity of Bellacia's polished sword forms. He bent his knees deeper, shifted his grip on the broadsword to one hand, and twisted his torso. A wild, rising slash tore through the air—not elegant, not refined, but brutal and unexpected. It carried the full force of his weight, hips, and shoulder, a strike borne from frustration more than form.
Mia's eyes widened, her mace too far to intercept in time. She raised her off-hand instinctively—fist clenched, gauntlet up.
The blow landed with a thunderous clang that echoed across the road.
Instead of sending her reeling, the metal of her arm seemed to ripple, the segmented plates shifting subtly. The bracer, pauldron, and couter melded together in an instant, forging a seamless column of hardened steel.
Even so, she took a step back from the impact, the sheer force driving her boot into the stone with a crack.
She stared at him, clearly surprised.
"Well struck," she said, rotating her arm with a low hiss of shifting metal. "Had I not increased the density of my gauntlet, I daresay I'd have lost the arm."
Siegfried said nothing, chest heaving. But there was a grim satisfaction tightening in his jaw. At least he landed a solid blow.
Mia gave a small nod toward the carriages in the distance. "That will do for today."
Siegfried didn't move at first—his chest rising and falling in slow, labored breaths, worn from the exertion—while Mia had already slung her mace over her shoulder and begun walking.
"I'll draw up a regimen," she called back. "We'll spar each morning, after your physical training. Remember what worked today—and build on it."
Siegfried caught up to her, his brow furrowed. "What precisely do you mean by that?"
She glanced sideways at him. "You stepped outside the box—abandoned the forms for a heartbeat and fought like someone who meant to win, not impress a crowd."
Siegfried glared at her. "I am a Forcer—our forms are the very bedrock of our discipline."
"They are," she agreed. "And they're good—efficient, elegant... but predictable. Besides, the world's not made of bedrock alone, now is it?"
She stopped and turned to face him fully, pausing before she spoke again. "Forcers are deadly, yes. But they falter against anyone who's memorised the stances. You fight like a book—one I've read cover to cover."
Siegfried's eyes narrowed. "Then you are a Forcer, are you not?"
Mia shook her head. "No. I'm a Transmuter. But I've studied the other martial domains—so I know precisely how to break them."
Then, with a small smirk beneath her helm, she added, "And now I know how to fix you. We'll keep training until you can best me in a proper duel."
The clatter of wheels over packed dirt had settled into the background—steady, almost lulling. Siegfried sat within the black carriage, arms crossed, his gaze shifting between the curtained window and the woman seated across from him. Now that he had more time, he noticed the subtler details of the interior. It was far more spacious than any of the Warden caravans had ever offered, and the lacquered wood was trimmed and reinforced with steel along its edges. It felt less like a transport and more like a noble's private study on wheels.
Tancred had left that morning, riding east with Travis to investigate another lead. Siegfried had barely caught more than a glimpse of the man, and even that had left an impression—long, unkempt black hair spilling across his face, an uneven, scraggly beard. The kind of man who looked like he belonged hunched in an alley with a wineskin, not riding alongside a supposed Seeker.
Mia, on the other hand, remained as composed as ever. Armor polished, weapon at her side, posture straight even in the sway of the carriage. She hadn't said much since they set off again. Her silence only heightened Siegfried's questions—unspoken but growing harder to ignore.
Their driver, Geoffrey, had introduced himself with a bow deep enough for a duke. A silver-haired man with impeccable manners and not a speck of grime on his gloves, he struck Siegfried more of a house steward than a coachman. Geoffrey's calm voice occasionally called back to announce turns in the road, shifts in weather, or upcoming stops.
It was their mobile headquarters. Mia had referred to it that way, offhandedly, while leading him toward the back carriage—an annex of sorts.Fitted with bedding, a small desk, and shelves upon the walls—lined with scrolls and case-latched boxes. Weapons of every kind were neatly arranged on a rack near the rear—maces, swords, even a halberd with an etched silver shaft. Each piece was meticulously organized to maximize space and kept in pristine condition.
Siegfried leaned slightly forward, impatience evident. "You have yet to inform me of what we are investigating."
Mia didn't blink. "No. I haven't."
He frowned. "Do you intend to?"
"When it becomes relevant."
"It was Tancred who recruited me."
"Yes—and I'm the one letting you tag along, aren't I?"
Siegfried grit his teeth, suppressing the frustration bubbling within. "I cannot be of use if I remain ignorant of the purpose I am meant to serve."
Mia tilted her head, studying him through narrowed eyes. "That's assuming I need you to be useful right now. For now, your job is to recover, train, and observe. What you saw in Brelith isn't the end—it's the opening act."
She turned her gaze to the window, one finger absently tapping her knee, metal on metal. "When the curtain rises again, I'll inform you of your role."