Chapter 71

“So, you’re a void-mage. I hear those are pretty rare.”

Elise’s pale gray eyes lifted to meet mine. “That is what I have read,” she replied evenly.

“How does it work?”

She slid the book in her hand into its place on the shelf and turned toward me. “Foundations of Arcanodynamics, Early Maritime Law, Pre-Sigilum Manuscripts,” she recited as the armful of volumes she carried rose from her grasp and drifted away, each finding its proper place among the towering shelves.

She crossed the library to a broad oak desk and drew out a narrow strip of paper. “Master Edevane explained it thus. If a wizard of another school wished to lift this paper, they would blow upon it like this.” She held the paper lightly at one end and blew beneath it. The sheet fluttered upward, trembling in the current of her breath.

“Void magic does not push,” she continued. “It destroys. Should a void-mage wish to lift the paper, they would remove the air above the paper, like this.” She blew this time across the top of her fingers, perpendicular to the strip. The paper lifted again, rising on the unseen difference in pressure.

“Like lift,” I murmured, piecing it together.

“That is what I said.” Her brow furrowed faintly. “Were you not listening?”

I smiled. “No, I was. It’s just- in my world we have airplanes. They’re like boats in the sky. Or mechanical birds people ride inside. Their wings are curved. When they move fast enough, it’s lifted into the air and it can fly. Most people think it’s air pushing up from below, but it’s actually air moving faster over the top that pulls them upward. Or… something like that. I’m not a physicist.”

She tilted her head, considering. “It is plausible. I would need to see one of these planes.” She straightened again. “Void magic functions similarly in other applications. To create fire, one destroys cold. To create lightning, one removes water and air. To create mana, one must destroy Faith.”

“Wait- what?” I blurted.

“‘To create fire, one must-’”

“No, I got that part. You can create mana? You can destroy Faith? And they’re opposites?”

“Yes, yes, and no,” she said patiently.

“Okay,” I said slowly, lowering myself into a nearby chair. “Let’s unpack the last one.”

“Lightning is not the opposite of air and water,” she explained. “However, certain conditions - movement of air, absence of humidity - encourage its formation. Mana and Faith are similar. Mana is not the opposite of Faith, but the absence of Faith promotes the generation of mana.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Does it work the other way around?”

“No. Destroying mana does not promote the generation of Faith.”

“Then what creates Faith?”

“Mortals,” she said without hesitation. “All mortals generate Faith.”

“So if all mortals create Faith, why does mana exist at all? You would think that since we’re all creating Faith, there would be no need for mana.” I felt like I was stepping into a quantum physics class after skipping everything after high school science.

Her eyes brightened at the question. “There are theories. Ashmoor posits that mana arises from mortals’ inability to properly harness Faith. Grimshaw believes mana accumulates in places devoid of mortals, where Faith does not interfere. Such locations cannot be measured accurately - once a mortal arrives, their Faith alters the balance. Dunfield suggests mana is a byproduct of Faith’s generation, though that theory lacks wide support.”

“Let’s circle back to that later,” I said. “My brain needs a moment.”

She waited, attentive.

“So,” I continued, “since void magic is about destruction - do you use mana? Or destroy it? Or is there some kind of anti-mana?”

“When I cast spells, I absorb mana,” she said. “My body converts it into energy. If I draw too much, my mana circuits swell painfully.”

“Is that why you didn’t need to eat in the library?”

She nodded. “Master Edevane built the tower upon a ley line. Mana density there was naturally high.”

“Was he a void-mage too?”

Her expression warmed with quiet pride. “Yes. He is the Master of Void.”

“That sounds important.”

“Morentis is formally a kingdom,” she explained, “but governance rests with the Circle of Wizards - a council of archmages. One master for each of the thirteen schools. Master Edevane holds Void. Master Crowhurst governs Malefic. Master Slatemourn oversees Aether. Master Everwyck commands Pyric.”

“Those were the men who showed up?”

She nodded. “Crowhurst wore black. Slatemourn purple. Everwyck red.”

“Right.” I leaned back. “So you were trained by the most powerful void-mage in Morentis. You effectively eat mana, and when you get full it gives you a bellyache.”

She tilted her head. “The discomfort is not in my stomach. It manifests primarily in my arms.”

I chuckled. “Sorry. Turn of phrase.”

A thought struck me. “Since you absorb mana… is that why I feel that little tug when we touch?”

Color rushed to her cheeks so quickly it almost startled me. “No,” she whispered.

“Then what is it?”

“I… do not know.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Does it hurt?” I asked gently. I’d asked before and she’d said no, but I wanted to make sure.

She shook her head. “It feels…” Her blush deepened, creeping up to the tips of her ears.

“Good?” I offered.

After a long pause, she gave the smallest nod and looked resolutely at the floor.

There were worse discoveries than finding out your touch turned a girl on.

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” I said softly. “If it becomes uncomfortable, tell me. I’ll stop.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, wide for a heartbeat, then away again. She shook her head - almost imperceptibly.

I suppressed a smile. My hand found hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. She trembled, but she did not pull away. I let it linger only a moment before releasing her, unwilling to push her past what she could bear.

* * *

I stepped through the front gate and onto the hard-packed road that wound toward Reedwatch. It was early evening, but the sun had already slipped behind the western peaks, staining the sky a murky sepia that felt more like warning than twilight.

“You can come out now,” I called, keeping the irritation out of my voice by **** of habit.

The forest offered no reply.

“You can come out now,” I continued, “or I can have crow for dinner.”

My gaze settled on the lone black shape perched in one of the few trees that had survived all the dragon attacks. The bird watched me, head tilted, glossy eyes unblinking. We held each other’s stare for several long seconds before it launched from the branch and glided down to land a few paces away.

The crow bowed its head, wings folding around itself like a cloak. Its form blurred - feathers dissolving into shadow, shadow thickening into cloth. When it rose, a man stood where the bird had knelt, black robes settling around him as though they had always been there.

“You’re a long way from home,” I said. “What can I do for you, Master Crowhurst?”

He studied me in silence. He was an inch or two taller than I was, lean and rigid in posture - formal, even. His dark hair was slicked neatly away from a narrow face defined by a hooked nose and sharp jaw. Clean-shaven, severe, composed - he wore authority like a mantle passed down through generations.

“Lord Grimm,” he replied evenly. “The Council of Wizards wishes to speak with apprentice Rosecroft. She is no longer in Master Edevane’s tower. We thought you might know her whereabouts.”

“I’ll see if she’s free to talk.” I stepped before he could respond.

Elise was exactly where I expected her to be - in the library. She was seated at a long table in the library, surrounded by towers of books. She was chewing with intense concentration, cheeks puffed comically full.

“Feff! Hevvoo evahav ooggies?” she asked, smiling around the mouthful and very nearly losing control of it.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Ooggies!” she insisted, holding up a single cookie - apparently the last - like a sacred relic.

I couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at my mouth. “Cookies are very good,” I told her. “A gift from Mirri?”

She nodded enthusiastically, still chewing.

“Take your time,” I said. “Master Crowhurst would like to speak with you when you’re ready.”

She shot to her feet so abruptly her chair scraped across the stone floor. The cookie was clutched to her chest as if I might confiscate it. She doubled her efforts, chewing furiously, swallowed twice, then once more for good measure. After a steadying breath, she straightened.

“Very well,” she said with **** composure.

I stepped closer and brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

Her pale gray eyes widened instantly. Color rushed into her cheeks.

“Ready?” I asked softly.

She nodded shyly.

* * *

“The Council of Wizards wishes to speak with you further regarding the event with the Myrddin,” Crowhurst told Elise, his tone measured. “You will accompany me to Spellmarch.”

“No,” I said.

Crowhurst’s eyes snapped to me, sharp and displeased. Elise looked between us, her pale gaze unreadable.

“We’ve been deceived before,” I continued, keeping my voice calm. “I’m not convinced you’re actually Crowhurst. And I don’t trust anyone right now. Brand is dead, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have allies.”

Elise tilted her head, weighing my words with that quiet, analytical precision of hers.

“Is there something only Crowhurst would know?” I asked her. “Something personal. Something he said to your master that no one else could know?”

She was silent for a long moment, then turned to the man in black. “When you last visited my master’s library, you borrowed a book,” she said evenly. “It has not yet been returned. What is its title?”

Crowhurst’s glare shifted from me to her and back again. He exhaled through his nose. “The First Theorists of the Veil by Henicor Harrowmont.”

“Correct,” Elise replied without hesitation. “Upon our arrival in Spellmarch, you will return the tome.”

Her eyes flicked to me, as if asking permission to leave.

“If you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied,” I said. “You’re not a prisoner. You can make your own decisions. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” A faint blush touched her cheeks.

“Do you want to go with Master Crowhurst?” I asked.

She tilted her head again, thoughtful as ever. “Yes,” she said at last. “I should meet with the Council of Wizards.”

“Alright. But I’m checking on you every day at dusk to make sure you’re safe. Is that acceptable?”

She nodded once and turned back to Crowhurst.

“One minute,” I called, stepping forward and touching her shoulder.

The fabric of her dress muted the strange tug I’d come to expect. It seemed skin-to-skin contact was required for that sensation.

I closed my eyes and let my awareness sink into my Faith-scape.

Her beacon flared before me - silver and gold intertwined in equal amounts, luminous and steady. Nearly as bright as the others now. That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

Then I searched for Crowhurst.

His beacon was faint - small enough it could vanish in the press of a city. Gray and white, with thin threads of purple woven through. Controlled. Disciplined. Difficult to track. I memorized its pattern, committing its hue and cadence to memory.

I opened my eyes.

“Safe travels,” I told her. “And good luck.”

She inclined her head. Crowhurst offered me a final, assessing look, then the two of them turned and followed the road toward Reedwatch.

I watched until they were swallowed by distance and dusk.

* * *

Gyll dropped to one knee, head bowed low. “Your Majesty, I bring news from the Iron Nation. The hordes gather along our western border.”

The queen regarded him from her throne, expression composed. “Rise, Gyll. Tell us what you have seen.”

Queen Abigayle Alderbrook was near fifty, though careful regimen and courtly discipline made her appear a decade and a half younger. Blonde hair swept back in a flawless heart-shaped silhouette, every curl precisely set. High cheekbones framed soft, measured features; her bright blue eyes were clear and penetrating, set in skin pale and unblemished. She was not merely attractive - she was an unapproachable vision of mature beauty.

Her gown was deep royal purple, befitting her station - puffed shoulders, sweeping skirts, and a modest neckline rendered in the finest cloth Arvellia could produce. Gold thread traced intricate embroidery along every edge. Her feet were hidden within the heavy folds of fabric, as though the marble tiles under her were unworthy to touch them.

The throne beneath her was a masterpiece - rare elven wood stained to a rich cherry sheen, inlaid with gold and studded with gems that caught the magical lanterns in shifting brilliance. The carved wood curved and spiraled in elaborate, dizzying patterns reminiscent of nautilus shells, each line flowing into the next. Only the faintest glimpse of crimson velvet showed beneath her.

Taken together, queen and throne formed a tableau so ornate one could study it for days and still discover new detail, polish, precision, and power.

To her right stood Sir Jenson Dunfield, General of the Armies of the Grand Kingdom of Arvell. He held himself rigid as a drawn blade. Dark hair, heavily streaked with gray, framed a stern face and steady blue eyes fixed on the kneeling messenger. Light mail covered his chest and limbs beneath a purple tabard emblazoned with a yellow gryphon clutching a flaming sword. His boots were thick yet finely made, and at his hip hung an ornate longsword, its gold crossguard wrought in the shape of rising flames.

To her left stood Archmagus Garrethyn Amberleigh, High Council to the throne. He was bent with age and leaned heavily upon an ivory staff carved into twisting vines, crowned with a ruby the size of his palm. His purple robes, trimmed in yellow, contrasted sharply with his long, untamed white hair and beard. His face was deeply lined, one eye clouded with age - but the other, a sharp green, burned with keen intelligence as it studied Gyll.

Gyll rose as commanded.

“Your Highness, more than half the hordes have assembled,” he said. “It is said they intend to march north - against the goblins.”

A faint crease appeared between the queen’s brows. “Why would the orcs cross Arvellia to wage war upon goblins? Surely they understand that sending an army through our lands is an act of war.”

“They seek a criminal,” Gyll replied. “A woman named Ashlara. She slew Warlord Grath’kor Varnak’s son. He demands ****.”

“That cannot be the whole of it,” Dunfield said sharply. “Grath’kor Varnak would not risk open war over petty vengeance with a whore who killed his son.”

“No, sir,” Gyll answered. “She is said to command dragons. Several villages within the warlord’s lands were razed. Worse - shamans among the hordes speak of visions. They claim a great war looms on the horizon. The other hordes join Grath’kor Varnak not merely for vengeance, but for glory.”

The queen turned her gaze to the Archmagus. “Do you believe this is connected to the dragons sighted in the north?”

Amberleigh’s bushy brows knit together. He worked his jaw slowly before speaking, as though loosening words long unused.

“It cannot be coincidence, Your Majesty,” he rasped. “At least half a dozen dragons have been reported in the wilds beyond Northgate. One is said to dwell within the ruins of Northwatch Keep - alongside bandits loyal to this… Grimm fellow.”

“Grimm?” the queen repeated. “Seth Grimm?”

The Archmagus chewed thoughtfully on his gums. “I believe that is the name. A peculiar one. He parleyed with your pursuivant, then drove them from the mountains with a dragon.”

The queen’s gaze shifted to her general. “Dunfield, didn’t our scouts report a Seth Grimm in Morentis?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dunfield said. “It is claimed he defeated a Myrddin upon the shores of Lake Blackward. But surely you place no stock in such rumors. The Myrddin are legend - nursery tales meant to frighten children into obedience.”

Amberleigh wheezed beside the throne, a sharp, ugly sound. “You are a fool if you believe that,” he spat. A thread of saliva escaped his lips and vanished into his beard. “The Silent War may be ancient, but it is no myth. Nor are the Myrddin. Arthyr drove them back - he did not destroy them.”

“Your Majesty,” Dunfield pressed, tension creeping into his voice, “you do not truly entertain these stories?”

“They are not stories!” the Archmagus snapped, sudden strength flooding his voice as his spine straightened. “I have heard them in the Interstitium. Their whispers alone can unmake a man. I bear scars from a single murmur.”

The strength drained from him as quickly as it had come. His back bowed once more beneath the weight of age.

“If there are rumors of Myrddin,” he said quietly, “we must not dismiss them.”