Marast felt smug elation as the red gem on his desk glowed brightly, almost blinding him in its glow. Marast gently placed his pen on the desk, putting the letter he had been writing to the side. The Archmage eagerly grabbed the gem, opened himself to his magic, and threw his magic into it.

He had been incredibly smug when Marek, a naïve boy who had taken his supposed ‘Divine-Wrought’ pendant and kept it on him for the last few years. The boy’s magic was absurdly powerful, and if he had stayed, he would’ve become an Archmage in less than twenty years. Such a feat was unheard of, and with him being such a blindly optimistic fool, it would’ve potentially disrupted his plans.

It had taken a while, but with the right whispers in the right ears and a visit, Marek had eventually been convinced that his destiny lay outside of Velaire. The pendant was something that he had enchanted as both a means of controlling and keeping tabs on Marek. It had taken three years, but he was finally where he wanted him to be.

He’s finally within Ashenstead’s walls, Marast thought, smiling widely. The boy was dreaming now, which meant the magical defenses that every Mage kept around their mind were weakened. Because Marek wore the pendant under his clothes, the gem touching his skin gave Marast a way in. Using that doorway, Marast slipped into Marek’s mind, gently poking and prodding him into walking toward his doom: a massive branch of Dominion Wood that would turn even the most meager of Initiates into a God.

Hot jealousy twisted in Marast’s breast at the thought of the staff. It had been there for almost a century, and yet like all Archmages that were privileged to know such information, he could do nothing but let the staff rot. His plans were still proceeding apace, but if he had the staff, he could drop all pretenses. He could sweep aside the King and all his simpering nobility in one swift stroke. He wouldn’t even need the Empire. He could rule on his own…

Alas, those dreams must wait for the moment. Marast almost laughed at the pun but was careful not to interject too much of his emotions and thoughts into the gem. While painfully obtuse, Marek wasn’t blind. A few words in the heat of the moment—like on the battlefield whilst fighting the desert savages—was all well and good, but he had to be careful. The pendant is supposed to guide Marek along like an invisible string, not with visible chains. The more obvious the constraints, the harder the boy would fight them.

Marast chuckled darkly as Marek tried to walk past the door where the staff lay. For a magical powerhouse, he’s a blind man waving his stick in the dark. How he couldn’t feel the sheer power emanating from the staff was beyond Marast. He could feel it even through his magical connection.

Glancing at his candle, Marast took some of his magic from the gem that currently held Marek in place. He curled his magic around the candle, taking in its light, beauty, and heat. Discarding the first two things, he focused on the warmth from the candle, immersing himself in it. While his physical body was sitting in his office and shivering from the cold, his mind was almost aflame as it captured a near-perfect recreation of the flickering flames. He wasn’t using the flame, he was the flame, convincing himself fully what he was channeling was real.

Because of the suggestion that Marast had made to Marek—that the pendant would intercede and aid him—the idea was thereafter set within his mind. Because the pendant would offer Marek visions and physically warm up and glow whenever it tried to help him, that’s what was supposed to do. Magic, as Marast often told his students, was a matter of changing the world to your whim and convincing others that it was your right to do so. Once lodged within one’s subconscious, a subconscious belief was nearly impossible to eradicate. Even though he was led by the nose to Ashenstead—a place where no Mage or magical would ever want to go under any circumstances—Marek still trusted in the ‘Divine-Wrought’ pendant that had been supposedly helping him.

Marast sent the gathered heat through the red gem, burning Marek as he tried to walk past the room where the staff was contained. Continually prodding Marek, he eventually sent the youth into the room, where he stared at the floating staff with the kind of awe that was usually reserved for the country bumpkins who first saw the Citadel in all its glory.

Marek’s reaction was predictable, but what he hadn’t predicted was his sudden recklessness. Marast pulled back, swearing as the idiot began to channel his magic within his dream, trying to seize the staff. While the image was already fading, Marast watched with some satisfaction as the boy began to shout, his magic beginning to be absorbed into the defenses like water through a straw.

“Having fun?”

Marast let go of his magic completely, almost falling out of his chair as he turned, throwing a fireball the size of a man’s head in the speaker’s direction.

“Come now,” Raina said, smiling as she let the fireball impact her red-robed chest with no effect. Marast stood, pulling his magic back from another blow as he bowed his head in supposed shame.

“Raina,” Marast said through gritted teeth. She was large and tall. She looked more like a soldier—with her cropped auburn hair and rigid stance—than an Archmage. A striking woman, whatever beauty she possessed was fading as she neared her forties. A long scar graced her forehead, and her icy grey eyes lay as a contradiction to any warmth that was usually exhibited in her charming smile.

Azmar damn that woman. Does she know that we’re not supposed to meet here? “What are you doing here?” Marast said instead, keeping his voice steady with some effort.

“I wanted to check up on you,” the Archmage said, moving through his office and picking through his things curiously. She lifted a small statue with her magic, twisting it about before letting it fall to the ground and smash to pieces. “You have been keeping things from me, and we’re supposed to be partners. I’m… upset, Marast. Terribly upset.”

“I… didn’t mean to offend,” Marast said carefully. Raina raised an elegant eyebrow and stepped on the remains of the statue, crumpling it beneath her foot.

“Oh?” Raina asked, her voice deliberately mild. “Go on, Marast. Explain yourself. Why shouldn’t I be upset?”

Marast looked away from her and glanced around his office, thinking about what or how much he should tell her. They may be working together, but they both knew that eventually their partnership would come to an end, and with it any pretense that they were not enemies fighting over the same throne.

His office was cluttered, the way Marast liked it. His desk dominated half of the room, while the other half were filled with various knick-knacks and other items he had collected over the years. His shelves around the room were filled with the items, rather than his private collection of books that he wouldn’t dare bring outside of his private quarters.

“Just because you’re refusing to acknowledge my existence doesn’t mean I’m not here,” Raina said, her voice low and angry. “What were you doing, Marast? Why were you channeling enough to wake me out of my sleep, and how come I was the only one to recognize your channeling?”

Marast turned back to face her. She was glaring at him, her hands on her hips as she loomed over him. She’s not going to leave unless she gets the truth, Marast thought, sighing. Might as well give it to her; it’s out of my control anyway.

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“What did you apprentice in, Raina?” Marast asked, folding his hand together and placing them on his lap as non-threateningly as possible.

“Rituals,” Raina said, her smile replaced with a smirk. “I was one of the last before they banned it a decade ago, just before my ascension to the Council. Your work?”

Marast nodded, matching her smirk with one of his own. “Yes. It wouldn’t do for promising students to gain access to the same information that you found.”

“It’s a good thing I did find it, though,” Raina said. “Now, our Lord will return and finish what he started.”

Alarmed, Marast used his magic to swing the door shut behind Raina, which echoed loudly down the hallway. “Do not speak of that here!” Marast hissed, growing angrier as she continued to smirk at him. “We are not ready, not yet.”

“But you are ready,” Raina said, turning her attention to the gem on Marast’s desk. “Ready enough to endanger our plans, that is. You do know that ritual magic is monitored, right Marast?”

“I have been using it for years, and only now you detect it, our foremost expert on ritual magics. I think I’m fine,” Marek said, waving a dismissive hand. He wanted to slap the gem out of her hands as she picked it up and peered down at it.

“This is what you were channeling into,” she said, her voice neutral. The gem glowed as she channeled into it, but she stopped and almost dropped it on the desk, looking at Marast with wide eyes.

“You sent your so-called apprentice into Ashenstead, the one place that no Mage is supposed to go,” Raina said flatly. Marast could feel the tension growing in the room, and if he evaded her again, he knew she would lash out if he didn’t give her a good enough explanation. “Explain yourself, Marast.”

“We need a scapegoat for the Empire’s intervention,” Marast said. His hands were sweating, and it was difficult to pretend as if he wasn’t being threatened by the most powerful woman in the world. She wasn’t more powerful than him, but she was a threat that he didn’t want to deal with. Not yet. “Marek is young, naïve, and powerful. I fed him a story about how a pendant I gave him—which I had just prepared—was Divine-Wrought. He’s kept it on him ever since.”

“And so, you sent your false apprentice to Ashenstead.”

“Yes,” Marek said. “Once the spirit within Ashenstead has control of him, his existence will be seized upon by the Empire. As an alumnus of the Citadel, we are honour-bound to protect him, which leads both states closer to war.”

“It could work,” Raina said. She seized the gem so quickly that a master thief would burn with envy. She channeled into it again, frowned, then put it back down. “Your idiot of a student tried to channel while sleeping.”

“I never accused of him being overly intelligent,” Marast said with a shrug. “Just powerful. Easily Council-level. If he’d stayed, he would’ve been wearing the red robes within twenty years. Fifteen, if either of us decided to help him.”

“So, you moved a potential rival out of the city,” Raina said. She was smiling again, which made Marast almost sigh in relief. Any version of Raina was dangerous, but a happy Raina meant she wasn’t angry. An angry Raina was one of the few he feared.

Marast stiffened as Raina bent down, placing her lips right next to his ear. Her smile was still there, but there was an edge to it now. “If you do such a thing again,” she whispered, making Marast shudder instinctively, “I will use your body as fuel for summoning our Lord. Don’t. Do it. Again.”

Raina withdrew and spun away. Stepping purposefully on the shards on the way to the door. She opened and closed it behind her gently, as if she hadn’t just threatened his life.

Marast waited until she was long gone before he kicked the biggest shard off the floor and sent it crashing against the wall. It shattered, a small piece flying off and cutting into the side of his cheek.

Marast touched his face, raising an eyebrow when his finger came back bloody. “It’s a good thing I’m not in Ashenstead,” he murmured. Even a drop of blood shed within the place would be more than enough to damn any man, even an Archmage. He would proceed with his plans apace now that Marek was there. He would also accelerate a few others, especially now that Raina was starting to make a nuisance of herself.

Marast stared at his bloodied finger, thinking about how best to deal with Raina. The idea came to him almost immediately. She’d always been a voracious reader. There were books that that Raina would kill to have, and if he were to—

Of course, Marast thought smugly, curling his bloodied finger into a fist. She’s wanted it for years—that book will damn her, just as I’ve damned Marek.

Satisfied, Marast rang a bell on his desk. Despite it being past midnight, a servant arrived within a few minutes. He was tall and thin, like a stick. When he bowed, he bowed low, almost bent over double. Marast was surprised his back didn’t snap from the strain.

“Yes, my lord?” the servant asked. He straightened but kept his head bowed. “What do you require?”

“Clean this up,” Marast ordered, nudging the mess on the floor with his feet. “I wish to retire shortly and not have this mess in my office when I return.”

The servant bowed again, cleaning it up expediently and stowing it in a bag that he carried. When he was done, he bowed again. “Do you require anything else, my Lord?”

“I require not a thing,” Marast said. He forced himself to look jovial. “What’s your name?”

“Benglam,” the servant mumbled. He looked terrified out of his wits.

“Benglam,” Marast repeated. He grinned at the servant. “Why don’t you go down the kitchens and get something to eat? Tell them that Archmage Marast sent you and that you want a full meal.”

“My lord?” Benglam asked, and Marast kept his grin as Benglam slowly realized what had happened. “Oh, thank you, my lord!” Benglam said, bowing even lower somehow.

“It’s not a problem, Benglam,” Marast said, chuckling. Azmar, I hate doing this. Still, it was worth it in the end. If enough people loved you, then they would fight for you. Even for someone such as Benglam, he would be calling upon all favors, perceived or otherwise, sooner rather than later. “We all have important duties within the Citadel, and I try to help wherever I can.”

“Thank you!” Benglam said again cheerfully. By his inflection, everything that Marast had said went over his head. Marast made a note for Benglam to be put in the stables where he would interact with beasts similar to his intelligence level.

“Go on,” Marast said, waving his hand in a shooing motion. Benglam bowed again and left, slamming the door behind him.

Soon, I will rule, and I will deliver my lord the city of his greatest foe, Marast thought, laughing at the irony. Soon.