The first two weeks at the academy were designated as the syllabus period. General review and introductory courses, allowing students to settle in. For most of those in attendance, it left them with a lot of free time to decide on their classes, or re-test for an intermediate vocation. Not Tyr though...

It ended in a flash. After the incident in the hospital, Tyr hadn't slept. He knew he'd done something special that few people could do, even if it was ultimately worthless. After some testing, the 'sacred fire' which had sounded so impressive was anything but. Exhaustive tests were performed involving a knife, some skin, and the fire. Basic things, taking a few fingers off as well. His own body healed faster than the magic did, and Tyr wasn't keen on the idea of hurting others to test it on them instead. All it did was speed up his natural process by the smallest bit, making it difficult if not impossible to observe. In any case, he was sure that it was worthless. Unless curses started walking around everywhere...

Fortunately, Lernin kept his promise – not implicating him in the 'miraculous healing' of Magnus. All credit had been given to Abaddon who had naturally ignored any laurels. If anything, that professor seemed to be the local scapegoat for all things unexplained. All of the academies had their secrets. Drama and intrigue that Tyr had absolutely no interest in whatsoever.

After exhaustive tests, he'd become so frustrated that he'd considered removing the bracelet, the black metal links that sat beside its silver twin at his wrist – but he didn't. The moment he considered it, his own instinct pushed it down. He had to keep it on, it hadn't left his wrist in years and he'd feel naked without it.

Meanwhile, Iscari who sat opposite him in the meal hall was squirming under the glares Tyr kept sending at him. He couldn't tell if Tyr was looking at him, or not looking at anything at all. He stared a lot, the prince of Haran, some people had approached him in the halls in a more friendly manner than the others and he just stared them in the eye until they went away. Iscari had tried to bring it up once before, but Tyr acted like he had no idea what he was talking about.

He was absolutely certain that he'd never met such a strange individual in his entire life. “Are y--”

“Will you teach me how to use magic?” Tyr abruptly asked, leaving Iscari perplexed.

“...You already know how to use magic.” He said. “I saw you develop your own metamagic at the drop of a hat, you probably know more than I do.”

“I just got lucky.” Tyr shrugged. “I think they might kick me out of the academy. Which is fine, but I have things I want to see and do before that happens.”

Iscari nearly choked on the spoonful of soup. “That will not happen. Amistad mages might be a proud lot, but they are very afraid of us. Not that they should be – you see – it's not like we're some monster under their bed, but that's how they act. Jartor is much more terrifying than my father, which might be to your advantage.”

“Really?” Tyr could understand that some might find his father intimidating, but he'd always heard the complete opposite. Jartor himself had claimed that Octavian was the better between them at practically everything else but fighting. And he could use magic, giving him the proverbial leg up.

“Oh yes.” Iscari nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. “For all their brotherhood, my father is definitely scared of yours. He says that Jartor is the strongest of all the primus' and that even old Ragnar is afraid of him. My father even asked me to avoid you when we came to academy, I think he might be a little scared of you yourself.”

“You're pulling the wool.” Tyr waved such a ridiculous statement away. “My father always told me that he and Octavian were good friends. Ragnar is not afraid of him either, they are very close and speak to one another all the time.”

“Hmm... Maybe.” Iscari pondered his words, looking around the richly appointed cafeteria. “I think I prefer this place to the palace in Varia in any case.”

Tyr couldn't blame him in that. There was a whole study of magic regarding the culinary. Naturally, anything that could convert magic into money was seen as a worthwhile discipline. What use was an unemployed battlemage compared to a wealthy alchemist or bloomer who could make fields grow with a chant? Most of the magical disciplines had been monetized in every conceivable way. They did this thing called 'branding'. There were merchant companies in Haran with labels, but Tyr had never seen such an egregious shilling as he had in the academy. Magic was expensive and many of the departments had sponsors, product placement for the sake of supplementing their overhead.

For example, there was this miraculous soap in their bathroom and all students in the first standard course year were required to use it. [Shirtaloon's Crystal Wash™], a bright blue and yellow label telling him that it'd clean 'all his nooks and crannies'. It worked as it said it did, but the relationship between these business conglomerates and everything else unnerved him.

In any case, the academy cafeteria...

The whole place was bright, courtesy of the two walls that appeared to be made of glass. A spell that rendered the granite completely transparent, allowing students to look outside. A huge space seating over one hundred tables, and this was only one of the cafeterias in the academy. Best of all, the food here was unlimited (within reason). All Tyr had to do was activate the raised tablet at the center of the table with a bit of mana and they'd send his order – whatever he wanted – to him. Instantly via a miniaturized dimensional gate.

Tyr preferred eating on the road with a nice campfire to crisp the game Okami would catch for him, but this wasn't so bad. It was more of an atmosphere problem than anything related to food. It was so loud in this place, everyone was constantly talking. Talking as if they never got tired of hearing their own voices. Sometimes all of the noise would swim together into an uncomfortable ringing in his ear, causing the pressure of his blood to spike.

Even with its amenities, Tyr was not comfortable here. Too many people and far too much mana pushing against his world energy. He knew it was helpful, to be under than pressure, the equivalent of walking around with training weights on. But it couldn't change how his skin crawled near every second of the day.

“Your hand is shaking again.”

“What?”

“Your hand.” Iscari repeated. “Why does it shake like that? Are you injured?”

“No. I can't be injured.”

“You're invincible then?”

Tyr snorted, shaking his head and indicating that Iscari should follow. It was better to do these things in a place that was easily cleaned. “Perpetual would probably be a more apt description.”

“Perpetual?”

“Just follow me and I'll show you.”

Iscari walked alongside his... Friend? They were near identical in height and build, though Iscari was a bit more slender. Both athletic, long haired and large, like the children of giants that they were. Light and dark, contrast between them – he found it funny in an ironic sort of way. With all of this talk of balance it seemed appropriate.

“I don't think we've ever had such a long conversation. For a while there, I thought you found me to be a bother. I must say, I've never felt like that before.” Iscari laughed at himself. Was it a joke? Tyr couldn't really tell. People had been treating him like a bother his entire life, except for the servants – but that was their job. Like everyone else, he was sure that they hated him too.

“I'm not good at this.” Tyr replied. “I'm sorry.”

“...Sorry for what?” Iscari was baffled at the sudden apology. Tyr had always been a ruffian, just like his father in his youth, climbing on everything and shouting obscenities at commoners and nobles alike. All for the sake of fun and mischief, not anything malicious. It was enough to make his famed beauty of a mother howl in laughter, and set his father's eye to twitching. He'd changed. A lot. In every conceivable way, he was a different person now.

Tyr sighed, taking Varinn's advice yet again. All those proverbs existed as a jumble of words and half phrases in his mind. “I never really had a friend before. Well, I have one other friend but we don't exactly talk much, we usually just sit in silence and he doesn't seem to mind. We are friends too, right?”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Of course.” Still baffled, Iscari felt the sudden urge to slap his friend on the face just for insinuating that they weren't. A bond of brotherhood was as strong in Varia as it was in Haran. Be they three or four or forty years old, he'd always stay true to his word. In that, he was more stubborn than Tyr himself.

“What do friends do?” Tyr asked. “What is a friend?”

“Someone who cares for you, and you care for them – but not bound by blood or by duty. Someone to celebrate your victories with who will show you face even in your defeats, whether they be in the fields of court or battle. A person you can talk to and share yourself with, without reservation.”

“Oath?”

“Oath. At least as far as I see it, it's hard to define these things so easily.”

That was depressing. Tyr was downcast, feeling helpless at the idea that all of these people seemed to have so much of something he didn't. His brooding face must've alerted Iscari to some sort of discomfort, because the man draped his arm of Tyr's shoulders, walking with him through the halls of the academy like that. Iscari was very warm, and gentle despite being such a reportedly powerful person. Rumor had it that he was as strong as Jartor, without all the roughness. Complete nonsense in the present, but maybe one day when he awoke to 'the path' – he would be.

Tyr sighed, finding that his skin didn't crawl from the pressure of physical contact with another person. In recent memory, that had only happened twice. First with Astrid, now with Iscari. Okami, naturally, did not count. He'd shake hands with just about anyone, but any prolonged contact made him incredibly uncomfortable. Maybe that was a sign. “My master told me that I had no friends and I have to find a friend to find my aspect. What's yours?”

“Hope.” Iscari replied. “Not really sure what that means, but all the priests stand in consensus. I'd heard that you hadn't found yours – so as your best friend, I'll help you find it. Deal?”

Tyr smiled softly. Something about Iscari's silver tongue or his easy going manner appealed to him. Whereas Tyr was a killer and sharp around the edges, Iscari was bright and cheery and quick to smile. He didn't play the game that Tyr had obsessed himself with since he'd been young, the game to read men and always prepare for the worst. Observing the way they walked, moved, breathed. Tyr was still locked in a perpetual state of waiting for someone to cut him open again.

He was so... Charismatic, that Iscari. Tyr could understand why Astrid had looked at him the way that she had. He couldn't blame her for that after spending some time with Tyr. Iscari was better in all ways, but any of the jealousy he might've felt in the past faded away.

“Deal.”

Ten minutes later, they arrived at a sparring hall.

“I'm not supposed to be in here.” Iscari said nervously. “Father says I am not permitted to fight in the bounds of the academy. Even a spar.”

Tyr shrugged, unwilling to expend the energy necessary to discuss such a ridiculous rule, dragging the other by his arm. Iscari was well capable of stopping the startling fragility of Tyr's force, but he didn't want to hurt him. It would seem that the rumors that he was powerless might actually be true. For a moment, he felt a wash of pity and sorrow before swallowing it out of respect. All things had a place, a purpose, and a capability. All things had worth.

The prince of Haran was one of the rare few that treated him as a person and not some priceless artifact, in his own, very odd way. Tyr didn't give a shit who he was, and for someone that had lived their whole life under the obsessive gaze of old men and women, that was nice.

They formed up opposite one another while the few students present stared at them both with open mouths. First at the dragging of the arm of a primus by this unknown northman, and then by the words that fell from his mouth.

“Hit me.” Tyr said, unconcerned with their shocked stares.

“Absolutely not.” Iscari vehemently refused to do such a thing. Primus or not, if Tyr was truly as weak as was claimed – he would die.

“Do it.”

“No!”

They argued like this, back and forth for what seemed like an eternity as even the students within the place began to attempt to drag Tyr from his position. But while Iscari might view him as an exceptionally frail individual, he was still six foot four, perhaps two hundred pounds.

“I don't know what he did, man, but chill! He's a primus.” One of the students hissed, they were all so tiny as to barely manage to move Tyr's toned arms let alone his body. “The shield arrays weren't made to defend against someone like that, come on!”

“Coward.” Tyr was speaking directly to Iscari, ignoring the others. He wanted to see for himself, had to see how worthless he actually was. Not for a need to be humbled but just to be shown that peak he never stopped climbing toward.

“I have limits, Tyr.” Iscari's brow crumpled for the first time. A man of honor and privilege who'd never been insulted like that in his entire life. Easy bait. “I know you don't mean that.”

Tyr's face split into a twisted, lopsided grin. Reaching into his dimensional ring to pull something out of it, casting a glove straight into Iscari's chest. “For all my weakness at least I have the backbone to address a proper challenge. You are a coward.”

Once the glove was thrown, the other students sprinted from the field as fast as their legs would carry them. Not one of them was willing to stay for what was sure to come next, calling for the aid of professors and panicking on their way out the door. Tyr was annoyed. He threw the glove, and before it had hit the ground he pushed forward with all the force his legs were capable of mustering to drive his fist straight into Iscari's nose.

It felt like he'd struck the face of a mountain. No, harder than that. His hand shattered at first contact, and the other man hadn't moved. It was the trigger necessary for Iscari to show a bit of displeasure, though. First, there was the glove – a challenge that could not be withdrawn. To him, the crown prince of the worlds greatest empire. And then, this man had the gal to strike him before the terms of the challenge were set?

Iscari was furious. He'd never been treated like this. Not by anyone but his father. Barely moving, he swiped Tyr with a backhand, only realizing his mistake when it was too late. A tremendous cracking noise echoed through the training hall. Tyr's head crumpled like an overripe melon fallen from a cart, skin peeling like paper and bits of gray matter flying from the pulped skull as, sending other man flying. Careening through the air like a loosed arrow, Tyr impacting on the far wall in a broken pile of twisted limbs.

Dead. Instantly. Iscari felt the bile rise to his throat, the lunch he'd just had leaving his stomach. He gasped for air, feeling a shaking of his hands from the unprecedented anxiety that had turned the blood in his veins to his.

“I k-killed... I killed him... Oh no... Oh fuck, oh gods...” He'd never killed anything in his entire life. His father was insistent that he not kill, explaining that he was too strong and was not permitted under any circumstance to fight anyone but him. Because of this, he had a poor grasp of what he was actually capable of.

Not only had he killed a man, he'd killed a primus. Iscari heaved and spat the never ending flow of bile and phlegm leaving his mouth. What does this mean? He was a murderer. He'd killed someone of great important, and his only friend.

Why. Why. Why. Why. Why!? Why did I do that!?

He vomited again, scratching at his face until his nails came away blooding. Tyr remained where he was, a pile of pulped flesh as Iscari screamed and begged for a medic. The room was empty though, everyone had left and it was too late for a medic in any case. There would be a war, the empires would go to war over this and millions could die when Jartor learned what had happened.

“Thish ish berry unpleahsant.” Tyr groaned. Losing an arm or a leg was not such a big deal. It hurt, naturally, but it could be healed fairly quickly. His brain, however, was the worst of it. It would cause his speech to slur and his mind to slow if his brain itself was damaged. Iscari had effortless turned him into a vaguely human shaped sheet of wallpaper.

There was a lesson in that to mark all the heroes of the storybooks as idiots. Tyr wished he'd worn his helmet unlike those famed men and women.

“You're alive! Gods! Thank you! He's alive!” Iscari felt his heart shoot into his throat, unable to breathe after witnessing Tyr peeling himself off the wall. Before his very eyes, the flesh and bones of the other man were mending to heal his wounded body. Grisly pops and cracks, a sound like paper tearing and a disgusting writhing of worm-like muscle fibers reconnecting themselves. “Hells... That's vile. Is this your power? Can you heal from anything?”

“Just takes time.” Tyr hissed, it was hard to speak when under so much strain.

“That's overpowered!” Iscari exclaimed, vomiting again at the stench. As men did upon death, something the prince had no experience with – Tyr had indeed shit himself. Turned almost inside out like that it was sort of hard to hold it in. It happened, he wasn't proud of it, but it wasn't the first time. Nothing a little Shirtaloon's Ultra-Deluxe Premium Crystal Wash (Not Just For Washing Crystals!)™ couldn't fix, in any case.

“This is overpowered...” Tyr groaned. “Yes, I'm the overpowered one between us.”

“It's still going to be difficult to explain...” Iscari winced, it didn't look comfortable. “I'm sorry I did that.”

“I wanted you to.” Tyr replied, showing nothing but apathy instead of any grievance over what had happened. “Thanks. I wonder if they'll make us pay for that wall...?”