“Am I in trouble?” Tyr had barely been given a chance to respond before he'd been dragged bodily by the tiny woman from the classroom grabbing at his wrist, hunched over to allow her to do so. He hadn't resisted so as not to harm her, but he was anxious. Remembering all of the times his tutors and instructors had raged and later abandoned him.
“What you've done just now is exhibit a rather unique aptitude for fire metamagic. I've gone to the liberty of investigating your academic file and found much of it to be redacted. I'm curious, just who are you?”
Tyr had no reason to lie, he'd expected the professors to knew who he was. Some obviously did, staring at him when they thought he wasn't looking. “Tyr Faeron, heir primus to Haran.”
“That would explain a lot.” She looked disappointed, but not surprised. Leda had hoped that the boy seated so near prince Iscari would've been an average mage like her. Not so. He was a primus, a little boogeyman from a mages point of view. Not hated, per se, but certainly not loved and lauded among scholars of the arcane. Some of her more eccentric peers might even claim that if not for the existence of beings like him, they'd have made much greater strides in their vocation.
Leda did not count herself among them. She was a healer and a woman of science – but she couldn't shed suspicion that they might be right.
“You haven't done anything wrong, and will not be punished for showing talent, that would be preposterous.” She added, and he didn't say much else. He wasn't very talkative, this prince. Not arrogant either, at least not in the way she would've expected. Even allowing her – a halfling – to escort him through the hallways without resistance. Students snickered and glared at him as they passed uniformed groups walking between their various workshops or on free periods.
“It gets better.” Leda said cheerfully. “It was like this for me, maybe worse. They see something different, someone that in their minds can serve as no possible benefit to them. Eventually, talent shines through. You'll see!”
“It's been like this my whole life.” Tyr replied, oblivious to her attempts to 'cheer him up'. “They serve no benefit to myself either.”
“That's a sad way to look at things.” She frowned.
“It's much more efficient to be glared at than to have to sit through them bowing and praising me. There's nothing sad about it.”
She cleared her throat after realizing that she was still tugging on the hem of his uniform. Holding his wrist had become uncomfortable, the kid burned at a temperature that made her hands sweat. Like he was stuck in a perpetual fever, but he didn't seem affected. He didn't wear his jacket like he was supposed to, but plenty first year students came all rebellious until being hammered down. The Red Dragon looking highly on individuality in any case. Instead he wore his collared dress shirt, tie half... Well, tied. Dressed sloppily, a very mage-like quality. Though they tended to get that way later in their years rather than in the first standard semester...
Ten minutes later, Tyr was escorted through the doors of a wide chamber cast of glassy white stone. None of the gold flecked marble, everything was white. Too white, with the light reflecting from practically every surface and smarting at his eyes. The smell was... Off, artificial. Sanitizing chemicals and some kind of perfume that had gotten ever so close to floral, but missed the mark by a notable degree.
“Hmm?” Lernin turned, his eyes betraying his confusion at seeing Tyr in this place. Here where they seemed to be alone, there was no need to uphold the gaff primus Jartor had insisted on. He didn't fall to a knee or prostrate himself, but he did bow rather low – making the younger man very uncomfortable. “Prince Tyr, please forgive my--”
“Stop.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lernin looked up at the boy who was hunched over still, with the rolled cuff of his white academy shirt clutched again in Leda's tiny hand. As a TA, she was probably not aware of who he was, but even when Lernin had shared his identity, her behavior didn't change. The whole academy could suffer an ill fate if news of this got out, yet the boy seemed wholly unconcerned. Just confused.
Maybe he liked it. Lernin had been informed regarding all of his students and their respective personalities. Wondering if he'd been misled after being told that Tyr was extremely violent, ruthless, cunning, and very easily angered. The sharp eyed, albeit very sloppy, almost... Dopey looking boy in front of him was not what he'd expected. Tyr Faeron, crown prince of Haran, was open mouthed and gawking at the medical facility around him...
“Never been a fan of fawning, personally. Let's just get on with this. You can tell me what you want from me, I'll try my best – fail – and you can frown all disappointed like as I walk away.” Tyr was straight faced and blunt with his words. Both Abaddon and Jartor had advised he minimize his contact with the young man, leaving him baffled and confused. Typically a person of his status would be given some personal attention by an archmage... Well, a human one. But they refused to allow Tyr to have any personal human tutor unless Abaddon himself cleared it. They said, in verbatim, 'the professors will be bad enough'. Lernin still didn't know what that meant.
“Understood.” That's all he could say. A primus commanded, he obeyed. He had to, no matter how he felt about their kind. Tyr may be powerless, but his fathers were certainly not. Leda explained, and Lernin's face darkened.
Powerless, my ass!
A first year student effortlessly generating a sacred flame was absurd. He wouldn't have believe it if Leda hadn't demanded Tyr show him – and he had without question. Metamagic didn't obey the classical leveling system for magic, it was raw elemental affinity. Something that couldn't so easily be taught, silent casting metamagic in year one was a tremendous talent. Any mage could do it... With complex ritual, arrays, or artifacts to facilitate their control.
“Is there a problem?” Tyr asked, head tilted in an odd sort of way. Like that of a dog getting a better point of view on a slab of meat, figuring out where to sink its teeth first. “I've done nothing wrong, I apologize for interrupting class but--”
“No, prince.” Lernin shook his head slowly. “Actually, now that you're here, are you interested in a more practical lesson? Let's call it a test, a challenge, whatever you'd like.”
Tyr shrugged. Practical was better than theoretical, he'd always felt that way. “Sure.”
A few minutes later, and he was staring at a lump of charred flesh in the vague shape of a man. Ugly and grotesque, yet somehow still very much alive. “What is this?”
“Who is this.” Leda corrected, shying back behind the hem of Tyr's robe in expectation of a slap or other punishment from the headmaster. She'd always been a woman of math and science, she could care less about anything else. Noble, royals, primus' included. They were people just like she was, and their lofty position didn't make them gods. Primus was a double edge title. On one side, they might be the greatest 'enemies' of magical development – but on the other, they were responsible for the existence of Amistad in the first place. Without them now, they'd be invaded or harassed at the border by one state or another.
Their official army was small and insignificant compared to Baccia or the Brotherhood. Mages or not, at least 80% of archmages in the state were of non-combatant vocations. They would flee at the first sign of trouble, taking all of their wealth and heading out. Better to offer egregious tribute to the empires to keep the empires on their side of things. Many mages hated it, including Leda herself. They could feel as strong and able as they wanted to, but at the end of the day, there was a very real pair of boots on their back preventing them from truly progressing.
“Sorry.” Tyr replied, scratching the back of his head and surprising them both. Nobles were prone to arrogance, and royalty were even worse. This young man didn't seem very arrogant to them. In fact, if Lernin hadn't seen him generate a sacred flame – he'd have assumed the boy was flat out dull. “I can't help this man. I am...”
Weak. Powerless. Impotent. Worthless. There were a lot of words to describe the way he felt about himself most times. If they'd asked him to do something, he'd do it. But Tyr had never, not once, healed a man. If he could do so, he'd have returned Fennic's tongue to him long ago.
“Prince--” Lernin tried to correct him before realizing their differences in position. His information pertaining to the boy was severely lacking. Tyr might be simple, but he wasn't worthless, nobody who could do what he had just done was worthless.
If he really is the primus of magic... Maybe... That's what he'd suspected, as had more than a few of the archmages in the background. The kind that watched, never revealing themselves. Helen, as in the author of one of the black books, had said one would appear eventually. Some kind of pseudo-chosen one, in her mind. Naturally, this was ridiculous, but the magical world needed to be pushed ahead and a primus of mana was the best chance of that happening. They'd been fairly stagnant for centuries.
“How should we refer to you?” Lernin asked, keeping it simple.
“Tyr.” That was the reply he'd gotten. Just 'Tyr'. Nothing else.
Wholly different from the domineering attitude of Iscari who had cowed Lernin into submission alongside his father, after the headmaster had refused a late transfer. He'd gone through all manner of hoops to see it done, quite aware of the consequences. Iscari wasn't a bad person, nor overly privileged, he was a devilishly intelligent and sharp young man. He just knew who he was and knew how to use the weight of his position in the right way. Tyr was much harder to have a conversation with, but far less imperious.
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“This...” Lernin waved his hand over the chunk of limbless flesh. “Is my son. Afflicted by a magical curse months ago at the hands of a rogue mage, he had been like this ever since. Every day, he slips further toward death and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
Tyr nodded. He could understand the compulsion to save a son, that's the way it should be. “You're a good father, headmaster. But... I cannot help you with this. I can barely cast a level one spell let alone fix this problem of yours.”
“Not so.” Lernin replied with a calm shaking of his head. “I know that you and your father have your motivations for keeping your identity secret, but... Please help my son. I'll do anything, afford any favor within my power. I'll even graduate you early.”
Graduate him early. As in fraud. Amistad was predicated on learning and due process, nobles were not given any preference over commoners officially. Everything was merit – at least per the law. To willingly offer to do such a thing caused Leda to gasp, though she was unwilling to protest the decision. She had children of her own and was sure she'd do the same.
“So let me get this straight, headmaster.” Tyr squinted his eyes at the significantly shorter, middle aged man. “We are in the middle of the greatest magical city on the continent. Right?”
Lernin nodded.
“A city full of mages, and there are no less than eighteen publicly known archmages in the world with roots in this place. Correct?”
Lernin nodded, before correcting himself. “Actually there are twenty eight but we do not separate by junior and uh... Well, alright. You are right.”
“And you expect me, an eighteen year old...” Tyr waved his hand around. “Boy, man, whatever... To do what, presumably, all of those archmages, resources, and facilities the 'greatest academy on the planet' could not do for your son?”
Lernin nodded.
“Do you not see how ridiculous this is? It feels a bit contrived, doesn't it? You think I just have some magic messiah fingers to snap and solve all your problems? What kind of shitty allegory would that be? Like I would suddenly awaken to some great power, awe all those who doubted me, and instantly become the strongest person in the story?”
“I don't really get what you're talking about... Prince.”
“Believe me, man. Neither do I.”
Lernin had a proper grasp of his character, noting the complete lack of empathy in the younger mans eyes. Even seeing the aberrant state of the headmasters son, Tyr hadn't winced or gotten sick. The patient smelled horrible, his flesh was in a constant state of burning decay, but the prince just stared on impassively. Observed and showed almost no compassion besides a twitching of the eye when he'd first arrived. Like he was looking at something totally ordinary, like a head of cabbage.
“How many men have you killed?” Lernin asked abruptly. There was a thing about soldiers, warriors, or mages who served their governments in a wartime capacity. A dullness of the spirit and a tautness around the eyes. Those in Haran and Oresund called it 'steel' or 'frost', or some other contrived overly masculine nonsense. Lernin called it post traumatic stress disorder. “If you don't mind me asking, you don't have to answer.”
Tyr seemed a bit confused at that, counting on his fingers slowly. “I'm sorry, headmaster. I don't know... A little over twelve hundred, maybe. I don't keep tallies.”
“...”
Just counting. Counting. No anxiousness, no 'he knows!' sort of reaction. Just... Counting...
Leda and Lernin alike were silent at that. A boy of eighteen, his life hadn't even started yet. If Tyr had not been heir primus, he would've called it for what it likely was – a lie. But as it was now, he believed the boy. Steel in a man, they said. A hardening of the self that made men into more, to them, less to anyone of a rational mind. Lernin wasn't sure if the prince was a monster, but he couldn't help feeling a great deal of concern. As a father himself, Lernin wondered how cruel a fate it must be to walk in those shoes.
“Please. Just try. I'm not asking you to succeed. Give it your best shot, and if you fail – so be it.”
Tyr shrugged, and did as he was asked. He followed the string of mana, the same thing he'd done in the classroom. It wasn't hard, though he didn't understand the more complex concepts. A small pluck at the mana and the fire began to progressively lighten until it was a white flame flaked with gold. Once it entered that state, everything in the world seemed to rail against it. Begging him to return it to natural balance, telling him that it shouldn't exist. A compulsion, but one easily resisted, perhaps this was why it was so difficult for others.
To be dramatic, Tyr had been fighting the energies that dictate his reality since the day he'd been born. Presumably.
Sacred flame, they called it. Fire without heat, no inherent capacity for destruction. A slow rolling blaze the comforted any pair of eyes looking at it.
That was a sorrow to this compulsion he felt. The world laying itself at its knees, in a way, a gentle squeezing of his mind asking him not to do this. He didn't care. Assuming it must be easy, it was anything but. A powerful mage, like Lernin, would feel much worse when casting metamagic freely without first manifesting a magic circle. It was a sensational sort of talent.
Without word or whisper, Tyr summoned the white flame and let it bathe the body of his son. He didn't know that he was supposed to do this, it just seemed right. Like he knew this fire and it knew him, that's where it wanted to go.
Split flesh melted together, a gasp of ecstasy escaping lips that had been fused just moments before. Ten minutes passed, and then an hour. The process wasn't instant, it was laborious, and that was the problem facing modern healers. Even if they could hold it together for a minute, it wasn't enough to break a powerful curse like this. Tyr felt his body bow under the pressure, sweat wicked from his back, soaking his uniform until it was sopping wet – so much so that the enchantments it bore couldn't expel the moisture faster than it came.
An hour became two, and Tyr's mind was screaming at him to give it up – but he railed against it even harder. A task. Tyr was unafraid of failure, as long as he'd given it his best – but here in the presence of people who'd recognized some so-called gift in him... He refused to submit. The prince might not carry the strength of limb of his father – but he was just as stubborn. More so, that kind of stubbornness that transcended common sense. An alligator locked on to the leg of its prey even after the head is cut from his body.
Throughout it all, Lernin had observed with bated breath, casting all manner of warding and supportive spells to bolster Tyr's own spellcasting until he too was near collapse. Healer after healer joined them, other professors and support staff doing the same. Each time, it lifted the burden on Tyr's mana and made it easier to soldier on until the room was full of men and women near exhausted as he was.
Exhausted. And they were no small spellcasters. Nineteen people had burnt through most of their mana, and Tyr remained standing. The enchantments they'd laden him with possessed more mana than his 'spell', if that's what you'd want to call it. But metamagic was different. Mages didn't just dig deep and push on through force of will. Once you ran out of mana, you need to wait. It was an extremely finite resource in the human body, a universal rule of the arcane. But the boy... He just kept going...
There was a mass in the man. Tyr could both see and feel it. A mass of dark energy that struggled against him. It was strong. Monolithic even, like he was staring in the eyes of the strongest opponent he'd ever lined up against. The man below him would heal before returning to his previous state at behest of the 'curse'. A failure. Tyr would always be a failure. He felt it in his bones. This thing, whatever it was, was incredibly powerful. An old thing. Something twisted and gnarled, sucking away the life force of this man slowly – but refusing to allow him to die in the worlds worst symbiotic relationship. Feeding on him...
The frog and the well. That was Tyr. Every time he felt like he'd taken a step toward the peak, he'd be reminded just how far away from it he was. And he hated that. The constant reminders of how insignificant he was.
Yet, contrary to his own self loathing, Lernin was amazed. Both at the stamina of the boy and the intensity of his will. Sacred flame wasn't unique to Tyr, not by any means, but the prince must've been in terrible pain due to the elemental incompatibility. It was a water curse, a self replicating poison of sorts, like an organ made of magic. One of the latest victims to the 'black hand'. Magnus was a student, but also an adventurer and a talented young battlemage, he'd been sent to root out a coven and had been returned in this state.
He felt ashamed at himself. Fearing and almost loathing a young man who was currently heaving breathless above the white linens of his own son's hospital bed in a bid to save him. Whether he succeeded or not was not the issue though, it was that he tried. Lernin could see Tyr failing, eyes growing dimmer with the effort of it all. Octavian had denied him, and the other primus' were unable to wield mana. Iscari had tried and failed after only three minutes.
Curses were complex things. A forbidden form of science in all kingdoms, and that's what made it so difficult. Spells in general could not be reversed, you could not take back a casting unless you possessed the capacity to overwhelm the mana with your own. And even then, it wasn't reversing a spell. It was akin to grabbing a physical object of your own strength.
It wasn't until a small wolf the size of a puppy appeared from nowhere, leaping up onto the chest of his son that the curse finally broke. An incredible amount of energy was released from Magnus' body with a sound not unlike an egg cracking. Slowly but surely, the woven thread of magic comprising the spell began to fall apart.
Without delay, Lernin and the other healers present within the hospital began to weave spells of their own to half and subvert the cascade of energy. Insulating their surroundings and pushing it up through the ducts with skillful rotations of their arms. Four hours had passed, and at its end, only Tyr was standing. In a way. Unconscious on his feet as his mana core exhausted itself and left him hunched over the body with glazed eyes and a deathly pallor to his skin. At first, one might've thought him a corpse. He looked awful.
Lernin gasped. Watching as an eighteen year old boy became the butt of his own bizarre joke and managed to successfully break a class-4 curse.
It was Okami who had shown Tyr what he was missing. Something only he could see with his ability to reach the dual energies in the half-living body beneath him. A mass of dark energy that fed upon the mana of its host to sustain itself. A parasitic entity composed of pure mage. Like a ball of yarn, it came undone as soon as Okami began tugging at it, dissipating as if it had never existed at all.
A curse was a terrible thing, and a terrible fate. Priests, paladins, druids, all of the respective healing or light related professions were consistently troubled by them. Only one known vocation among all mages could deal with them with any consistency.
A spellbreaker.