Chapter 42
Versus Malacoda I (Measure)
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Mags’ room, washing the stone walls in a muted glow. She opened her eyes to the sound of distant songbirds and the faint rustle of leaves outside, her body heavy with sleep. For a moment, the day felt just like any other at Bijel Garden—another morning to rise early and train. The familiar rhythm of routine settled over her, and the weight of the tests ahead seemed to shrink.
Mags swung her legs out of bed, feeling the cool, worn stone beneath her bare feet. She pushed away the nerves that churned in her stomach, heading for the small basin tucked into the corner. A wooden bucket filled with fresh, clear water sat beside it, and she poured a few ladles over her face and hair. The cold shock woke her fully, and she shivered before settling into the soothing rhythm of her morning routine.
By the time she dressed and descended the tower stairs, the smell of toasted bread and savory herbs was already wafting through the quiet halls. The dining room was dim, lit by a handful of oil lamps that pooled warmth over the long wooden table. As she entered, she spotted a familiar figure already seated, stirring a steaming mug of tea.
“Early as always,” Rubicante said, his crimson robes muted in the soft light. His copper eyes were kind, the corners crinkling as he offered her a gentle smile. “Sit, Mags. I was starting to wonder if you’d sleep through your big day.”
Mags returned the smile, settling onto the wooden bench across from him. Breakfast was simple: freshly baked bread, a wedge of soft cheese, and a handful of dried fruits, arranged neatly beside a bowl of porridge. She poured herself a cup of tea, savoring the comforting heat against her palms.
“Did you sleep well?” Rubicante asked, raising an eyebrow as he spread a layer of jam onto his bread.
“As well as I could.” Mags shrugged. “Feels strange, knowing what’s ahead.” She didn’t dare to mention the strange dream she had. Focus on the task in front you, she reminded herself.
He nodded, taking a slow sip of his tea. “The nerves will pass. You’ve prepared well, and today is just another step on your journey. Nothing more.”
“I spent years hunting Maldrath and keeping a criminal lord at bay, and yet here I am, a bundle of nerves at the thought of a few tests.” She snorted. It sounded even more ridiculous hearing it out loud.
Rubicante chuckled. “That is how life often works, it seems.”
She chewed on a piece of bread, her appetite oddly unbothered by the anticipation of the tests. She had expected to have to force each bite down past the knot in her throat, but sitting here, in the quiet, familiar space, with the gray-skinned Shamablan man across from her brought an unexpected level of comfort.
Rubicante set his mug down, studying her with that patient, observant gaze she had come to expect from him. “You should know,” he began, a hint of warmth in his voice, “that I have no test for you today.”
Mags blinked, surprise flickering across her features. “No test? But I thought—”
“You’ve already proven yourself to me,” he interrupted gently, a small, almost secretive smile tugging at his lips. “You have a sharp mind, Mags. You think carefully about everything you do. I’ve seen it time and time again, in every lesson and every quiet moment when you thought no one was watching.”
He reached across the table, placing a hand on hers—a rare gesture of affection from the usually reserved instructor. “You’ve grown, not just in knowledge, but in wisdom. You’ve learned to weigh your choices, to act with caution even when it’s difficult. That, to me, is enough. You’ve passed.”
Mags felt a swell of warmth in her chest, a weight lifting that she hadn’t realized she was carrying. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little rougher than she intended. She tightened her grip around her teacup, the warmth of it grounding her.
“Now,” Rubicante continued, his expression shifting to something more solemn, “I wish you luck with Libicocco and Malacoda. They have their own ways of measuring a person, and I trust you’ll rise to the challenge.”
Mags nodded, determination flickering in her eyes. She would face whatever came next, just as she always had—one step at a time.
They finished the meal in companionable silence, the soft clink of dishes the only sound between them. And when she finally rose to leave, Rubicante’s parting words echoed in her ears like a blessing:
“Trust in your instincts, Mags. They’ve carried you this far, and they’ll carry you farther still. And in your challenge with Malacoda, he will attempt to break you. Don’t be afraid of it when it happens . . . Find what’s left after you’ve been broken, and use that to keep pushing forward.”
She left the dining hall with her head held high, feeling a strange mix of calm and anticipation settle over her.
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Lady Celestine’s library was austere—just a high-ceilinged room of smooth stone walls, lined with shelves holding scrolls and tomes whose contents Mags had largely devoured over the last months. A single table stood in the center, with two chairs facing each other. Libicocco was already seated, a cup of iced cava at her side, her severe gaze locked onto Mags the moment she stepped inside. Mags tried to steel herself, smoothing her shirt as she took the seat opposite the stern-faced instructor.
“Let’s begin,” Libicocco said without preamble, her voice crisp and clear. She launched immediately into a series of questions on mathematics. This particular line of questioning was also laced together with questions on aetheric principles.
The fact pattern involved a Soulsinger with a User Level of D-2, using Physical Enhancement and threads of aura to manipulate and pull a stone of a certain weight in a specific direction, assuming a consistent aether environment of 100 units per cubic square foot of space, replenishing at a steady rate, and that there is standard gravity.
Mags didn’t hesitate, responding with the formula she had memorized weeks ago at this point, detailing the exact rate of conversion and the various considerations. Libicocco listened without expression, her eyes boring into Mags like a hawk’s.
But as soon as Mags finished, Libicocco pressed her further, drilling into the nuances of her response with questions that twisted in unexpected directions. She also changed the fact pattern in several ways, seeing how it would impact Mags’ original responses. Mags quickly realized there was no room for shallow answers—Libicocco was probing for depth, for understanding beyond the surface level, and Mags rose to the challenge. She didn’t just answer, she anticipated. Before Libicocco could even finish one question, Mags would have the follow-up ready, her answers swift and confident.
“. . . and that would be the probable result, assuming that they were using a compatible Root, in this case Stone to channel the aether.”
“What about the nature of resonance feedback between disparate Roots? Say, Water and Fire?” Libicocco asked, her brow furrowed.
“Depends on the specific density of the aether at the point of intersection,” Mags answered. “If you’re in a high-concentration area like near the Green Sea or Hecate’s Tower in Valhadryan, the interference is minimal due to saturation—reaching levels of up to 3,000 units per cubic square foot—but in lower-density zones, the backlash can be severe enough to cause physical rupture of the conduit. In most cases, it simply limits efficiency, like affecting the boulder using aether channeled using Water, but in other cases it can be dangerous, like drawing on Water and Fire simultaneously. That’s why Soulsingers who have multiple Root affinities need additional levels of control and mastery.”
Libicocco’s gaze narrowed. “And what would you recommend to mitigate such a rupture in the case of such individuals?”
And so the test continued.
Two hours of relentless questioning passed this way—on the mechanics of Soulsinging, on history, on obscure details about the ancient Ivaldi artifacts she had studied, and on the shifting balances of political power between the major regions. Mags’ mind was ablaze, firing on all cylinders as she kept up with Libicocco’s fierce pace. There were moments when her breath caught, moments when her palms slicked with sweat, but she didn’t falter. She knew this information, knew it like the lines of an ancient song carried in her bones.
At last, Libicocco leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, and regarded Mags with an appraising look. A long, tense silence followed. Mags forced herself to stay still, to not fidget under the woman’s intense scrutiny.
Finally, Libicocco let out a long sigh, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile ghosted across her lips. “You’ve passed,” she said, and Mags felt the tension between her shoulder blades lift, and her stomach begin to do flips in excitement. “I’ll tell you honestly, Mags—I would not have been so hard on your during these past couple of months if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
Mags let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Relief, fierce and warm, welled up inside her, and she managed a shaky smile. “Thank you, Coco,” she said, but the older woman raised a hand to forestall her.
Don’t call me Coco, Mags thought, cutting off the anticipated resistance against the friendly nickname. She was surprised when Libicocco didn’t mention it at all, a silent acceptance of the name.
“Don’t thank me yet. Brightwash will be a challenge, and Wrifton . . . Well, you’ll soon learn that it’s a place with its own demands and expectations.” Her tone was even, but Mags detected a note of caution beneath it. “But if you’d taken any of the regional exams today, you would have easily passed the written portion—likely outperformed most of the candidates. So, know this: you’ll be there on merit, like everyone else. You’ve earned a spot at Brightwash.”
Mags’ eyes widened. She had known she was prepared, but hearing it said so plainly sent a thrill of excitement through her.
Libicocco’s expression grew distant, as though she were looking not at Mags, but at something beyond her, something only she could see. Her fingers twitched, tracing a line in the air that made Mags shiver for reasons she couldn’t quite grasp. “I see the threads of Fate,” Libicocco murmured, her gaze still unfocused, “and they are pulling you, stronger than ever, towards Wrifton. The current is unyielding.”
Mags swallowed, not quite understanding what that meant, but sensing the importance of it. Libicocco rarely mentioned or outwardly used her abilities as a Fateweaver. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.
Libicocco’s eyes snapped back to Mags, the strange spell broken, and she offered a final nod. “You will understand soon enough.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
“Now go. Rest, and be ready for your next challenge. That fool Malacoda will be expecting you at your best.”
Mags rose slowly from the chair, her legs a little shaky, but her heart soaring.
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The clearing behind the towers was wide and open, the perfect stage for a duel—if it could be called that. On one side, the soaring, ancient structures of Bijel Garden loomed, their balconies dotted with figures who had gathered to watch the match. On the opposite edge, the Sanguine Trees swayed gently, their deep crimson leaves casting a bloody hue over the western horizon. The low rumble of the sea murmured from below the cliffside, waves crashing relentlessly against jagged rocks that lay far below. The salty scent of the ocean breeze mixed with the faint, metallic tang of the temple grounds.
Mags stood in the center of the clearing, her bare feet planted firmly in the cool grass. She wore a simple pair of trousers and a linen tunic and nothing else. The Pocket, in its miniaturized form, sat comfortably in her own pants pocket.
From above, a dozen eyes watched—Calcabrina’s bright, eager gaze; Libicocco’s studious intensity; Rubicante’s amused calm as he sipped a cup of tea that sent wisps of steam curling into the breeze. And further up, standing apart from the others, was the masked figure of Scarmiglione, his face inscrutable beneath the black mask he always wore.
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But it was Captain Frey Sarto’s eyes that Mags felt most keenly—pressing against her back like a brand, golden and unforgiving, judgmental and ready to decide her fate. A single mistake could mean everything. Her fingers twitched, and she could feel the swell of nerves tightening in her stomach. Sarto’s presence was a reminder of the stakes. This sparring match was more than a test; it was a reckoning.
“Are you ready?” Malacoda’s voice cut through the silence, casual yet edged with a subtle tinge of excitement. His stance deceptively open. He stood across from her, his arms loose and relaxed, hands in his pockets. His buttoned shirt, opened in the front, flapped in the sea breeze, revealing the lean muscle beneath, the sinuous lines of someone who moved like water in battle. His eyes, however, were focused—sharp and bright, hungry for the challenge ahead.
Mags swallowed hard. But she grinned anyway, excitement fluttering like a caged bird in her chest. “I’m ready,” she said, and was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. She focused on her breathing, channeling a thin trickle of aether into her veins, feeling it mix with the power already thrumming through her entire body. It calmed her, grounded her.
“Good,” Malacoda said, and his face split into a wide grin, lopsided due to the scar that split across lips. “I expect you to bring everything you’ve got. No holding back, understand? I’m not here to coddle you. And, if I’m bored, I’ll pulverize you even harder in retribution for wasting my time training you. Got it?”
“No holding back,” she echoed, feeling the fire in her belly surge. A flicker of pride danced in her eyes. She’d prepared for this moment—trained and fought and studied. Her body was taut with anticipation, and every fiber of her being was tuned to the battle that was about to unfold.
They bumped knuckles—a warrior’s gesture of respect—and then retreated to their respective sides of the clearing. Mags could feel her heart hammering in her chest, but her mind was clear, focused. She took another deep breath, letting the wind off the sea whip around her in chaotic swirls. She pulled in more aether, burning a small amount of mana to channel the power. Her senses were alive, hyper-focused, and the world seemed to sharpen around her.
Malacoda watched her, his posture relaxed, his eyes unblinking. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing.
Mags didn’t hesitate. With a burst of aura, she rocketed forward, moving faster than she ever had before. The ground blurred beneath her, and her aura flared to life. She moved like a wraith, her form a flicker in the afternoon air, darting from side to side as she closed the distance between them. Her fist lashed out, crackling with energy—a strike aimed at Malacoda’s ribs.
He moved with impossible speed, his body flowing like liquid. He caught her wrist with a casual flick of his hand, redirecting her blow effortlessly, and in the same motion, his leg lashed out like a whip. Mags barely had time to twist away, feeling the gust of displaced air as his kick passed inches from her face.
She pivoted, ducking low, and sent a sweeping kick towards his right thigh. But he danced away with ease, his movements fluid and unhurried, as if he were merely taking a morning stroll. His expression remained calm, almost bored, though Mags knew better. He was testing her—seeing what she could do, feeling out her limits.
She pressed harder, moving faster, her strikes coming in a relentless barrage. She twisted and spun, her footwork light and agile, every movement designed to keep him guessing. But Malacoda never faltered, never lost his footing. He countered each blow with a smooth, effortless grace that made it seem like he was moving before she even decided to attack.
And then, just when she thought she had him pinned—an opening on his left side, ideal for a punishing hook—he struck. A single, swift jab to her solar plexus, so fast and precise that she barely registered the movement until it was too late. Her left hand, still cocked back and poised to strike, sat suspended in the air. Pain exploded through her torso, and the breath was driven from her lungs in a single, harsh gasp. She staggered back, clutching her stomach, the world spinning.
“Too predictable,” he said, his voice like barbed iron. “Your footwork is good, but you rely too much on your speed. Adapt, Mags. Think.”
She gritted her teeth, tasting blood, and forced herself upright. She had been reinforcing her body by channeling aether, but might as well have been wholly undefended. How hard was that punch of his? It seemed so effortless. The pain sharpened her focus, burned away the haze of doubt. She had to be smarter. She had to use everything she’d learned.
She took a slow, steady breath, feeling the aether coil around her, ready to be harnessed, to be unleashed. Malacoda watched her, still as a statue, hands back into his pockets, waiting. Bored. And from the balconies above, the silent audience leaned forward, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife.
Mags’s breath came in quick, ragged bursts. Her heart pounded as she reached slightly deeper into her reserves, drawing in a steady flow of energy. The air around her crackled, and for a brief moment, exhaustion was burned away, like dew before the morning sun. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside her. Aether surged through her body, fortifying muscle, bone, and tendon, sending a rush of raw power to her limbs.
Through her training with Malacoda, her Physical Enhancement Skill had increased from an E-8 to an E-9. It was time to put it to full use.
She bolted forward, feet a blur on the grass, each stride consuming the distance between her and Malacoda with blinding speed. Her surroundings blurred into streaks of green and blue; only Malacoda remained clear—a calm figure amidst the chaos, hands still tucked lazily in his pockets.
She struck first, a straight jab aimed at his chest, but he was already shifting, a subtle tilt of his body that sent her fist slicing through empty air. She pivoted without hesitation, following with a backhanded strike and a low kick, each move fluid, each blow backed by aether-enhanced strength.
Malacoda danced around her attacks with a casual grace, his movements almost languid. He moved only as much as was necessary—stepping aside to let her fist pass by, leaning back just enough to avoid her kick. The ground barely shifted beneath him as if the earth itself respected his presence.
She gritted her teeth, frustration flaring, and pressed harder, her fists and feet becoming a flurry of strikes. Yet, each time she thought she might connect, he was already gone, weaving through her assault like a shadow on the wind. His eyes were steady, unblinking, not a hint of exertion touching his brow.
In desperation, she leapt up and twisted mid-air, another roundhouse kick, this time aimed at his temple—a move Malacoda had seen her practice hundreds of times. He didn’t flinch. His right arm shot out, catching her leg with a single, iron-strong hand. The sudden stop jolted through her body, and she felt the tightness of his grip bite into her shin, sending a flash of pain up her leg and spine.
“Not bad,” he said, his voice light and teasing. A slow smile crept across his lips, and then he moved.
Mags had just enough time to brace herself before he spun, pivoting on one foot and using her captured leg as leverage. The world blurred as she was flung through the air, wind rushing past her ears. Panic flared, and she fought the instinct to flail, instead tightening her core and curling into a roll just before impact.
She hit the ground hard, but the momentum carried her, and she let herself tumble, dispersing the force. Grass and dirt blurred around her as she rolled twice before snapping up into a low crouch, her muscles burning. Her lower leg ached where his fingers had squeezed, leaving a deep, throbbing bruise beneath the skin. She grimaced, forcing herself to rise, ignoring the sting.
Malacoda was still standing in the same spot, his smile widening, as if the whole exchange had been nothing more than an amusing game.
Then, he took a step back, and something shifted in the air—a change that Mags felt deep in her bones. His gaze never left hers as he raised one hand and snapped his fingers.
She focused on her [Aura Vision] and was shocked at the amount of aether being pulled from the area towards Malacoda. It was as though he were the eye of a miniature hurricane.
With a soft hiss, water pooled beneath his feet, forming a perfect circle six feet across. It was so dark that its surface was like a disc of black glass, a pool of midnight reflecting the pale sky above. Mags’s breath caught as a ripple spread across the surface of the water, and from its depths, a flash of silver flickered.
The fish appeared slowly, swimming up from the darkness—a school of shimmering, silver shapes, glowing with an iridescent blue, each no bigger than the palm of her hand. They swirled around him in a hypnotic dance, moving in perfect synchronization, their scales catching the light and glowing with an ethereal luminescence that she knew to mean they were constructed of pure aura. They moved faster and faster, forming a whirling vortex of light and shadow around Malacoda, obscuring him from view.
“That’s a neat trick” Mags muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing. She’d heard about his abilities while training under them, but had few opportunities to witness any of his spellcasting—a manifestation of his connection to the Root of Water. She’d been warned, but seeing it was another matter entirely.
The fish moved like living creatures—darting, turning, their movements impossibly precise as they swam through the area. Mags watched them carefully, trying to find a pattern, a weakness, anything she could exploit. Her nerves were tight, coiled like a spring, but she kept her breathing steady. This was still a sparring match. This was still a test. A test you need to pass. Now, think Mags! What does this spell do?
Through the shimmering dance of fish, Malacoda’s eyes found hers, and the grin that stretched his face was one of sheer delight. It was the look of a predator—hungry, taunting, daring her to take the next move. “Let’s see if you can even land a punch on me, hm?”
Mags dropped into a low stance, the ache in her leg forgotten. Her fingers curled, and she summoned the aether around her, drawing it in until her body thrummed with potential. She’d trained for this, every beat of sweat and bruised knuckle leading to this moment. Think, decide, act!
She took a slow, deliberate breath. It was time to show Malacoda just how much she’d learned.
Trust in your instinct, she reminded herself, and with a fierce grin of her own, she charged.
Her advance was immediately halted. The fish launched at her like a storm of silver knives, each one hurtling through the air with a speed and precision that made Mags’s heart skip a beat. Malacoda’s hand was still tucked in his pocket, his grin widening as the fish scattered in every direction and then converged on her in a deadly wave.
Mags didn’t hesitate. She pulled in aether with the speed of instinct, feeling it rush through her veins like liquid fire. Her fingers flexed, and she burned mana, letting the familiar cold embrace of the [Void Cloak] wrap around her. The cloak settled over her skin, a shadowy veil of roiling dark silver energy, making her outline blur and shimmer. She let her body move on pure reflex, hands blurring as she batted away the incoming barrage.
Her fists became hammers, smashing through the glowing fish one after another. Each impact sent a silver-blue flash splintering through the air as the constructs burst apart, their aether dissipating into mist. Her jabs were precise and brutal—quick, snapping strikes that shattered anything on target. A fish dove for her head, and she ducked low, spinning beneath it before driving her fist upward in a vicious uppercut that destroyed it mid-flight.
They kept coming, relentless and endless, a shimmering tide that bore down on her. She danced between the attacks, shifting her weight, rolling her shoulders, letting the momentum of one strike lead fluidly into the next. When a fish came too fast, she pivoted and spun, the [Void Cloak] flaring and twisting around her in streaks of disintegrating silver. She felt the chill of power coursing through her body as she increased the amount of aether she channeled—the familiar, comfortable cold that sharpened her senses and hardened her resolve.
But with every fish she struck down, another took its place. Through the corner of her eye, Mags saw the pool beneath Malacoda’s feet ripple, its dark surface bubbling as fresh constructs emerged, their scales glistening like liquid moonlight. The new fish joined the swirling storm around him, each one forming seamlessly out of the black water. The cycle was unbroken—no matter how many she destroyed, the source remained untouched.
She gritted her teeth, sweat mingling with the chill of the [Void Cloak] as her mana reserves burned faster and faster. Aether thrummed through her like a living current, heightening her movements, guiding her strikes, but the strain was beginning to build. The edges of her vision blurred, and she felt the first twinges of fatigue in her limbs. She still had a lot of her reserves left, but they were far from limitless and she knew she couldn’t keep this up forever.
Another volley shot towards her—she spun and caught them with a cross-jab, her knuckles splitting through the glowing bodies like they were made of glass. But there was no sense of triumph. The pool below Malacoda shimmered with a dark, unbroken calm as more fish leapt forth to join the assault.
The realization hit her like a blow to the gut. She was pinned. Every move she made, every strike she landed, was already being countered before it began. It was a battle of attrition, and Malacoda had all the advantage. He didn’t even need to step forward; he could hold her here until her mana ran dry, and she would be left defenseless.
She ducked under a streaking blur, the fish barely missing her shoulder, and tried to center herself. Her breaths were quick and shallow, her aura burning hotter, and she felt her reserves start to wane.
The aether pool under Malacoda’s feet was calm, a bottomless reservoir that fed the ceaseless onslaught, the fish swirling around him in an elegant dance. He was playing with her—keeping her locked down, watching, waiting for her to make a mistake. His eyes, calm and amused, flickered behind the shifting wall of fish, and Mags felt the sharp edge of his challenge leveled at her like a blade. He was testing her endurance, her strategy, her willpower. Do something or you will fail, his smile said.
She stepped back, dodging two fish that swooped for her legs, and her gaze locked onto the pool at Malacoda’s feet. The surface shimmered, smooth and dark as a mirror. Her mind raced. He was trying to deplete her reserves, forcing her to spend precious mana while he remained untouched. The aether constructs were replenishing themselves faster than she could destroy them.
Think, Mags, think! She couldn’t keep up this pace forever. She needed to change the flow of the battle, to break free of the pattern Malacoda was forcing on her. The realization solidified in her mind—she couldn’t win if she played his game. She had to change the rules.
One of the fish shot in too close, and she twisted to the side, smashing it with a rising elbow. The silver-blue aether burst apart like a shattered star, momentarily lighting up the shadowy edges of her [Void Cloak].
Another fish darted for her face—she dropped low, narrowly dodging it and driving a palm-strike forward, obliterating two more in a flash of silver. Her movements were growing more desperate, her strikes lacking the crispness they’d had at the start. Her mana reserves were depleting, and each second she burned more just to keep the [Void Cloak] stable, just to stay in the fight.
Malacoda stood above the dark pool, watching with that same patient smile, the water rippling softly beneath him. The waves of fish spiraled outward, darting toward her with unerring precision. And Mags knew, deep down, that her window was closing. It was now or never. She focused her attention on Malacoda, drawing a path in her mind between herself and him.
She set her feet, took a deep breath, and let the [Void Cloak] flare around her. She burned more mana, pumping her aura into [Void Cloak], increasing the size and power of the shroud of energy. It was time to gamble everything. Time to make Malacoda fight on my terms, not his.