More lightning spears rained down from the sky in blinding arcs, briefly illuminating the night. The scattered mages barely had time to react before the garden was again engulfed in a maelstrom of destruction. Trees were incinerated, stone statues shattered, and the very ground trembled under the onslaught.
The elder mage screamed out orders, though his voice was drowned out by the relentless crackle of lightning and the boom of thunder that followed. He tried to summon a copper barrier to protect his allies, but Jean's assault was too fast; he only managed to deflect the closest bolts.
She spared just a glance for the two agents to make sure they had truly left the area before she closed the gap in the formation, caging in the traitors. Screams erupted as more power was poured into the crackling formation until she finally let it dissipate.
Her cloak billowed as she surveyed the scene below. A few of the mages lay motionless, their charred remains a macabre warning to all others not to chase after the two spies, but most of the cadre had survived. The reason was clear—enchanted robes glimmered faintly with protective runes, and rings and amulets hummed with defensive wards. They had come prepared to face opposition in case they were discovered, though perhaps not prepared enough.
The survivors regrouped quickly, forming a tight circle with their leader at the center. The old man, who sported a long white beard and ghostly complexion, barked orders as his comrades raised their hands, and began gathering mana. A deadly counterattack was coming.
Bolts of dark energy and twisting torrents of fire shot toward Jean, aiming to kill her. The sheer number of attacks would have been overwhelming for any lesser mage. But for Jean, it was barely a nuisance. The spells fizzled and dissipated before they could even reach her, crumbling into harmless sparks and wisps of smoke as they collided with the countless wards she had woven around herself.
Jean barely moved, allowing the onslaught as she considered her options. She could kill them all immediately, which would give her enough time to pop in on the other fights, but that would leave them without a direct source of information. No, she needed to capture at least the old man—despite the tight feeling in her throat at the thought of his betrayal.
Gasper Bertier was his name, and he had presented himself as a curt but well-mannered elder mostly focused on obscure pieces of magic. They didn't necessarily have a good relationship—Jean was far too cautious to allow any to form after escaping her mentor's clutches. Still, she could admit she had allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of false security when no one protested her leadership.
None of these men had lied to her. She would have found out immediately. And yet, by focusing any interaction on magical research, they had managed to slip through her defenses.
She watched with cool detachment as the mages grew more desperate, unleashing wave after wave of magic at her—ice, fire, even going so far as to call upon the Light, though that broke just as quickly in their unworthy hands—all vanishing the moment they neared her. Her wards were layered so thickly that their attacks might as well have been gusts of wind against a fortress wall.
"Keep firing! We need more time! Keep her pinned!" Bertier shouted in a strained voice. He then turned to two of his remaining comrades, who had been preparing something far more dangerous in the center of their formation.
Jean's lips curled into a faint smile, her curiosity piqued as she allowed them to craft what looked like a complicated piece of magic. Part of her wanted to see what they were planning, what desperate measure they believed could turn the tide. After all, a Master mage like Bertier was rare; if nothing else, he could be a lesson in the futility of fighting the Revolution.
She focused on keeping the attacking mages pinned down, striking back just enough to keep them scrambling. Lightning speared down from above, quick, precise, and relentless. Every time one of them moved too far or tried to gather more mana than they could in an instant, another bolt would find them, taking their limbs, leaving them no choice but to pull back and rejoin the low-level barrage. One by one, they were whittled down, their shields failing under the pressure.
But Jean held back from delivering the killing blow.
Hidden behind them, the old mage and his two companions finished their preparations. The air around them shimmered with an ancient, unfamiliar magic, something older and far more rigid than anything Jean had encountered in Treon. It reminded her of something she had observed once during open court, when a crazed servant attacked a diplomat.
Her eyes narrowed as she felt the elegant, delicate shift in the flow of mana—true Elven magic, nothing like what the few traders that ventured this far south knew. A spell of the fourth tier, from a school unknown to most human mages, who much preferred the quicker casting of modern schools.
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The old man roared a word in Elvish, and the air trembled with power. Grabbing hold of the spell from his two companions, he completed its molding and unleashed it, and a wave of shimmering energy surged toward Jean.
Time seemed to slow as the magic took form, and Jean's senses sharpened. Despite her unfamiliarity with this specific school, it didn't take long before she gleaned its purpose, mostly thanks to observing it as it was being formed. Its intricacies unraveled before her eyes— it was a spell designed to turn the target's own mana against them, bypassing wards, defenses, everything. It was a masterwork of Elven craft, dangerous and elegant in its simplicity that she never would have thought she'd find here.
Jean's smile deepened. Against every lesson she taught her pupils, she allowed the spell to reach her, standing still as the magic surged through her wards.
Nothing happened.
The old mage's eyes bugged out in shock, his mouth agape. His spell hadn't been countered like the others before it. It had failed completely, reaching her and changing nothing. He had likely cast one of the most dangerous spells in his repertoire, and it hadn't even scratched her.
Jean laughed softly at the sight. "I must admit I didn't expect to see elven magic today. I see you have kept a few tricks hidden away." She raised her hand, and mana coalesced at her fingertips. "But it's not nearly enough. For you to think that anything—anything at all, could overwhelm my control… I'm insulted."
Seeing their leader's failure, the other mages tried to take advantage of what they thought was a lull, hurling more spells at her. But, just as before, their magic unraveled before it even came close. Their attacks were useless, mere annoyances compared to the spell she had just overwhelmed.
Jean gave Bertier one last look, watching as realization dawned on his face. She savored it more than she'd like to admit.
"I suppose I've let this go on long enough," she said softly. With a flick of her wrist, she finally answered the insult and a series of fireballs materialized, glowing with an intense, almost blinding heat. She let them hang there momentarily, the air around them sizzling and distorting from the sheer power they radiated.
The old mage's eyes went wide with fear. "Wait—!"
Jean released the fireballs.
They struck the ground with a deafening roar, and the garden was instantly consumed in a fiery inferno. The heat was so intense that there was no explosion. The earth began to bubble and melt, the ground turning to molten rock as the original concept of fire spread, reducing everything in its path to ash. The remaining mages barely had time to scream before they were incinerated, their bodies vaporized in an instant.
When the flames finally died down, the garden was gone, replaced by a smoldering crater. Jean floated above the devastation, her expression serene, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Only the old mage remained, sweating and trembling at the effort required to survive the deadly barrage. Jane overwhelmed his barrier with a simple kinetic spell and bound him in chains of Cold Iron, not wanting to allow him more chances. The soldiers waiting outside the wards she had cast around the garden to protect the city would take care of him.
With a final glance at the destruction she had wrought, she turned and flew off, heading toward the other skirmishes still raging in the city. There was more work to be done.
Now that her senses weren’t so taken with her mission, Jean realized that Treon was alive with the sound of several battles, cries of soldiers clashing echoing up from multiple directions as she flew past the besieged mansions and smoke-filled streets of the city. Below, revolutionary soldiers surged through the streets with their uniforms stained with sweat and blood, pushing back the remaining defenders.
I have to be honest. I thought there'd be fewer of them. I knew about the nobles, of course, and most of their remaining households were expected, but this many commoners… They probably infiltrated the city in the past months and waited for the signal to fight. I hate to admit it, but they almost got us. A couple more months, and they would have been too entrenched to remove in one operation.
She glanced down and spotted one such group—revolutionary soldiers gathered in formation outside the hospital. They looked up as she flew over, some raising their fists in cheers. Jean gave them a casual wave, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was strange, the sense of pride that stirred in her at the sight of them pushing forward.
As she approached the barracks, the fighting became clearer. Shouts, arrows, the clanging of steel, and bursts of magic filled the air. Jean narrowed her eyes as she took in the scene. Men in the uniforms of the revolutionary army were locked in fierce combat with others wearing the insignia of the city watch—an insignia that should no longer exist. The organization had been officially disbanded, replaced by the Security Forces, yet here they were, fighting as if the revolution had never happened.
From her vantage point, it was obvious the revolutionaries were gaining the upper hand. They fought with the ferocity of men determined to see their cause through and greater skill, while the watch's forces seemed desperate, their formations disorganized, likely not having expected the assault. Still, Jean didn't want to risk too many of her soldiers falling in this pointless skirmish.
She raised her hand and, without a word, cast a mass petrification spell. Shimmering light spread from her hand and cascaded over the battlefield, washing over the city watch. One by one, they froze in place, their bodies turning to stone, their weapons halting mid-swing. The revolutionaries paused for a brief moment, stunned, then erupted into raucous cheers once they spotted her.
Jean nodded in satisfaction as her men began securing the area, moving around the stone statues of their former enemies. There was no need for bloodshed here anymore.
She turned away from the barracks and flew toward the next flash point, the adventurers' guild, where a new struggle caught her attention. From her height, she could see the distinct chaos of an all-out brawl. The revolutionary soldiers fought fiercely against both the remaining loyalists and, to her surprise, adventurers who had apparently joined the fray just for the sake of it. The battle was a tangled mess of blades, spells, and fists, with no clear victor.
Before she could intervene, a sudden movement atop the guild building caught her eye. A figure stood tall against the night sky, silhouetted by the flickering flames of the ongoing battles. It was a muscular woman with a long cloak and a wild grin.
Jean hovered in place, her eyes narrowing in recognition—the Guildmistress.
Merida tilted her head, her grin widening as she met Jean's gaze. There was a feral energy in the way she stood, as if she relished the madness unfolding below her. She raised her hand in a mock salute, her eyes gleaming with challenge. It was clear she had no intention of staying neutral in this conflict.