Chapter 3

Everveil

“Authora(everyone calls it aura these days) is the last and final representation of the spirit: the extension of a Mage’s Authority. All of reality within a Mage’s authora is Hers to do with as She pleases. Sufficient Authority serves as the only Spirit ignorants can experience, so that they may rejoice in ownership to their Masters.(Paradisiacal Abyss, it’s hard to believe anyone could be that narcissistic. I’m so glad I wasn’t born back then!)”

-420, On the Nature of the Spirit

Penelope

Illuminated with dim green candles, Penelope slept curled-up and wrapped in precious silks, on a massive circle bed. The bed was centered against the widest wall of a spacious, trapezoidal room. The uniform, stone-brick walls stretched upwards nearly three meters before disappearing into inky darkness. At eye level, however, nearly every bit of wall space was covered by dressers, chests of drawers, and bookcases. Similarly, all but the edges of the floor were covered by a fluffy imperial red carpet.

The alarm spell she’d cast the night before jolted her from a deep slumber. Her bloodshot eyes opened to a blurry image of a man sleeping across from her, his head inclined towards hers so that their foreheads were nearly touching. It took a few seconds for her brain to register where she was as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Taking a second look, she saw a young man, a few years older than she was, with shiny, waist-length bleached hair, a porcelain complexion, and dressed in royal blue silks.

When the last vestiges of hebetude finally faded, panic surged in her chest. She threw herself forward, violently shaking the man’s shoulder.

“Arvick,” she hissed, out of breath, “Please, gods no, Arvick!”

Arivick sat up in a start. His immaculate human nails sharpened into black claws and his eyes plunged into blood red as he scanned their surroundings.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.

Penelope deflated with a long sigh. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“Ah, I supposed that is what that would seem,” he realized, his features reverting to normal. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I got lonely waiting for you to wake up and decided I’d lay down with you,” he apologized while stroking her arm.

“No, it isn’t your fault. I just worry too much,” she deflected, wiping the glassines from her eyes.

“I promise you, the potion will be done soon. The leviathan ink and wraith shell are in transit. It’s also promising that I’ll be able to separate enough raw ithril from a mythral crown. All that’s left is the blood of a creature not born, and I know whatever that may be, it’s mentioned in my library,” Arvick assured her.

“I know, I know. You’ve told me a million times,” she sighed. “I need to get ready or I’m going to be late.”

“So soon? I hardly got a word out of you before you went to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, but this is how things are going to be as long as I have academy. With it blocking out my afternoons, I need to be at the church in the mornings,” she told him apologetically.

“How was your day at the academy?” he asked, joining her in getting dressed.

After casting ten different spells on her clothes, including the cleanse spell, Penelope moved to a mirror and started on her hair and makeup. “I already told you, the academy is just a formality.”

He joined her in the mirror and clarified, “Yes, but surely the day wasn’t entirely boring. Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Penelope froze for a second. “There was something,” she started slowly. “Henry is there too, which is nice. But, also, I had the displeasure of sitting next to Karl Favesh’s discipulus.”

“Karl Favesh the famous archmage you’re always on about?” Arvick asked curiously.

“The same,” Penelope confirmed.

“Why do you say it’s a displeasure, then?”

She took a moment to collect her thoughts before saying, “I can’t tell if he’s a genius portraying himself exactly how he wants to be seen. Or if he’s a narcissistic brat drunk on his first taste of power.”

“Why not both?” Arvick questioned.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he dropped us from the sky just because he can,” she grouched, “And the worst part is I know for a fact he didn’t have any way to break our fall. That means he either didn’t think that far or was willing to risk our lives on the chance that we did.”

“There’s nothing wrong with just enough excitement to make life interesting,” Arvick laughed.

Penelope scowled at him. “Funny, he said something to the same effect.”

“Then I’m convinced he’ll make an invaluable ally, indeed.”

“That’s the other thing,” she snapped. “Why is it that everyone assumes I want anything to do with him?”

“It would be a waste not to make friends with Karl Favesh’s discipulus. Especially if he’s as amicable as you say.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Penelope sighed in defeat. “Henry likes him, too. If he was really that bad, he would have taken in Milo in the form of a stray cat to convince us he cares for defenseless animals.”

Arvick embraced her from behind, resting his head on her shoulder. “You’re overthinking far too much, Nel.”

Penelope closed her eyes and leaned into him, relishing the moment for a long few seconds.

Eventually, she whispered, “I hate it. It’s not fair.”

Arvick knew full well what she meant. He held her tighter in response.

“I promise, one day things will be different. I’ll tear it all down and rebuild if I have to,” she swore, like so many times before.

“Yes, I know. And until then, you’ll continue to be your amazing, altruistic self. Blighted chosen by day, helpless vampire thrall by night.”

“I am not your thrall,” she laughed mirthfully, rolling her eyes.

Arvick spun her around and picked her up, taking her with him into the air.

“Is there any true difference between love and enchantment? Both come against your will and neither can be denied,” he murmured, his breath hot against her lips.

“If that’s true, you’re my thrall as much as I am yours,” Penelope shot back.

“Of course. I wouldn’t wish it were any other way,” he said as he closed in for a kiss.

They hovered there for a long time until Penelope reluctantly pushed him away. “I love this, but I really do need to go,” she whispered.

Having had some quality time, at least, Arvick put her down, she fixed her makeup, and he saw her out.

After lingering by the door, Arvick returned to the library to continue his reading. The library, as the name suggested, was a large room filled with bookcases. In the center was a circle table with an unlit candelabra, where Arvick sat.

The second he sat down, however, a voice complained, “Finally. She’s gone!”

Appearing from thin air, a blonde woman in a baggy blue cloak fell into the seat across from him. “Do you know how hard it is to hide from a blighted mage with sensitivity as high as hers? It’s basically like hiding from a Demigod, worse even,” she groused dramatically.

Arvick frowned at her. “You’re the one not adhering to the schedule. Were there complications?”

“No,” she denied immediately. “I just figured I should get you this stuff as soon as possible. Although, I should mention that the wrath shell suppliers didn’t have real wraith shells. So, I made wraths out of them. That won’t be a problem will it?” she asked as she pulled out three containers from the folds of her cloak and set them on the table.

“You’re certain you made them wraths and not poltergeists?”

“Yes, I know exactly how much pain and time you need for a wrath. In fact, I went ahead and scaled them from lesser to greater. I labeled them and everything,” she elucidated.

“That’s greatly appreciated, thank you,” he said genuinely. “Is there anything else?”

“I wasn’t able to get as many hearts, so I put in extra eyes and fingers to compensate,” she shared.

Arvick nodded and thanked her again. A minute passed in silence, Arvick waiting for her to say more, her hunched forward playing with her hair.

Finally, Arvick asked, “El, what is it you’re here for?”

El broke down and admitted, “I need advice. Desperately.”

“Then say so,” Arvick admonished with a chuckle.

“It’s just kind of embarrassing. Not my best work.”

“You aren’t exactly a paragon of responsibility and reason,” Arvick shrugged.

She pulled back as if struck. “Not true! I can be responsible and reasonable when I want to be.”

“Yes, and everytime you’re forced to adopt that mask for some ceremony or event, you complain to me without end,” Arvick countered.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a good and upstanding little bloodthirsty monster, I get it,” she waved dismissively.

“Well?” Arvick pressed when she didn’t continue.

El took a deep breath and began, “So, the other day I was on my way to get the leviathan ink, when I noticed two Xethers stalking someone in the crowd.”

“That's highly unusual,” Arvick commented, his brow creasing.

“That’s exactly what I thought!” El said, slamming the table a little too hard. “So, naturally, I followed them and found out they were tasked to kill some baby mage in training that knew, like, two spells or something.”

“Did you ask why?”

El shook her head. “Not even they knew. They were whispering theories to each other the whole time.”

“Did you ask the mage?”

“Well,” she stalled reluctantly, “I didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“I suppose anyone of that level would be frozen in fear,” Arvick concluded.

“Not exactly . . .” El alluded.

“You did save him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Having the time of his life at the Arcane Academy.”

“Then why?”

“I was too busy asking him why he looked like Kangan,” she finally dropped the bomb.

Arvick’s creased brows furrowed in consternation. “How close was the resemblance?”

“Close. If anything, he looked more blighted than Kangan,” El answered solemnly.

“You said he attended the academy?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s the same person Penelope was complaining about,” she confirmed his suspicions. “And it isn’t just that Henry likes him, they’re rooming together.”

Arvick dropped his chin into his hands thoughtfully. “The evil-aligned blight would explain why Penelope would be distrustful.” Then, he added, “However, the fact that he’s Karl Favesh’s discipulus gives me pause. Karl Favesh may not have witnessed Kangan first hand, but he was a Demigod. Naming him his discipulus despite the blight leads me to believe Karl Favesh had some way to be sure of his character.”

“So, what do you think I should do?” El asked anxiously.

“Undoubtedly the best course of action would still be to kill him before he has the chance to succeed Kangan,” he said decisively.

“Right, no doubt,” El agreed, “But like you said earlier, I’m not exactly the most rational or responsible person.”

Arvick considered for a few seconds more before asking, “You’re infatuated with him, aren’t you? Simply because he looks like Kangan?”

“Not just because he looks like Kangan,” she asserted. “He’s also actually my age, and a mage recognized by Karl Favesh, so wickedly smart, and when I think back to when he called me amazing with his perfect voice, I get butterflies!”

“Ellulia, by no means is it a good idea to establish romantic relations with him,” Arvick told her severely.

“Just think about it. Pretend for a moment that he doesn’t go raving mad,” she pleaded. “As Karl Favesh’s discipulus, it’s practically fated he’ll become an archmage one day. He’s also practically more blight than human. If he becomes a Demigod, he’ll be influential and powerful enough that I could marry him. Not as Beelzebub, but as Ellulia. I wouldn’t have to hide or pretend with him! And the best part is I won’t have to wake up every day hoping that my brain dead uncle won’t give into Mark Medici’s pestering and give him my hand.”

“It seems to me you’ve already made up your mind. Any more argument would be a waste of breath,” Arvick said with crossed arms.

“Don’t be like that,” Ellulia tsked. “You know I’m only telling you this because there’s a small part of me that knows it’s a really bad idea.”

Arvick sighed and uncrossed his arms. “I think it would be best if we compromised. In your own words, he is still a baby mage. Even taking into account his talents, he won’t be your match for some time now. Observe him for the foreseeable future, and truly prepare yourself for the chance that you must kill him. After all, he’s going to be living in the same space as Prince Henry, for the next year.”

Ellulia frowned at that as she stood up. “You’re right. I didn’t think that one through, honestly. Thank you for putting up with me. It really does mean a lot,” she said sincerely.

“There’s no need to thank me. I’m happy to,” Arvick deflected as he popped an eye ball into his mouth.

Eliot

Eliot woke up with a grin already on his face. He didn’t dream very often, and when he did it was always a nightmare. So, whenever he had an especially good day, it felt to him like he was skipping directly to the next morning, still riding the high he had before sleeping.

He sat up to see Henry’s bed empty, the sheets made perfectly. Eliot frowned at that and shot a look out the window. If there was anything Eliot took seriously it was a consistent sleep schedule. That with his unerring internal clock ensured he would wake up at early light, every day, without fail. However, instead of just breaking the horizon, the sun was already fully visible, on its journey high into the sky. Somehow, he’d slept in.

While doing his morning stretches, he racked his brain for a reason, to no avail. He hadn’t dropped his internal count, he went to sleep at his normal time, he didn’t even feel like he’d slept any extra time. It didn’t make any sense.

It also meant he didn’t know what time it was. Although it didn’t sound like a big deal, it vexed him to no end. Eliot always knew what time it was. It gave him a deep-seated feeling that something was wrong.

Naturally, the first thing he did was track down a clock shop. Interestingly, his internal time was exactly six hours early. Now that he knew how far off he was, he could only blame himself for, somehow, only realizing it on his fourth day. It still grated on his nerves that he had to drastically change his sleeping habits, but at least he knew what time it was.

With that done, he portaled to the Grand Cathedral. As its name suggested, it was a massive, ostentatious building with a foundation rising twenty steps above the ground. The interior boasted massive columns supporting a ceiling with sprawling paintings of stylized interpretations of higher beings and planes. The acoustic hall was so large that it took Eliot minutes to walk through a field of pews. Although morning mass was over and evening mass wouldn’t begin for a few hours yet, there remained a crowd of believers near the front rows.

Eliot had always admired the gods. Afterall, they made reality itself. His life’s goal was simply to understand their divine genius and master the powers they no doubt gifted mortals. His reverence notwithstanding, he always had to fight an urge to look down on particularly zealous individuals. The church was awe inspiring, the art and design as divine as a mortal could get. But he always had a feeling this wasn’t what the gods wanted. The times where they walked the earth were so far in the past that historians doubted the veracity of those records. In the current day, they hardly ever interacted with humans, and if they did it’s only in response to an existential threat—to humans, of course, nothing could pose a serious threat to them in a universe they made. Otherwise, and in response to a threat posed by or created by mortals themselves, they rarely get involved.

If they really wanted mortals to drop to their knees, pray for hours, live by their rules, and commit their lives, why wouldn’t they just ask? Why rely on priests and clergy? While it’s dubious if they ever lived shoulder to shoulder with mortals, it’s a proven fact that they used to be far more present. Maybe they’ve become so silent now as an attempt to dissuade fanaticism.

It couldn’t be helped, unfortunately. It was a simpleton’s nature to throw themselves at the feet of a greater power, whether that be a god or a ruler.

He approached someone who looked important and said, “Excuse me, I’m here to see Penelope Evergreen. Do you know where I can find her?”

“I’m sorry to say her Holiness is only present during morning mass. If you wish to be blessed, you must return then.”

Eliot smiled patiently. “I think you misunderstand. I’m not here for any of that. I’m her friend.”

The priest looked at him as if he’d just proclaimed himself a time traveler. “Her Holiness doesn’t have any friends,” he stated, almost defensively.

A laugh seized Eliot, one so strong he had to put a hand over his mouth and still threatened to explode. That was the most hilarious and depressing thing he’d ever heard. Unfortunately, the priest didn’t take kindly to his obvious mirth. He opened his mouth to no doubt give him a lecture, but luckily her Holiness beat him to it.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, arms crossed and vaguely grimacing.

“You should get more sleep. I find it cures bitchitis,” he answered with a wide grin.

Her nostrils flared as she threatened, “I could have you drawn and quartered under divine law with a word.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t petty and amoral enough to do that,” he shrugged, stepping closer. “Like I said, just a mean case of irrational anger. I wasn’t joking about sleep, it does wonders.”

“Not everyone has that luxury. Now, why are you here?”

“I thought I’d portal you and Henry to campus. If we go soon, we’ll have enough time to tour the castle grounds,” he explained.

“Did it never occur to you that that would be a selfish use of time?” she asked.

“Well if you aren’t interested in a new perspective on something you’ve known all your life, we can always do something else.”

Penelope took a slow, deep breath and sighed, visibly deflating. “Be it far from me to refuse instantaneous travel,” she relented. “But I doubt your portals can get past the castle walls.”

“Why do you say that?” Eliot asked, his interest piqued.

“Maybe because it's home to the king and royal family of the Crucible Empire,” she drawled sardonically.

“So?’

“So, they have runes and wards and who knows what else to protect the place. I doubt it, but have you ever heard of Celeste Chantelle?”

“I have, actually. She’s the founder of the Mage Guild, Court Mage, and one of the Four Seraphim of the Crucible Empire, right?”

“You know Celeste Chantelle but not Karl Favesh?” she scoffed.

“My information is limited and outdated, alright?”

“Sure,” she grumbled, “Well, Celeste Chantelle is said to be amazing in everything magic, better than every other mage in the empire at their own speciality. That should be taken with a grain of salt, since the Crucible Empire doesn’t have very many archmages to begin with. But it does put it into perspective when I say her speciality is rituals, and by extension wards.”

“Well, I would agree with you if I hadn't already snooped around to find where Henry is,” Eliot admitted.

Penelope’s brow knit in consternation. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I could go wherever I wanted and, as far as I know, no one knew I was there. For some reason, it took a little more mana to cast and maintain, but that was it.”

“That’s . . . disconcerting.”

“So, it is a big deal? I kinda thought so, but I figured there was something I was missing. Like, maybe Henry did something?” Eliot posited.

“I doubt it.” She hesitated before adding, “This should go without saying, but no matter what happens, you can never tell anyone else how to cast that spell. And never tell anyone what it can do, either.”

“I know that much,” he groused, rolling his eyes.

“Clearly you don’t. You told me,” she said severely.

“I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she snapped, “Just because you’ve heard of me doesn’t mean you know me.”

“Truth be told, I had no idea who you were until yesterday. I get that you’re pretty important, and I knew that you thought I knew who you were, but I didn’t,” he confessed.

“That’s worse. We’re practically strangers.”

“No one’s a stranger to me, not really. I’ve always been a pretty good judge of character,” he confessed with a conspiratorial grin.

Surprisingly, Penelope brightened drastically at that. “Of course, You’re an empath!” she realized, “That’s why you’re so . . . you!”

“What’s an empath?”

“It’s no surprise you haven’t heard of it, it’s incredibly rare. It’s a complicated bit of magic, but an empath is someone with a unique sensitivity that allows them to feel other people’s emotions,” she elucidated.

As excited as he was that there was a name for people like him, it didn’t quite fit. Maybe it wasn’t entirely off mark, though. A unique sensitivity might be responsible for his heightened awareness of body language.

Regardless, he didn’t think it was within his best interest to explain, so he said, “I guess I’m an empath, then.”

Penelope, standing taller with pride at figuring him out, rolled her eyes at his lackadaisical reaction. “You guess? Anyone else would be ecstatic. Having a unique sensitivity necessitates having stronger than average mana sensitivity to being with.”

“I am excited,” he insisted, “But, I mean, I kinda already knew both those things. I’ve had empathy since before I can remember, and Karl Favesh took me as his discipulus, so it’s obvious I’m better than every other option. No offense.”

“None taken,” she assured him, casually sitting on the steps leading up to the dais. “You know, I never asked, where do you come from, anyway?”

Apparently, whatever reservations she had for him were completely wiped away after she ‘cracked’ his empathy. Eliot certainly didn’t complain, sitting close to her on the steps.

“The Town of Flora. It’s an archaic little place on the eastern edge of the empire. It pretty much acts as the border to the Feral Lands.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “That makes so much sense,” she laughed. “It must have taken forever. Did you take the portal at Relice or Cardt?”

“Neither, actually. I used my own portals to come directly here.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” she said with furrowed brows, “Well, it’s possible, but you’d probably die in the process.”

“How so?” Eliot asked, instantly interested. “Because, that is how I got here.”

“You do know about astronomy, right? You know the earth is round and it’s revolving around the sun while spinning on an axis?”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“Exactly how far away is the Town of Flora from Everveil?”

“Uh . . . about six thousand, five hundred kilometers,” he answered, pretending to take a second to recall.

“I don’t know exactly how your portal spell works, but even if you mathematically accounted for the difference in local velocities, you wouldn’t have anywhere near enough mana nor do you know the ancillary spells needed to make up for it,” she explained.

“I didn’t think about that,” Eliot said slowly, standing up to pace. “You’re right, as far as I know. But, obviously, I’m still here, so it didn’t play out like that. I can only assume that Karl Favesh’s portal spell works differently from the ritual he made for public portal transport. How does that work? Do you know?”

“Somewhat. I can’t tell you how it does what it does, but I can tell you what it does.”

Eliot nodded for her to continue.

“It doesn’t connect two points in space, like the Arcane Academy does. Public Portal Transport is actually a tunnel of sorts. It feels instant to anyone traveling through it, but depending how far you go, upwards of ten minutes pass by the time you exit on the other side. While in the tunnel, the time is spent slowly adjusting the traveler’s velocity to the local velocity of wherever they’re going. As far as I know, that’s the reason there is no Public Portal Transport past Relice. Any farther and it would just be untenable, too much mana and too much instability.”

Eliot took a few long moments to digest the information before asking, “Instability? What role does that play?”

“You don’t know? Spatial stability is spatial spells one-oh-one. You used a portal to travel halfway across the world without knowing that?” she admonished.

He shrugged, “I survived, didn’t I?”

She rolled her eyes and begrudgingly enlightened him. “For any spatial spell to work at all, you need to destabilize space. There is no way to manipulate it without destabilizing it first. To do otherwise would be like trying to carve stone without tools. However, destabilize it too much and everything falls apart, like trying to precisely carve stone with a warhammer. It creates a tricky, almost paradoxical environment to work with. Destabilize it too much or not enough and it’ll either fall apart or won’t work at all.

“In the case of Public Portal Transport, it tries to have its cake and eat it too. And it’s mostly successful. But given enough space to travel, the whole thing either becomes too unstable and falls apart or costs astronomical amounts of mana to make work.

“In your case, you should know that there are a myriad of quick and low-cost spells that indiscriminately stabilize space. So, don’t think you’ll be able to use your portals with impunity, in the future.”

Eliot, again, took the appropriate time to process the knowledge. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and realized, “Do you think that’s why it cost me more mana to portal around the castle grounds? They had wards that stabilized space?”

Penelope mulled it over, obviously conflicted. “That explanation makes the most sense, but not much. As a general rule, it takes less mana and it’s easier to stabilize space than it is to destabilize it. Space wants to be stable. You shouldn’t have been able to use your portals at all if they stabilized the space. But I can’t imagine they didn’t have wards that did that.”

“Do you know any space stabilizing spells? We could test it right now,” Eliot suggested.

Penelope stood up and casted the Dimensional Anchor spell. A simple spell that stabilizes space in a variably large sphere around the caster. After memorizing the runes, Eliot did his part and two portals swirled into existence. Despite expecting it, Penelope flinched in shock at the sight.

Eliot, meanwhile, fully immersed his focus on his manastorm. The Dimensional Anchor’s effect was completely negligible. It raised the casting and per second mana cost by nearly twelve percent. When he could cast the spell at a meter distance for a thousandth of a SUM and the per second cost was half that, he wouldn’t have noticed the increase if he wasn’t paying extreme attention.

“It’s completely negligible. It’s about a twelve percent increase in mana cost,” Eliot shared, shaking his head.

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“Twelve percent can be a lot depending; how much mana does it cost regularly?” Penelope inquired curiously.

He cleared his throat and mumbled, “About . . . a thousandth of an SUM.” Eliot was all for a little boasting, but if she thought twelve percent would make a difference, clearly she had no idea just how easy it was to use the portal spell.

“Seriously!” she shouted, not caring that the entire church turned to look at them. “That’s less than I use to cast the cleanse spell!”

“Actually . . . the cleanse spell costs even less for me. About a hundred-thousandth of an SUM,” he confessed.

“You’re cheating!” she accused, jabbing a finger in his face. “You’re a cheater!

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Eliot placated, holding his hands up innocently.

“Obviously!” she snapped, “Clearly you have a major proclivity for utility magic, probably for spatial magic, too.”

Magical Proclivities were a topic Eliot actually read about in his journal. As the name suggested, every mage was born with a proclivity to certain magic. When a mage uses the magic to which they’re naturally inclined, it costs less mana, the effects are more powerful, mastery is accrued much easier, and even casting it for the first time feels like second nature. There was no limit for how broad or extremely specific the proclivity could be, although as a general rule, the broader the less powerful the proclivity and the more specific the more powerful.

Eliot was convinced he had at least a spatial proclivity since his experience using the portal spell was about as textbook of an example as you could get. Still, having only practiced it for a little over a week and being able to cast it as naturally as breathing struck him as too extreme. Having major proclivities in utility spells in general then spatial spells in particular was just about the only thing that made sense.

Despite playing it bashful at first, Eliot couldn’t help but sprout a smug grin. “Jealous?” he jeered.

“How could you tell?” she droned mordantly. “It’s Abyll of a lot better than me. I have major proclivities in healing and status spells. I was born to be a support.”

“And you’d rather be independent than sit on the sidelines and rely on someone else,” Eliot surmised.

Penelope slumped over on the steps, holding her chin in her palms. “No wonder Karl Favesh chose you. You’re basically destined to become an archmage. And don’t think I haven’t caught all the times you downplayed your intelligence. About twelve percent, really? How much was it exactly?”

“Twelve point two six zero zero zero zero zero zero zero four three nine seven eight percent,” he admitted.

“You know, if you’re only associating with me for status, you could do much better.”

Eliot snorted, mildly offended. “Do you seriously still think I care about something as stupid as status?”

“No. And that’s what worries me,” she said in a low tone, a somber weight present that wasn’t before. “I have no doubt in my mind, one day, you’ll be powerful enough to do whatever you want with no one able to tell you no. But right now, you’re only the promise of a threat. Once everyone finds out just how big of a problem you are—and they will find out—they’ll spare no expense to kill you while they still can. You shouldn’t leave the academy for anything but emergencies, and if you do, use your portals to go directly where you need, and be quick about it.

“Associating with Henry will do precious little to dissuade anyone. If you want my advice, you should seek out Celeste Chantele and become her discipulus as soon as possible. Her protection and tutelage should keep you safe until you can fight back for yourself.”

Eliot pretended to take the warning to heart, but in reality, he was already prepared for such an eventuality. Karl Favesh had basically said as much.

“No doubt my future will be turbulent.” He nodded solemnly, then cracked a sunny smile. “But I would feel a lot better if I had an intelligent, worldly, mage at my side who happens to be good at healing and status spells but independently is still a total badass,” he shamelessly flattered, offering a hand.

In spite of herself, Penelope snorted mirthfully and accepted his help to stand.

“Now, let’s pay a visit to Henry, shall we?”

Henry furrowed his brow in frustration, nearly snapping the chalk in his hand. Below him, neatly written on the ground, were two versions of the flight spell, the original and his personal variation. Using said spell to float a few centimeters off the ground with his legs crossed, Henry looked towards the sky and took a deep breath. Getting frustrated wouldn’t do any good. Neither would staring at the flight spell and trying to will an answer into existence. He wasn’t a creative person and he didn’t have the time to perform endless experiments with little to show for it. So, he needed to rethink his approach.

Turning around, he drew a chart and started listing the spells' basic pros and cons. The flight spell was relatively simple for a non-beginner utility spell, didn’t cost a lot of mana, required little to no practice to get used to, and, most obviously, gave the massive boon of flight. Unfortunately, it was innately rigid, the top speed was capped at fifty kilometers per hour, and the lack of maneuverability left much to be desired. Whereas a Demigod’s flight was more like a humming bird’s that could instantly change direction while maintaining dizzying speeds, the flight spell was limited to the wide turns and wind up of something akin to an albatraoz. While flight was regularly advantageous, against other mages it could become a liability. Its lack of instability meant it would always be harder to dodge a ranged spell while flying than it is to land a hit on a flying target. While against a mage proficient in ranged attacks, without a ranged attacker giving cover on your side, using the fly spell was basically latching a ball and chain to your feet.

Henry’s personal variation helped those problems, but not by much. The base problem was the fact that the mortal human body was soft, squishy, and vulnerable to G-forces. Trying to adopt a Demigod’s flight as a mortal without protections in place was a fast track to flattening, tearing, snapping, and gruesomely mutilating yourself. The protections of the flight spell, however, were made for beginner mages. Henry was a proficient swordsman and experienced mage, he could take a lot more punishment than a baby mage could, which allowed him to increase top speed and maneuverability to a substantial degree. But there was only so much he could push that, and he would ultimately never so much as approach a Demigod’s flight with it. Otherwise, since he was ultimately having the spell do less, it lowered the mana cost a small amount.

Next, he turned right and named his object: mimic Demigod flight such that it would be theoretically possible to match a Demigod. Specifically by implementing different protections that don’t limit the flight in any undesirable way while still proving efficacious in preventing harm.

With that done, he moved back to take in his work all at once. In the middle, he wrote his findings thus far. It seemed obvious to him that this was a problem of acceleration, jerk, momentum, and inertia. What made addressing these problems so difficult was the fact that the flight spell only worked with velocity. Furthermore, the ancient Ieconions didn’t have a concept of anything past velocity, meaning there were no runes for such things. Henry had spent hours of his life pouring through thesaurus runae, rereading Karl Favesh’s in particular tens of times trying to find any runes that he could use, to no avail.

Tilted slightly forward, with all the information laid out in front of him, Henry pondered. And mused, and wondered, and dreamt, and imagined. Unfortunately, just like before, nothing came to him. He’d hoped having it all written down might help, but in reality, he’d fixated on the same problem for so long that it might as well be carved behind his eyelids. Once more frustrated, he laid back, parallel to the ground, and sighed.

“I’ll never solve this, will I?”

No, he wouldn’t just leave it at that. He wasn’t a genius, he wasn’t very talented, he wasn’t all that good at anything, really. But this, comprehensive knowledge and experience of the flight spell and its physics, was his. He was confident no one else had wasted so much time on such a frivolous pursuit. And yet, after all that time, he’d hardly made any progress.

Already accepting that his brainstorming session wouldn’t result in anything productive, he relaxed and lackadaisically tossed the chalk into the air. His brain automatically imagined the kinematics of its rise and fall. All the forces acting upon it coming together to create the beauty of trajectory. He imagined the centrifugal force causing it to flip end over end, the acceleration applied slowly being countered by gravity until it stops at its apex for the slightest moment, then accelerates back down. He imagined its velocity changing by the second along each step of its journey, creating the concept of acceleration.

His eyes flung open and he wrenched himself up in a start. The chalk fell to the ground, shattering into eight pieces. It finally hit him. And it was so simple. Anyone else with half a brain would’ve figured it out at a glance. He grabbed the biggest chunk left and feverishly scrawled his solution

By its very nature, acceleration was nothing more than a function of velocity; jerk a function of acceleration, and so on. A rune for velocity was all he needed because he could write it to express acceleration. It was so simple.

Looking over the expressions, however, he knew why most spells stuck to velocity. The expression of acceleration was a string of runes that rivaled a simple offensive spell in length—and likely mana cost—the jerk even more so. Still, even faced with his stupidity and such an unwieldy expression, he was overjoyed. No, it wasn’t a complete solution, but it was a breakthrough, a step towards his hard fought goal.

It was at that moment that a portal opened a few meters away, connecting the Grand Cathedral with one of the castle’s courtyards.

Henry’s bewildered shock met Penelope’s knowing grin and Eliot’s grandiose bow.

“How?” he asked.

“He’s incredibly resistant to stabilized space. Or maybe it’s more apt to say he’s extremely skilled at destabilizing space. It hardly affects his spells,” Penelope explained.

“That . . . to rebuff the castle’s defenses, you must have—”

“An incredibly powerful proclivity for spatial spells,” she interrupted. “Also, he has an equally or slightly less powerful proclivity for utility spells in general.”

“You’re certain?” Henry queried. “The cleanse—”

“Yes, he can cast the cleanse spell nearly for free,” she interrupted again, already aware of the well-known signs of a utility proclivity.

Henry was completely flabbergasted for a few seconds before remembering his manners. “That’s amazing, Eliot,” he congratulated.

“Thank you,” Eliot humbly accepted, bowing a third time since he’d arrived in the courtyard. “What are yours?”

Henry averted his eyes as he mumbled, “A minor utility proclivity.” It was a small part of why he was so enamored with the flight spell.

Eliot was about to subtly ask ‘that’s it?’ when Penelope answered his question.

“Plus two mystery proclivities he hasn’t found yet.”

“Most likely, I’ve failed to inherit those,” Henry refused, shaking his head.

“What are you guys talking about?” Eliot asked, confused.

“I’m sure you know, magic is very hereditary in nature,” Penelope prefaced.

“I didn’t know that, actually. Does that mean one of my parents are mana sensitive?” he questioned, ready to explode at the implications.

“Probably not,” she shot down. “As a mage yourself, aside from the obvious physical signs, other mages should have a certain, indescribable qualia about them. If they were, they would be as talented as yourself, and you’d no doubt have felt it.”

Eliot deflated, not sure whether to feel crestfallen or relieved.

“But either your parent’s parents or your parent’s parent’s parent’s were most certainly as mana sensitive as you are. It’s not so rare for it to skip a generation—which is why most mages have at least three children—and it’s still not unheard of to skip two, but there are very few cases of it skipping three.

“Although . . . “ Penelope’s face suddenly shifted to uncomfortable as she fumbled over her words. “It’s not, um, rare for . . . those less wealthy—”

“Peasants,” Eliot corrected, “It’s what I am, you don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

“For peasants,” she sighed, “To be unaware what they can sense is special. Or they simply don’t have the funds to pursue it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Eliot nodded.

“In any case, proclivities are also usually inherited in some way, shape, or form. His father has an intermediate utility proclivity, a major proclivity for offensive spells, and a mystery proclivity even he couldn’t figure out,” she explained.

“Hold up, two questions,” he interjected, “What exactly does it mean to have a proclivity for offensive spells? Theoretically, anything can be used offensively in the right circumstances.”

“Offensive, in this case, means anything that is orthodoxically used for direct attacks. Think fireball, scald, electrify, severing disc, and so on. Another definition is anything prone to causing destruction of some kind. Yes, there is plenty of overlap, that’s why it’s vanishingly rare for anyone to have a proclivity for defensive, offense, or utility spells. And it’s especially so to have a major proclivity.”

Out of those examples, Eliot only recognized fireball, but he got the gist. “Alright, second question: how do you know about a third mystery proclivity? How does that work?”

“What do you know about magic items?”

Remembering the passage in his journal, he said, “Items that have, in some way, been carved with runes that, when flooded with mana, cast a spell, even without a mage’s oversight.”

“Those are engraved items,” she clarified. “True magic items are artifacts left over from before the Genocide of Ingnorance; such that we can’t explain how they work.”

Eliot shook his head and waved his hands for her to stop. “Alright, alright, hold on. What in the Abyss is the Genocide of Ignorance? Headmaster Dresn mentioned it too.”

“What am I a human textbook?” Penelope snapped. “I’ve talked myself hoarse explaining things to you! Pick up a gods damned book and learn for yourself if you want to know.”

Eliot chuckled in realization. “Right, sorry, thank you. I’ll follow your advice in the future.”

Seeing as Penelope was rightfully irritated, he filled in the gaps, “So, I assume, that he used some magic item, probably when he was young, that told him he had three proclivities, but even with all the resources in the world, he could only figure out two? And now, you suspect that Henry inherited the mystery proclivity and some form of the offensive proclivity, probably in something really specific since you still haven’t found it yet?”

“If you could figure it out for yourself, why bother asking?” Penelope rasped.

“Well, I didn’t want to assume.” He shrugged. “As my mother used to lovingly say, assuming makes an ass out of you and me.”

Penelope stepped forward with her hand raised, murder in her eyes. Luckily, she stopped herself, took a deep breath, and stepped back.

“By the GODS, Eliot! I was this close to slapping you for that puerile raptor shit!” she seethed. “Assume! Assume all you want! Gaia knows I’ll correct you if you’re wrong.”

“Right, right, sorry,” he apologized, his palms up. It was good to know he could push her buttons pretty far before she snapped. “I promise I’ll learn on my own from here on.”

She finally relaxed, seemingly content with his assurances. Easy to placate, too.

“Yes, that is what she suspects. However, I know for fact I’ve explored every possibility, with the assurance of Court Mage Chantelle,” Henry said, apparently used to Penelope’s outrage.

“What about disciplines of magic that haven’t been revived yet?” Eliot proposed. “How would you know if you have a proclivity for something like that?”

Henry hesitated. “Celeste Chantelle did consider something akin to that. Unfortunately, if that proves to be true, there’s nothing to be done at this point in time. I’ll have to hope it’s discovered within my lifetime.”

“How much would you say we know about magic as a whole?” Eliot mused.

Penelope rolled her eyes and scoffed, “We don’t know, that’s kind of the problem.”

“Yeah, obviously, but we can guess, can’t we?” he insisted.

“I supposed,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Karl Favesh did write a book called the three levels of magic, theorizing about the limits of magic. According to that book, we’re on the cusp of level one.”

“Exactly,” Eliot exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “So, we’re about a third of the way through. I feel it’s pretty safe to assume there’s nothing to do with proclivities in the last fifty percent, so we have roughly twenty percent of magic to go until we discover everything it could possibly be. And for all we know, it could be in that thirty one percent. It isn’t too big of a stretch that someone—or you know, you—won’t discover that in the near future.”

Despite his best efforts, all Henry gave in the form of a response was a noncommittal hum.

“Anyways, well I know I said I wouldn’t be clueless, but . . . I thought the king was mana ignorant and generally not a fighter. He was the first since the founding of the empire to not be a warrior king. I remember it being a big deal.”

Henry scoffed, “His majesty, King Plador, is my uncle.”

“Oh,” Eliot realized. “Oh, wow, I . . . I can’t . . . but that can’t be true! You wouldn’t hurt a gnat. You coexiste with arachnids for gods’ sake,” he emphasized by pointing to a spider web in a near corner. Since no one was milling about, he assumed they were probably in Henry’s private courtyard, and things like spider webs would undoubtedly be cleared unless he specifically specified not to. Eliot actually kept a family of spiders in his room, but only because they helped get rid of flying pests and were the non-venomous kind.

Henry furrowed his brow in confusion, meanwhile Penelope burst out laughing. “For how naive you usually are, it’s surprising your first thought was assassination and malevolent machinations,” she chuckled.

Henry, eyes wide with fear, stood up and proclaimed, “I-I would never, I swear to you!”

“I didn’t think so,” Eliot placated him. “But then, what happened to his majesty’s children?”

“King Plador is infertile, despite the best procedures the empire could muster. My father, Klause Crucible, is his only living sibling. Solely in consequence of his abdication. He ceded his right to the throne so he may marry my mother, who isn’t of noble blood. In light of his infertility, King Plador had little choice but to decree my siblings and I, despite our bastard nature and our father’s abdication, his heirs. However, the decision was made under the assumption my genius older brother would be king. Truth be told, the majority of the nobles don’t consider me as the rightful heir,” Henry elucidated.

Eliot’s brow raised in shock. Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder Henry wasn’t a huge asshole! In the end, though, he commented, “Wow, your father’s one romantic.”

Henry cracked a genuine smile at that. “A helpless romantic, indeed.”

“What’s this you’re working on?” Eliot asked, changing the subject.

“Nothing much,” he said in obvious embarrassment, clearing his throat.

Taking a closer look, Eliot’s brow knit as he observed, “Are you . . . modifying a spell?”

“The flight spell,” Penelope filled, “He’s been absolutely obsessed with it since he could cast it.”

“Ah,” he intoned, noting the ground Henry was’t touching. “Honestly, if I didn’t have the portal spell, I probably would be, too.”

“But that begs the question,” he continued, “If you can already modify a spell, why are you—in fact, why are either of you attending the academy?”

They fell silent at his question. “Trust me, it’s complicated,” Penelope sighed severely.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve met me, but I like complicated things.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she stated bluntly.

“In that case, I won’t pry. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Surprisingly, Henry shared, “I’ve decided an extended stay elsewhere would do me good. Considering you, I see I’ve made the correct choice.”

Eliot nodded, hopeful he understood all the implications implied. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy I got you as a roommate and not some stuck up noble.”

“It’s been fun,” Penelope said suddenly, “But, it’s almost time for class, we should get going.”

“Oh, right! That was the whole reason we’re here. I was hoping to portal you guys and whatever belongings you still needed moved,” Eliot explained.

“Unfortunately, my possessions have already gone,” Henry replied.

“Same,” Penelope chimed.

“Additionally, if you wouldn’t mind . . . I’d rather fly,” Henry said sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Eliot walked around him and pointed at a chunk of runes. “Is this the spell?”

“Yes,” Henry confirmed.

“Don’t think for a second we’ll wait for you to learn the spell,” Penelope said immediately after.

“Utility proclivity, remember? It won’t take long,” he insisted, the runes already memorized.

“That’s not the problem,” she clarified, shaking her head, “Casting the flight spell incorrectly is extremely dangerous. If you forget or shape an important part wrong, it could spell catastrophe.”

“Tell you what: I’ll fly around the courtyard for a minute so you can make sure it’s right. If I don’t get it on the second try, you guys can go ahead and I’ll portal,” he offered.

“Fine.”

To no one’s surprise, though Penelope’s annoyance, he got it on the first try. Taking the scenic route to the academy, Eliot further understood Henry’s love for the spell. Being able to see everything from so high up, feeling the wind rush through your hair, traveling at such high speed, it was amazing. In his opinion, however, it wasn’t all that his imagination cracked it up to be. It was too . . . artificial, controlled for his liking. The wildness of free fall was much more his style. Afterall, from what he could glean with his limited knowledge, the base of the spell rendered the caster exempt from gravity.

Once they reached the academy, yet another unnecessary day of class began. Everything they went over, he pretty much already knew from his journal, or he considered common sense. At least knowing Henry and Penelope didn’t really need to be there either let him exchange occasional whispers to break the painful boredom. Mostly, though, he either got lost in his own thoughts and surreptitiously read his journal through a portal. Professor Lorenz was able to tell even with his back turned that he’d cast a spell, but not which spell, so he simply promised not to do it again and left the portal open with no trouble. Since the professor usually arrived right on time for the class, in the future all he would have to do was cast it before class officially started. He could even try to map out the campus’ wack spatial distortions to cast it from a distance if he was ever running late. He had no doubt doing so would yield plenty of useful applications.

And so, without him realizing it, his life slipped into scheduled bliss. Whenever not in class, he would either hang out with Penelope and Henry or study/practice magic. While in class, he would let his mind wander, brainstorm, and occasionally, he would actually learn something. He also finally got his sleep schedule acclimated after a few days.

In the next two weeks, he pretty much learned the basics of magic as a whole, including a host of not-so-basic spells. As it turned out, he had a minor animus for offensive magic, which is to say the opposite of a proclivity. While outraged in the moment, he quickly accepted it for what it was. If that was what he needed to give to have two major proclivities, then he would give it with a smile.

Regardless, after the first week, he finally got to the section of the journal that explained the intricacies of spells. Ironically, magic, runes, and spells were fairly simple. Really, there were only three types of runes, the first two being general runes and shaping runes. At its core, every spell had a rune that decided the main thing a spell did, a general rune. Everything else was simply there to shape how the spell did that thing, hence the name shaping runes, and a complete sequence of shaping runes was known as a spell’s frame. That was it for the simplest of spells. For more advanced spells that had multiple effects, they were classified into rune strings. Each rune string held a complete general rune and spell frame, so in essence an advanced spell was just multiple basic spells in one.

The fireball spell, for example, was two simple runes strings. The first had the general flame rune with a spell frame that shaped the flame into a large conflagration. The second had the combustion rune with a frame that specified things like the explosion’s radius and whether it was impact based or on a timer.

It was so simple that Eliot had a near existential crisis. After all, he’d spent his entire life chasing something he made out to be the pinnacle of intelligence but was actually so simple a child could understand it. Luckily, that wasn’t all magic had to offer, not by a long shot. Even disregarding shaping and sensitivity exercises, there was a smattering of different schools of magic. In other words, a variety of applications for magic. From alchemy—using magic to manipulate substances, chemical processes, and general apothecary—to inscribing—apparently some madman before the Genocide of Ignorance had assigned every rune a number based on its dimensions, slopes, and angles, then somehow translated them into letters—to rituals—using shapes and pulling power from mana aswell as physical material to enact grandiose effects, like dropping a meteor from low orbit.

Out of all the options, though he would eventually master them all, one plundered his attention above all others: engraving. By engraving runes physically into items, then establishing a power source to power the spell, whether that be a physical item, a specific manastorm, or ambient mana itself, spells could be used by non-sensitives. However, since most items aren't suited to having lines of runes engraved into them, mages long ago took to compacting the runes and controlling the mana flow such that as it moved through the engraving it mimicked how the mana would form runes if someone were casting the spell in an orthadox line. Eventually, the compacting turned into outright art, and it was found, for some reason, that the more beautiful an engraving, the more potent the spell was when cast. Then it was discovered that every single step of the process could directly affect the potency of the spell, from the engraving technique, to the power source, to the materials the spell was engraved in, to the purpose of the item the spell was engraved into.

In modern day, it’s recognized as a full blown artform. It was also Abyssally difficult. Shaping the runes exactly as they were supposed to be with mana wasn’t all that hard with some practice, but the measure of control mages have over their mana was a trillion times more precise than anything physical. Puzzling together how to make art out of something as unwieldy as runes, then carving it into materials like metals without warping the runes at all was insanely hard. In fact, most engravers intentionally warp their runes very slightly so as to avoid total failure of the spell but still sacrifice power for functionality. Also, it was incredibly lucrative. All in all, it called Eliot’s name, and he took to it like the perfectionist creative he was.

It was shortly after picking up engraving that he learned simple magic wasn’t as simple as he thought, either. There was a third type of runes known as conjunction runes. They were used to specify how runes related to each other. They specified which number went to which shaping rune and how that indefinite phrase related to the general rune, forming a runarch, otherwise known as a rune phrase. Then, they specified how rune strings related to each other, how specific indefinite phrases and runarchs related to each other, and how it all related to the spell as a whole. It was like learning grammar all over again, except ten times worse because, after all of that, the actually complicated spells included higher orders of math and science. Once Eliot got to a level where all of those elements mixed together, it was everything he’d ever hoped it would be.

One such example was how the duplication spell worked. Yes, technically, he didn’t need to know how it worked to copy the runes, but then if he ever ran into a problem not explained to him how to fix, he would be stumped. Since magic was so specific, the circumstances of the situation in which a mage uses a spell can call for necessary alterations to the spell’s runes. Like all things challenging, the duplication spell’s functions made him question previously held views. Eliot had always assumed reality was an infallible mechanism. That there was no way for it to malfunction. In reality, most of the current pinnacles of magic often made use of certain loopholes. The existence of such loopholes shook the foundations of his belief, until he realized those loopholes were only possible because of reality’s genius.

Simply put, the duplication spell labels an item briefly organic, then tells it to grow. Obviously, that isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Inorganic materials don’t multiply, it’s simply impossible. It seemed to him that labels took precedence over functions in reality’s inner workings. Then, it him him that, in essence, the same principle that allowed the loophole was the same thing that closed his portals when he stopped supplying them with energy: entropy.

No, it shouldn’t be physically possible to grow more of an inorganic material, however reality makes an exception in the specific circumstance that it’s told something is organic and should be able to grow but physically can’t. In that situation, when supplied with the energy of the spell, the path of least resistance is to make more of the material. Any other result would require more interference to change what that mana is trying to do into something else. At the end of the day, if reality is told that something is organic, it will act as if that’s true because the alternative is the entire edifice crumbling. That being said, biological growth isn’t perfect or supposed to be that fast, which results in deformation after an amount of copies depending on the mass of the original and mastery of the spell.

In the end, however, Eliot ultimately found it more interesting that they had to resort to such a complicated process to duplicate something in the first place. At first, he thought it would be as simple as designating a material and making more of that. Unfortunately, with the runes currently at their disposal, it’s impossible to designate anything besides the infinitesimally small building blocks known as atoms. So, technically, you could duplicate something, but it would take a surprisingly huge amount of mana and time. Somehow, it worked out that labeling something organic that most definitely wasn’t and ‘growing’ more of it was easier and less costly than duplicating atoms one by one.

Otherwise, as far as spells went, Eliot focused heavily on learning every grooming spell he could get his hands on. His appearance had always been his sore spot, the one blemish on the nigh-perfect collection of things that were defined as Eliot. Sure, he’d largely been able to make up for it, but he jumped at the chance to improve it all the same. When he was done, he’d been reinvented. His skin glowed with a healthy luster he’d lacked since birth, his eyes glinted, and he made his hair float ever so slightly, which opened him up to a whole new world of flattering hairstyles. He learned fashion with help from Penelope, and he’d decided to change his nail color to a deep purple: near-black in dim lighting, resplendent as amethyst in the sun.

The real boon of grooming spells, however, were the maintenance ones. Eliot abhorred shaving, but thanks to his father unless he wanted noticeable stubble he would have to do it at least every other day. Now, with a simple spell, he could shave in moments with atomic precision. Despite magic’s somewhat recent resuscitation, there was a spell for every tedious necessity of hygiene or general well-being. Needless to say, mages had it easy.

He also finally learned the specifics of the Genocide of Ignorance. He could guess what it was from context, but he most certainly wasn’t prepared for the absolute ignorance and stupidity involved. Roughly five and a half hundred years ago—closer to six hundred now—the entire world enjoyed a peaceful golden age. There were no wars or disputes between sovereign kingdoms. Neither were there famines or poverty as technology and magic reached a point that could easily fix those problems. During this time, a few important mages from across the singular continent came together to form a concentrated center of magical knowledge and learning, a college known as the Tower of Babylon. It’s said that the magic they wielded then was unlike anything imaginable to the people of modern times. They reached such heights that it’s said they tried to become the masters of reality directly, by ‘solving’ magic—whatever that means.

Unfortunately, the three fates seemed to have disapproved. On the day the spell was said to be tested, a massive pillar of light annihilated the tower, utterly erasing it from existence. It was also the destructive effects of the catastrophe that split the once whole Human Continent into two. As if it wasn’t already bad enough losing thousands of their most talented mages, some absolute genius of a monarch, with no evidence whatsoever, decided that pillar of light was the smiting of the gods. He saw it as a warning from the gods not to try and copy them using magic and that to appease the now angry gods they needed to cull all the mages still alive and outlaw the use of magic. Conveniently, nearly all the clergy at the time were also mages that he accused of blasphemy and treason when they told him he was wrong.

And so, sooner or later, all ruling powers at the time decided they couldn’t risk the ire of the gods, lest they be smote, and followed suit on killing all mages and destroying all magical research. Since science and math were so intricately linked with magic, they ended up destroying so much knowledge that the world genocided itself back an unknowable but undoubtedly egregious amount of years. Since they’d apparently solved poverty and hunger, it definitely sounded to Eliot like millenium worth of knowledge and progress.

Learning about the whole ordeal made his blood boil. All because of some fucking stupid moron, the world went from golden age and peace to generations of oppression, rebellions, famine, and poverty. Yes, reason finally won in the end, but now they were practically cavemen compared to what could have been. Yes he was satisfied with the level of magic at his disposal now, but he could have learned more, much, much more. Yes his family was wealthy comparatively in the Town of Flora, but they still lived in a town on the edge of the empire when they could have had so much more. Eliot wanted nothing more than to travel back in time and beat to death that Abyssal monarch with his bare hands.

It comforted him to know that when Penelope found out, she was similarly livid. But now, she used it as fuel for her motivation. The only things they could do was fix what went wrong and learn from the past’s mistakes. Hopefully, with prior warning and enough hard work, they could ensure that history didn’t repeat itself. And that was all they could do. Really, as Karl Favesh’s successor, he was already going to take his mantle and push magic forward as much as possible. But in light of the Genocide of Ignorance, Eliot fully understood the weight of the responsibility he owed to everyone. With Henry and Penelope as his witnesses, he swore he would see to it that he restored magic’s former glory and helped reinstate that golden age as much as he could. Ultimately, it served to spur his magical pursuits to even greater heights.

Unfortunately, Eliot couldn’t study magic or hang out with friends every second of every day. There were inevitably times where his mind was left to wander. When that happened, some of the time he would think back to his family or Cel and his plans to visit them. But, mostly, his mind drifted to Beelzebub. Her overwhelming power and mastery of reaping life.

Soon enough, whenever he thought of her a physical heat burned his stomach and longing tightened his chest. His mind became a whirlwind of thoughts and imagination. Imagining who she was, how she lived her life, what she could be doing at any given time. He so desperately wanted to see her engrossed in her work, transcending her mortal coil to join with her art and become truly divine. Above all, he was filled with the agony of knowing, despite his best efforts, it would take years before he could properly pursue her. Years of planning and politicking until he could finally lay eyes upon her once more.

There were times where he genuinely considered anything that might get him closer to her. Stalking the nobles, using his portals to reach places no one else could, making up with Mark Medici, however grueling that would be, lying to Henry so he might somehow introduce them, staying up at all hours of the night to patrol the streets on the chance he could catch her.

To make matters worse, on top of everything else, he owed her. Her proclamation to the Serpentine BrotherHood that she would be the one to take his life slowly but surely spread, eventually growing into a wildfire. No assassins would dare touch him now, anyone he would be a threat to would undoubtedly hesitate to get rid of him lest they irk Beelzebub’s wrath, and, better than even that, in a matter of days it felt like everyone in Everveil knew him for two things. In addition to being Karl Favesh’s discipulus, he was given the completely unearned and frankly infamous feat of being her only survivor. Out of all the Demigods, nigh-archmages, and sheer hundreds that she’s targeted, he was the only one to still be alive. Of course, they all thought it was only a matter of time, but while he was still breathing he was doing what no one else could.

When Henry and Penelope inevitably learned of the rumor, it warmed his heart how concerned they were, and how they were ready to do just about anything to shelter him. They calmed down somewhat after he told them the truth: she let him go and he was never her target to begin with, but only somewhat. Afterall, even if that was true, before him Beelzebub never failed to silence any witnesses. He knew, it was likely she would never follow through, though.

After doing all of that for him, as anal as he was, with all the manners his parents grilled into him, he had to pay her back for that, somehow. Sure, in his fantasies he usually repaid her with a romantic relationship, but in the not-so-unlikely event that didn’t happen, he would need to at least repay that favor. He had come up with some surefire way to meet her at least once more.

Unfortunately, he’d exhausted every angle, every possibility, and even the most drastic of plans wasn’t guaranteed to work. He simply needed to wait. At this point in time, he had no usable options. Luckily, it didn’t stay that way for long.

On the fourteenth day, bored out of his mind in class, daydreaming about magic, Beelzebub, and everything in between, he had an epiphany. Drawing inspiration from the duplication spell, he realized he was looking at it all wrong. If he couldn’t do anything to reach her, he should shift his objective. She was the one with freedom of movement and untold power, he needed to make her come to him, get her attention. And he knew the perfect avenue to achieve that. It was a shame he was in an inescapable public place, otherwise he would have exploded into shouts of victory.

Just to be sure, he waited until they got back to their dorms to float the question, “What do you guys know about the Serpentine BrotherHood?”

Henry’s face contorted into a grimace.

Penelope frowned at him. “Why?”

“You remember when I told you Beelzebub let me go? Honestly, she didn’t just let me go, she inadvertently saved me. Before she arrived, I was about to be merked by two zephyrs, which I assume is an experienced team of assassins,” he explained.

“Someone already tried to assassinate you? What did you do to draw attention to yourself?” Penelope asked, shocked.

“Well . . . do you guys know someone named Mark Loreiz Medici?”

Henry’s face darkened even further.

Meanwhile, Penelope groaned, “I wish I didn’t.”

“So you do know him?”

“Mark Medici is a mockery of all thing’s a noble ought to be. He embodies the quintessential conception of a corrupt, tyrannical noble. His hobbies include illegal drugs, whorehouses, and harassing my sister,” Henry spat.

“Mierda,” Eliot cursed in Dẽn. “I knew it was bad, but damn.”

“What did he do?” Penelope asked.

“It’s more what I did to him,” he admitted sheepishly. “I actually met him my first day here, and well one thing led to another and I violently incapacitated him and his entourage. Then, I took a few more swings and stole his sword,” he confessed, pointing to the sword sticking out of his chest that they’d clearly avoided asking about.

“Mhm, that was probably him. Sending assassins after getting humiliated is a very Mark Medici move,” Penelope mused.

“I concur,” Henry agreed. “And I look all the more favorably upon you for your actions.”

“Good,” Eliot nodded, “But back to the topic: the Serpentine BrotherHood, what do you guys know?”

“They’ve been an ever growing thorn lodged in the Empire’s heart. They monopolize nigh-all major illegal trade, including prostitution, gambling, assassination, and slavery. Infuriatingly, they extend their services to any noble willing to forsake their pride. The majority of servants in noble households are secretly Demihuman slaves, and frequenting their illegal dens is regarded as a popular pasttime. It’s inevitably becoming inculcated in noble culture.”

Eliot smirked. “Good, good.” When they gave him looks, he clarified, “I don’t mean what they do is good, obviously, just that the fact they’re evil beyond redemption is good.

“You see, I’ve been thinking. I want practical experience. To get used to real battle. Unfortunately, there aren’t many ways to get that. Then, it hit me, you guys are basically fully-fledged mages, right? It may sound crazy, but hear me out. What if we took the initiative to take down the Serpentine BrotherHood?”

They stood frozen for a few seconds as they tried to process his sheer audacity.

“What in Life’s Loving Paradise makes you think us three, random mages, can take down the Serpentine BrotherHood?” Penelope, understandably, doubted.

“Well, for one, we aren’t random mages. Don’t think I haven’t done my research by now. Henry’s been lauded as a Sword Master since he was ten, and you’re The Holy Divineer, Gaia’s Favored, Archpriestess Evergreen. I’m Karl Favesh’s discipulus, wielding his frankly unfair portal spell.”

“All of that’s just empty titles. I’m not actually on the level of an Archpriest,” she argued.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To make a name for yourself completely of your own merit? One you’ve actually earned?” Eliot countered.

“You know, no one likes it when you expose personal stuff about them completely off rip?” she groused.

“Yes, and I apologize, but it’s the only thing I could think of to convince you.”

“You’ll have my sword,” Henry announced with a steely determination, “I’m in, as they say.”

Eliot grinned and bumped forearms with him. “Well, Miss Evergreen?”

“I told you not to call me that,” she grumbled. “I’m not saying I’m on board, but if I was, what’s your plan?”

Eliot’s lips twisted into a malevolent grin.