Chapter 210

My business with Magister Stonebridge had concluded.

Archmagus Whitrowe, headmaster of Spellmarch University, was dead. Three Archmagi now vied for the position he had left behind.

Fairleigh possessed political connections that reached throughout Morentis. He could secure funding, attract talent, and elevate the university's prestige. Whether he cared about students, scholarship, or discovery nearly as much as he cared about influence remained an open question.

Hartwell was the opposite. A researcher to his core, he spent most of his life buried in laboratories and lecture halls, peeling back the mysteries of mana and aether. Brilliant, innovative, and genuinely curious, he possessed little interest in politics and even less talent for it. Under his leadership, Spellmarch might usher in discoveries that reshaped magical theory for generations.

Neither of them was why I had been summoned.

Stonebridge wanted my assessment of Archmagus Bellamyre.

Bellamyre had become convinced that mana was being consumed faster than it was replenished. He advocated licensing the practice of magic, regulating its use, and imposing taxes on large-scale magical operations. His theories had gained enough traction that some members of the Council were beginning to take them seriously.

The problem was that his conclusions rested on assumptions rather than evidence.

There was no proof that mana reserves were diminishing.

There was also no proof they were not.

My conversations with Myrrakai, combined with what I had learned of Earth, had given me a perspective few others possessed. The differences between worlds had forced me to reexamine assumptions most scholars accepted without question. As a result, I was uniquely suited to evaluate Bellamyre's work.

Over the previous several weeks, I had reviewed his data, reconstructed his methodology, and run my own projections.

The results were clear. Mana production appeared remarkably stable. Historical models suggested gradual growth rather than decline.

Barring divine catastrophe, the world's magical infrastructure was likely sustainable for centuries.

Unfortunately, divine catastrophe was a very real possibility.

I had spent a day and a half in Spellmarch. It was longer than I had intended. Long enough for me to miss my family more than expected.

I missed all of them, though being separated from Morien proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I wanted nothing more than to go home, hold my daughter, and enjoy dinner with my family.

I crossed the courtyard outside the Arcane Tower, seat of political authority within Morentis.

It seemed prudent to leave the tower grounds before stepping. The wards protecting the structure were extensive and notoriously sensitive. Seth had disrupted them once. The response had been... educational.

A prickle of Faith brushed against my skin.

I stopped.

Flames licked through the air before me. They grew steadily brighter until they formed the shape of a woman wrought from bronze.

Miralis.

Her body appeared assembled - interlocking bronze plates fit together with impossible precision, each seam glowing faintly with contained fire. Small flames hissed from the joints of her extremities, curling along her limbs and shoulders before vanishing into the air like heat escaping a forge.

The armor was her body. A living sculpture of bronze shaped into a breastplate, greaves, narrow pauldrons, and a segmented skirt. Intricate engravings covered every surface, catching the firelight in sharp glimmers.

She possessed the beauty of a statue crafted by a master artisan. Perfect. Immovable. Endlessly judgmental. Dark bronze hair was pulled tightly back, every strand in flawless order.

A polished spear rested comfortably in her hand.

Students shouted in alarm and hurried inside.

“Miralis,” I said. It was less a greeting than an acknowledgment.

“Acolyte Rosecroft,” the goddess replied. “I would have words with you.”

“I can spare a few minutes,” I said. “But my family is expecting me for dinner.”

Granyth had warned us that the High Witan might make a move. She had also made it clear that not every move required violence.

For the moment, understanding Miralis' intentions seemed preferable to leaving.

“You understand the danger Nyssira presents?” she asked.

“I do.”

“And you are aware of Seth's tendency toward reckless and dangerous decisions?”

“I am.”

“And you understand that the changes he is undergoing will eventually culminate in a catastrophic release of Faith?”

“That is conjecture,” I countered.

“It is not.”

I folded my hands behind my back. “Have you witnessed simplification before?”

The goddess hesitated. “I have witnessed gods fracture.”

“That was not my question.”

Her expression hardened.

“Seth is not fracturing,” I assured her.

“How can you be certain?”

I considered her for a moment. “When gods fracture, do they become more powerful or less?”

“It is not a question of power. It is a question of control.”

“I concede the point of difference in terminology.” I inclined my head. “Then allow me to rephrase. When gods fracture, do they express Faith in new ways?”

“No. Their control deteriorates. Their existing abilities become unstable.”

I nodded. “So a fracturing god demonstrates less control.”

“Yes.”

“And does not manifest new expressions of Faith.”

“Correct.”

I smiled. “Then we may safely conclude Seth is not fracturing.”

For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her features.

“Seth continues to develop entirely new manifestations of Faith. New abilities. New expressions. New mechanisms. That is the opposite of what you describe.”

The goddess remained silent.

“Furthermore,” I continued, “you have admitted you have never observed simplification. Therefore your concerns regarding Seth's instability are not rooted in observation.” I tilted my head slightly. “They are rooted in fear.”

The temperature around Miralis increased noticeably. Flames burned brighter between the seams of her bronze form.

“His recklessness remains,” she said. “As does his belief that he can contain Nyssira.”

“Belief is unnecessary.” I interrupted before she could continue. “The fact has already been demonstrated.”

Her grip tightened around the spear. “Should she escape-”

“Should she escape,” I interrupted calmly, “she will be dealt with.” I met her gaze. “Seth's ability to contain Nyssira has been proven.” I paused. “Yours has not.”

The goddess frowned. The flames venting from her seams burned hotter.

For several moments neither of us spoke.

Finally, I sighed. “Do you possess any concerns grounded in evidence that I can assist with? Dinner is waiting.”

Miralis' jaw clenched. The spear shifted slightly in her hand. But she said nothing.

I stepped home.

* * *

I drew back the bowstring and settled the arrow.

The elk grazed peacefully between the trees, unaware of me.

A flash of light bloomed to my right. The hairs on my arms stood on end.

Faith was strange.

I could feel it now. Probably not like Seth. Probably not like Mirri, Serah, or Elise. But enough.

Enough to know when someone stepped nearby.

It was difficult to describe. Like opening the door to your childhood home after years away. There was a smell you didn't consciously notice, a shift in the air, a thousand tiny details your mind recognized before you did.

I knew Mirri could tell who was arriving before they appeared - like a mother’s intuition. Serah and Elise probably could too.

I couldn't. I could only feel that something had happened.

But this felt different. Wrong. Like coming home and finding someone else living there. Familiar. Yet not.

The feeling crawled beneath my skin.

The elk bolted.

I spun, arrow nocked, keeping the bow ready as I searched for the source.

A man stood among the trees. His skin white marble threaded with silver. Tall. Broad shouldered. Hair black as polished obsidian, touched with silver at the temples. His eyes glowed molten gold, lacking pupils, lacking depth, lacking anything human.

A white embroidered tunic hung beneath a red toga of expensive fabric. The entire thing looked impractical. The sort of clothing worn by someone who never had to chop wood, mend a fence, or clean blood from their boots.

I'd met him once - during the battle against Myrddin.

Aurelion. The Oathbound King.

Seth thought he was a dick. I had agreed almost immediately.

He was also the leader of the High Witan. The same High Witan that wanted Nyssira. The same High Witan Granyth had warned us about.

Maybe Granyth was manipulating us. Maybe this was exactly the kind of wedge she wanted driven between us and the Witan.

But Granyth had never made me want to punch her. Aurelion’s mouth felt like a fist magnet.

“You're trespassing,” I told him.

“We need to speak.” It wasn’t a request - it was a command. The sort of command issued by a man who expected obedience simply because he existed.

My fingers twitched. I wanted to hit him so badly. “No, we don't.”

“You know Nyssira cannot remain imprisoned forever.”

“Maybe.” My words were short. Clipped. Whatever he was trying, I wasn’t going to fall for it.

“You know Seth cannot control her forever.”

“Maybe.”

“You know the world will suffer if she escapes.”

“Maybe.”

His eyes narrowed. “And yet you still believe he is best suited to handle a god more powerful than himself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he's proven he can.” I slid the arrow back into my quiver and slung the bow over my shoulder. “You've mostly proven you're a fool.”

His jaw tightened. “Nyssira has murdered gods.” The way he said it was condescending.

“I know.”

“Destroyed nations.” Patronizing.

“I know.”

“Threatened the stability of the world.” Disdainful.

“I. Know.” My words came out sharper each time.

His expression grew darker. “Then why are we having this discussion?”

I barked a laugh. “That's my question.” I folded my arms. “Seth will do everything in his power to keep people safe. He'll do the right thing, even when it's hard. Even when nobody thanks him for it. Because that's who he is.”

“You would follow him blindly.” The words came out as an irritated sigh.

“No.” I met his gaze. “I'd follow him anywhere.”

The look on Aurelion's face suggested he genuinely couldn't tell the difference. “You remain a naïve child who refuses to consider her actions.”

My jaw clenched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I didn't train you to be a foolish girl.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I froze. “What?”

His expression hardened. “I didn't spend years teaching you to control your rage just so you could surrender your judgment to sentiment.”

The world stopped. Not because of the words. Because of how he said them.

The cadence. The tone. The familiar disappointment.

Aurelion stepped forward. His form rippled. The marble softened into weathered skin. The toga thickened into steel. His perfect black hair lightened and thinned. A broad mustache grew over his upper lip.

The god vanished. And standing before me was a ghost. A man I had searched for. A man I had mourned. A man I had loved like a father.

Chamberlin.

The wandering knight who taught me to fight. Who taught me patience. Who taught me discipline. Who taught me how to survive.

His face showed the same look of disappointment that always drove me further. That made me push myself to my limit, just so I could see that hint of a smile when he was satisfied.

I was thirteen when the village boys convinced me to steal his sword.

I thought I was clever. Thought I was fast. Thought some old man sleeping in the woods wouldn't even notice.

I had been wrong.

He'd beaten me senseless while calmly explaining every mistake I made.

The boys had run. Boys I’d thought were my friends.

When I could no longer get up, he offered to teach me. We built a house together. Planted crops. Fixed fences. Shared meals. For four years he had been more of a father than the man who sired me.

“You...” The word barely escaped my mouth.

“Me.” His voice was exactly the same. Gruff. Painfully familiar. “I made you what you are. I prepared you for a purpose.”

The tears started before I even realized they were coming. “You abandoned me.”

“It was necessary.”

The answer cut deeper than any blade.

“Necessary for what?” My voice was soft. Fragile. And then it broke. “You burned down our house!”

“I had other responsibilities.” He was dismissive. Casual. As though the answer should have been obvious. “I could not coddle you forever.”

“I searched for you!”

His brow furrowed. Confused. Actually confused. “Why?”

The question hollowed me out. “You were my family.”

“I was your mentor.”

“No.” My voice cracked. “You were my father.”

“I trained you.”

“You raised me.”

“I gave you purpose.”

The tears stopped. My grief hardened and turned sharp. “You taught me who I wanted to be.” My voice became a growl. “And then you left.”

His expression darkened. “I gave you everything you needed. Without me you would never have defeated Nahl. Without me you would never have survived the Myrddin.” His eyes blazed. “You should be grateful.”

Something inside me snapped. “Grateful?” My fingers clenched. “Grateful?”

My fist connected with his face.

His nose exploded in blood. Aurelion hit the ground looking utterly bewildered. As though violence had somehow appeared from nowhere. As though he hadn't spent the last ten minutes digging up every wound he'd left behind.

“You don't get to talk about gratitude.” My voice shook with fury. “You don't get to talk about sacrifice.” I kicked him hard in the ribs.

Bone cracked. He rolled with a grunt of pain.

“You don't get to talk about duty.” Another kick. “And you sure as shit don't get to talk about family.”

He stared up at me. Still confused. Still not understanding. Still somehow convinced he was right.

I pointed at him. “Chamberlin is dead.” The words tasted like ash. “And if I see you again, you will be too.”

I stepped.

The world dissolved.

I arrived in the demesne and screamed.