POV Astral

Their host had the dignity to not run after his famous guest, maintaining a gradual shrinking distance. He stopped a few feet from them and bowed at the waist. “I, personally, thank you for reconsidering our invitation to attend our fine institution, Lady Daamon.”

Dezmond rested his hand on Astral’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. She was meant to say something. What she wanted to say was not appropriate. She was not happy with attending the Academy, her presence here was a formality, a necessary evil so that she might better execute her mission. She intended to lay the essential groundwork to better cope with the tragedy due to occur in the next decade. She said nothing in the end, settling for a bob of her head in silent resignation for what needed to be done.

Their host rose from his bow, his smile reaching his eyes. “I’m Vincent LaRivière. I owe my life to your father… on more than one occasion. It really is an honor and privilege to serve his daughter. He was a great man.”

She pushed her Will against his soul, a soft nudge, a call. Vincent’s soul pulsed, the mark of an active Hunter, responding to her presence.

Dezmond frowned, his scowl a micro-expression. Dezmond’s soul responded to her call despite his resistance, brilliant and fierce, like a star in deep space. He was at her command, whether he liked it or not, she was his superior. She smirked at his discomfort.

Though not an active Hunter, the Councilman served the mission as ‘apkallu’, roughly translated to wise man and leader of a Hunter faction, in the only way he could. Not officially, of course. The Red Order had proprietary rights to Demon Hunter training, education, and all things involving interior defense with regards to demonic activity.

Dezmond’s precarious status as a politician made his activities as a Hunter impossible.

As for Vincent, his soul was damaged and broken in places that desperately needed mending, but he was managing to keep himself together. His aura and optimistic mesh of yellows flushed with compassionate greens and jovial oranges. Darkness pushed and pulled at his thoughts, at his unresolved stories and secret wishes that could never become reality.

“It’s an honor to be of service,” Astral said, and lowered her head in a small bow, careful not to curtsey. Lowering her height in the presence of someone of a lesser rank was considered an insult to her peers, present or not. As things stood, the drone above was recording and broadcasting her every move.

She meant every word. She had seen in his aura that he had sacrificed, perhaps too much, in the name of a war that could not be won. She saw in his aura that he was trying desperately to reconcile the apparent necessity of the inevitable neglect and betrayals of his leaders. She saw that he still had hope in her, her father, and even in Dezmond.

Astral felt the pinpricks of the active Hunters within the campus grounds. She closed her eyes, dulling the visual pollution that cluttered her concentration. She knew exactly how far each Hunter was from her current position. She smiled. She had at least fifty Hunters who didn’t so much as flinch at her call. They would serve if she asked it of them.

“I would love to see more of your beautiful gardens. I’m sure my grand-daughter would appreciate the opportunity to stretch her legs before getting stuck indoors come curfew.” Dezmond glanced at her and smiled. “A little sun and fresh air would do you some good.”

“Of course,” Vincent gestured down an open path.

The drone followed.

Private security dotted the paths, keeping an eye over their prestigious charges. A white horizontal band on both sleeves marked them as private E.M.I. contractors.

Vincent recited the obligatory branded garden tour information as they walked at a casual pace through a series of garden nodes.

Each terrace was circular, but each garden node overlapped each other like a Venn diagram, where categories, usually set in circles, overlap revealing a sweet spot of intersecting interests. Initially one node, then two, then a courtyard with a seating area, followed by three nodes. Smaller paths wove through the node, while a dominant wider path lined the main routes to the manicured courtyards through the nodes. All six courtyards were linked together, forming a triangular pattern.

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Astral tracked the layout in her mind, holding it there as they moved from one garden into the next. If there was active magic in the area she’d feel it resonate, wouldn’t she? She wasn’t sure. She’d feel the absence of magic, she knew that much. This place was not devoid of it, but it wasn’t rich in magical potential like in Serenity.

She glanced at Dezmond, who showed no signs of noticing. He was a sorcerer after all, the basic foundations of magical principles held no value to him. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had not bothered to study the foundations in his youth, gifted in the Art of magic as he was.

They stopped at the furthest courtyard from the fountain.

The layout of the gardens and nodes worked like a closed circuit, which suited the magical principles for an active flow of magic through a conduit. The magic would flow from one ring to the next, powered by the nodes whose energy was altered by the partitioners of each terrace. ‘Of course, I could be reading too much into the layout,’ she reminded herself.

The common usage of magic was largely laughable, ineffective wishful thinking. Almost harmless. Yet, she’d seen enough to note that the intuitive use of magic was largely practiced through the foundational structures, even if the people remained unaware of its symbolic potential.

If the gardens weren’t set up with the intent for magical purposes, then they were loaded with supernatural potential. Not the natural sort, thank God, but the artificial sort that limited potential, beneficial and disastrous alike.

The stone circle forming the outer perimeter of the courtyard did not go without her notice; nor did the bright keystone block marking the center of each conduit path. The keystones were siphoning energy, but for what? She had no doubt that if she dug up one of the stones, she’d find glyphs on the underside. There were too many coincidences to make this area an accidental creation of magical potential.

“Shall we rest here?” Dezmond asked and gestured to one of the stone benches decorating the inner ring of the courtyard. He smiled at her. Without waiting for a response, he took a seat and hiked up the skirt of his fine dress robe.

That was her cue to cast a silencing spell.

There was nothing elaborate about the spell itself. She didn’t need incantations, or obscure gestures to focus on what elements she needed. Magic was math, visualization, belief, and a deep understanding on how physics applied to the world.

There were workarounds, of course. Someone like Dezmond who had a powerful Will could brute force an event. The spell might take a while to manifest, like the brewing of a storm, or appear suddenly, violently and with devastating consequences. Magic sought balance. It flowed like water, seeking the path of least resistance. It moved like air, squeezing into impossible places, waiting to be freed. Without a conscientious approach to magic, the repercussions of magic correcting itself could lead to more than just a string of unfortunate events.

Dezmond’s talents had become too unpredictable. Too chaotic. Powerful though he was, he was nothing more than a frail old man whose magic was succumbing to dementia. He needed Astral to cast for him. A need he resented. To compensate for his bruised ego, he treated her like an apprentice, some child who couldn’t even spell the word ‘magic’ without his help.

She had designed silencing wards ages ago, in her former life. In a practiced thought, she cast her spell, searing the thin fabrics of reality with layered domes, one on top of the other, resonating in a few different frequencies akin to the human voice. She saw her shimmering domes vibrating, distorting the world beyond her magic. Staring too long could cause a migraine.

Judging by Dezmond’s growing annoyance, it was clear that not all magical practitioners could see magic in use. It was a rare talent to see into the magical realm. It was good to know that the old sorcerer was not gifted with such a skill.

Astral made a show of considering the drone’s height, as though she thought that anchoring the spell to the machine watching them was a good idea. Had Dezmond been anyone else, it might have been, but then again, it was unlikely they’d have a surveillance drone following them at all.

After a moment she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said from inside of her bubble.

Dezmond squinted at her. He had read her lips. It took a moment, just as the words “Excuse me?” passed his lips, until he realized what she had done. He rolled his eyes, and huffed himself from his seat like a tired old man.

He didn’t like being made a fool of, but Astral couldn’t help herself. He was an emotionally stable man, unlike the Dark Emperor she had once served. That vile man was someone who punished even the slightest acts of humiliation against him. He demanded respect, and in the end, reverence. Dezmond, to his credit, did not feel powerless when he was not in complete control. Sometimes, he even appreciated the joke.

The Councilman and the Headmaster joined her in her bubble. She moved with them when they reached her spell’s narrow boundaries, but refused to move when they reached the edge of the courtyard. Before long, she had them subconsciously trained to follow her movements around the court. Unfortunately, sitting on the benches was not an option, as the seating was set too close to the perimeter’s intuitively built ward. In a casual stride they circled the courtyard, keeping well away from the edge. One false move and her spell would dissipate.