It took a while for the reality to settle in for all parties involved—Val, Jet, and even the blustering hall. There was no denying it. She wiped the floor with the schmuck.
Jet’s rosy complexion flushed red with consternation. It was hard work not to smirk at him across the Casting Circle. She bested him in every sense—skill, aptitude, attitude. The best part was, he knew it. As he’d asked, she proved that she grasped combat's ebb and flow exceedingly better. She supposed all Elemental Exchanges set out to decide this exact idea. What a thrill. She could understand Caro’s hype around duelling a tiny bit more now. Just kinda.
Packaging the adrenaline away, Val fixed a pace towards the opposite end. If she could, she’d recall her jewellery with a mental command and quickly leave. If she was being honest, she didn’t trust herself to give the hairpin’s retrieval the care it required, especially as the barriers dissipated to give way to the hall’s ground-shaking clamour.
Jet sputtered where he stood frozen, struggling to tie together a response to probably—definitely—save face. Val didn’t give him the chance to do so, vacating the fighting area in short order after successfully claiming her jewellery-turned-weapons. She swept the audience for a friendly face and, upon spotting raven hair and kind eyes, beamed at Lowell across the room.
He returned her enthusiasm, muttered to the… she counted eleven at his long table, and then threw his hand in the air, beckoning for her to join him.
Seconds after she stepped out of the Casting Circle, an arm wrapped around her neck and a gleeful laugh assaulted her ears. “That was—” Rubin kissed the tips of her fingers “—simply glorious. Magnificent. That’ll teach the annoying prick.”
“Hope so.”
“No. I know so,” Rubin told Val, escorting her arm in arm through the animated mob of artificers. Experienced beyond her years, Rubin parried the mountain of congratulations thrown Val’s way and the countless offers to join someone’s table with fierce grace. Val was never happier to have a person speak on her behalf, somehow toeing the line between forceful courtesy and accidental disrespect.
“Val!” Lowell stepped around one of many chairs surrounding a long table and tackled her in a bear hug. “What in the ever-loving hell was that? It was amazing!”
Val huffed a laugh. “Hundreds of logged hours in an EC-room.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Lowell took a step back and swept a hand. “From left to right, we have Leilah, Ryan Kidd—or Kidd for short—Jugo, Lakos, Ophelia and the rest would definitely rather introduce themselves. Big egos and all.”
Seven artificers blustered in protest, and Lowell awarded them a grin for their efforts. “Everyone, meet Valory Efron and, as you already know, Rubin Barlowe.”
“Heck of a way to let your presence be known.” Val believed it was Kidd who spoke, a lopsided smile spread wide across his face. Val struggled to decide if his hair was a blonde or a pale yellow, though the deep brown eyes gave him away as Auricean.
Val's lips quirked one way. “I do try.”
“You killed it, more like.” Jugo, a Kidraan with a feet on her 5'7 height, dragged an empty chair between him and the orange-haired lad. “I have to know. Did you come here today knowing you’d need disguised weapons in hand?”
“Not one bit.” Val dipped her head in thanks and accepted the seat. “They were meant to be jewellery. Perhaps soul-signature-infused ones, but jewellery nonetheless.”
Jugo snatched a slender cup off a waiter’s tray and passed it along to her. “Your work?”
“That would be me,” Lowell answered, a proud palm on his chest.
Val tilted the glass up in quiet assent. Oh? She pulled back, surprised at the explosion of taste alighting her tongue. She rolled it over a few times—the sweet and yet bitter, but somehow tangy flavour coming together extremely well—before swallowing it. The slight burn travelling down to her core was weird, but welcome.
Jugo gave a playful shudder. “I will never look at that hairpin the same way.”
“Likewise.” Kidd turned to her, brown eyes twinkling. “I find it fascinating.”
Val’s stare bore a hole through her drink as she tried her best not to squirm in her seat. Though she would never bask in the limelight as easily as Caro enjoyed doing, there was a substantial improvement on that front, especially when it came in two simple forms: hate or appreciation. Kidd’s though? He gazed at her like she looked at enchantments—something to dissect and understand. It alarmed her to no end.
“You’re not a Bulwark, despite being a metal mage. You aren’t even a Support,” he hummed in thought. “The way your pin moved was strictly offence, meaning there’s a slim chance you manipulated it as an Anchor. I saw no visual alteration, as metal spells in that discipline are almost always external. So being a Pillar is impossible. You moved not a step, meaning traversal spells are out the window and with them, the chance of being a Hunter. That leaves just one possibility.”
“One you know,” Val said. “I’m a Metal Striker.”
“Ha!” He reclined in his seat. “Never thought I’d hear that.”
Val tossed him a nonchalant shrug, and her lips dipped downwards unbidden. “You aren’t the first to say it, and you definitely won’t be the last.”
“My mistake—I meant no offence.” He straightened out his posture and interlaced his fingers on the table. “Mages like you are my life’s work.”
What the… Stumped beyond words, Val settled on a tried and true response. Silence.
“Dude, lay some context,” Rubin admonished across the table, shaking her head before turning to Val. “Kidd here specializes in what many call ‘live equipment.’ It’s built knowing that the mage will alter its shape to better suit their needs.”
Kidd bobbed his head a tiny bit sheepishly. “The best ones require no energy to return to their original form should they be in one piece. It remains a new industry, one people avoid working in due to its novelty.”
“Because of its futility, more like. Live equipment is a poor man’s familiar,” an Auricean girl said.
“Hey,” Kidd frowned. “I don’t go insulting your projects, Ophelia.
“Insult them all you want. It does not change the fact that it’s true.”
“It is not,” Lowell interjected. “Though it does share various roles as familiars. The primary one is that they provide ample resources for mages specializing in directive disciplines to use. A common case for concrete element users is retractable claws.”
Val’s eyes lit up. “That sounds awesome.”
“It is!” Kidd voiced it so excitedly, Val imagined he wasn’t far from jumping on the table and announcing it for everyone to hear. “I already have stuff drawn up for future projects.”
“Oh?” Now Val’s eyes were truly glowing. “I’ve got to see them.”
Kidd slipped a hand inside his jacket coat, searching for his device. “Not a problem.”
“Whatever for?” An unnamed crafter asked, tilting his head. “You’re enchanter. I’m guessing scrolls and aether constructs are right up your alley.”
“I think being a Scroll Writer is plain boring, though I will touch up on aether constructs.” It wouldn’t stray far from her focus on operative runes—in fact, aether constructs would help focus it. They were the basis for a multitude of things, and the all-important energy barriers were a prime example.
“Ultimately,” Val continued, “I want to be a Tinkerer, to upgrade and refine armour and weapons alike. That’s where all the money’s at for university. I did my research.”
Rubin smirked. “Relying on broke students, are you?”
Val fought off a smirk of her own. “Somewhat.”
“You’re kind of helping them out too by giving them cheaper options,” Lowell said. “I will say, half of Thales’ population is a goner with how up-there some students are.”
Val’s shoulders rose a touch. “Well, they were never going to show up on my doorstep anyway.”
“Fair point,” Lowell conceded.
Kidd slid a high-end phone across the table. “Check it out.”
Ophelia, if Val remembered correctly, snatched the device before she could even blink. “Not here, not now Kidd. We’re at a party. Let’s eat. Talk. Laugh. Not work.”
“She wasn’t opposed to it.”
“Well you didn’t give her much of a choice, did you?”
Val shared a glance with Rubin across the table, and her eyes mirrored the trepidation in Val’s own.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Now, now Kidds,” Lowell began, failing to continue as more than ten groans rang out at his pun.
“These are the times I ask myself how we’re friends,” Ophelia muttered under her breath.
“Well,” was all he said.
“Same,” Kidd added, forgetting the argument under a temporary truce. By that point, everyone wordlessly agreed to throw the tension behind them. Once the staff delivered the full course meal, rolling in carts full of mouth-watering aroma, the strain pretty much disintegrated. Val wondered why they worked by hand so stubbornly when magical tools could do the job much more efficiently.
Another question for another day.
Across the ballroom, folks picked up their utensils and dove into the food before them. Conversations died down by a fraction, becoming less of a delicate discussion and more light comments with laughter—restrained laughter, naturally—all around.
Val sliced into a cut of chicken placed on top of artistically drizzled sauce, figuring that, while she might never get used to these parties, she could learn to enjoy it.
----------------------------------------
Paul seriously wondered what he was even doing here. Though the dark layers of his uniform wouldn’t show it, the area under his arms became more damp as the hours wore him down. He worked prep hours before the guests came and—because everyone seemingly had “reasons” to take off—found himself on shift for the evening party.
He held up racks of drinks, rolled in tens of carts, and already received five rude comments for his effort. While he could admit that the overtime pay would look more than nice in a week, he struggled to see how it’d outbalance the pains he endured at the moment.
The coordinators could’ve easily assigned ergonomic devices to assist alongside workers. Trays that magically levitated at the heels of servers, automated carts programmed to arrive at tables once a waiter plugged in an order, cooling enchantments embedded in clothing—the list went on and on.
He’d ask the director himself why he’d organize a catastrophe waiting to happen. A decade on the job made a lot of things clearer. The director’s answer?
Tradition.
Tradition. Some traditions weren’t worth keeping, especially if they served nothing else besides the self-importance of families cemented in Ciazen culture. Everywhere he looked, there were kids half his age with the ability to tank his livelihood with one wrong mistake. Everywhere, without fault. North, south, east—
Paul froze as his gaze crossed a set far out on the fringes of the ball. A pair sat in the tiny table. One appeared sharply poised, ready to attack any threats. The other remained eerily still. The second boy's tangible calm and self-control drew Paul's attention to hazel irises hidden behind lowered lids, no different than that of a bored dragon. Paul didn’t have to think.
His two feet rushed him to the table, water and alcohol in hand, to attend the major figure. He didn’t know who the young adult was just yet, only that the boy wielded power. Lots of it.
Paul bowed his head and stretched his tray over. “Your drink, young master. I beg your greatest pardon for the delay.”
The other gentleman—the one Paul figured needed the drink to loosen up a bit—accepted a glass on the hazel-eyed boy’s behalf. He dipped his chin as a thanks and a dismal, and began scanning the stout glass from head to toe.
Phew. The job’s done. Paul had already swivelled on his heels when he’d heard a deep-set voice. “Wait here. I’ll send you back with my empty cup.”
Without turning, Paul knew it was the hazel-eyed boy’s request. He said it so simply, in such a matter-of-fact way, Paul felt he’d be the odd one for leaving. Yet, that wasn’t what rooted his feet to the floor, and it wasn’t the cause of the beads rolling down his neck.
This boy—this human-shaped dragon, rather—wielded power beyond reckoning. Beyond the normal parameters of a Novice teen. He could, and would, do away with Paul if he decided to choose so, and no one would stop him.
Saints, Paul cursed privately. He wasn’t paid enough for this crap.
“Zihao.”
And then, it all assembled together, fast, fast, fast. The draconic patterning on his Zingese tunic suit, the red hair parted and slicked back, his silent, royal indifference.
This was Jin Zihao.
Hearing his name, Zihao tilted his head toward his companion. “Yúzé.”
If the clan heir was the blade of the sword, this Yúzé guy was the handle. From afar, Paul thought him uptight and stiff beyond use. Up close, he resembled the tranquillity of a blade of grass in a meadow. He tied his shoulder-length hair into a dark knot high up on his head, and retained a perpetual ghost of a smile on his lips. He wore all black, no different than Paul, as if to be a literal shadow to the heir.
Yúzé passed the glass along. “All finished.”
Zihao took the glass without a pint of gratitude. “Find what you can about Efron.”
They threw the sentences around as if Paul wasn’t there. Which he wasn’t—he wouldn’t be soon, if he kept quiet and minded his business. And he did.
Yúzé summoned a tablet from his storage ring. “It’ll take some days to compose a satisfactory—oh.” His eyebrows rose to the top of his brow, shifting the faint, three-lined scar on his left temple.
“What is it?” Zihao snapped.
“It seems a file has already been made. Xiandra’s work.” From his peripheral view, Paul saw Yúzé study the device's screen intently. “Wow. She’s not bad.”
“You’ve yet to tell me information with any substance.”
Yúzé winced. “Apologies. According to this, she’s an incoming Thales undergrad going in for Advanced Combat. Therefore, she has an Aether Artifact and, with the combative skill we witnessed on display a moment ago, is a registered Adventurer at Age of Atera. Rumours state she is a high silver. Xiandra confirms this assumption after a run-in at a crafter’s competition.”
“What was her initial ASC?” Zihao asked. When all that answered him was a strange quietness, he turned to Yúzé. “You know I dislike repeating myself.”
“Yes. That, I do.” Yúzé rubbed at his old scar, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Then, he spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper. “She had eleven aether strands at first.”
Zihao’s glass stopped halfway, left to hang in the air beneath his chin. “It’s too late in the night for jokes.”
“I’m not joking. She began her life as a mage one aether strand off from being a typic. To be honest, I’m surprised she had the gall to enter the trials.”
There was a pause, and Paul didn’t doubt it was due to a desperate need to gather their wits. After all, he was doing the same thing.
Paul was a professional waiter at high-end events with nothing to his name. Only, in his head, this wasn’t an event—it was a battlefield. He had to be in the know to avoid making mistakes, to understand how to placate to weave out of sticky situations and leave places alive. He deemed it an integral part of his expertise, and it was exactly why he understood how bizarre it seemed for Efron to awaken with eleven aether strands.
As the children would say: the math ain’t mathing.
Eleven aether strands dictated that she wouldn’t be able to cultivate, even as a high silver. Why else would typics be incapable of magic if nothing else besides the paltry magic they’d been gifted? The difference between eleven and ten—while infinitely better—is one measured increment. Anything below eleven but above ten was rounded down, as eleven was a value accrued over decades of studies as the lowest possible ASC needed to cultivate.
Even if you could cultivate, the rate would be slower than a swim in molasses, no different than being a typic incapable of growing. It should’ve taken Efron a couple of years to reach her current ASC, high silver or not. Which meant, either she secretly held access to a truckload of elixirs, booked hundreds of hours in some kind of aether chamber or…
No. She couldn’t not be a silver. Could she?
“I do believe Thales will be a problem in our year,” Zihao mused, his voice dipping a pitch lower.
“Why? The strongest are Reynor University bound. We’ve confirmed it.”
“Strength isn’t everything.”
Yúzé sighed like he heard this very same argument before. If his grumbled response said anything, it was that he also answered it time and time again. “Variety is.”
Zihao nodded. “Thales carry double the amount we do on that front. A tri-bound Bulwark with the skills of three Paths—”
“Rhodes,” Yúzé muttered.
“—diviner whose conjuration spells put virtually all Supports to shame—”
“Lenson,” he listed another name under his breath.
“—and a confirmed quad-bound mage.”
“Igor,” Yúzé sighed, the agreement in his voice evident.
“I have it on good word these mages will meet a changed program. Whether it comes out better or not, we will soon find out.”
“And when we do…” Yúzé massaged his jaw. “Efron will be the living proof of the results, won’t she?”
"Keep tabs on her for me," Zihao said, almost amused, if Paul heard right. "I have an inkling we've yet to see what she's got."
Paul could think only one thing.
Poor girl. Caught the wrong boy’s attention.
----------------------------------------
First Halo of Ciazel,
Atera,
Runic Mead
-One Week Later-
With her back against the tiled walls and one earphone loosely in, Val managed to hear the sharp ding of the elevator’s arrival. Fluorescent light spilled into the broad hallways, the faint bustle of human activity invaded the serene peace on the quiet floor and out came an old face.
The perfectly styled afro, a black crown of tightly coiled hair. Typical Kidraan eyes, blue as the sky and clear as day. Most importantly, the mega-wide smile that never failed to reached her eyes. Charlee, a guide she met during her first week and then a friend she called at least bimonthly, rushed over and crushed her in an embrace.
Smiling warmly, Val returned the hug and then hurried to step back, appreciating her friend’s outfit. Since Val always visited Charlee at Age of Atera headquarters, she rarely saw her in anything other than a blue robe, and as such, never discovered Charlee’s expensive style of choice. Spotless dress pants, elaborate blouse, casual heels. A maroon coat covered the length of her frame, flaring out at the bottom. “You look great.”
“I feel great too. Summer does us Kidraans well.” Charlee shot her a grin before she took on an admonishing glare. “Valory. It has been far, far too long.”
Val winced. “I missed you too Charlee.”
“Not good enough. You owe me multiple coffee dates.”
“Deal,” Val chuckled. “But as much as we have to catch up, I need a bit of your help.”
“Figured. Never known you for taking a break.”
“Actually…” Val trailed off, beginning the walk down the hall. “I’m planning on a three-to-four-day trip to Reynor City. Family and team outing next week.”
“There’s a catch somewhere there, Val. I know there is.”
Val huffed a silent laugh, stopping at a familiar door. “I wouldn’t say you’re wrong exactly, but that’s for another day.”
Charlee’s chiding look made a return as she raised a questioning eyebrow. “One problem at a time, right?”
The very idea seemed impossible. University was fast approaching, less than a month away! Few of Val’s old goals have been crossed out of the list, and even fewer new ones have been made in preparation for the wickedly wild ride waiting for her on Mount Azura. The issue wasn’t the number of problems, just how unsolvable each one ended up becoming.
Tricky problems required tricky answers, and Val liked to believe she’d find at least something—anything—in the coming few minutes she’d planned for days.