Chapter 5

The Serpentine BrotherHood

“Many attribute Mystrel’s rise to the creation of magic; this is not true. She bestowed her Gift of Providence decades into her glorious reign. Although many believe She seized the throne with Her raw Might as an Attuned, it was Her divine Arrogance in the creation of Lexctere. Using Lexctere, She forewent manipulating reality and bent the very Laws themselves to her Will. In doing so, She was no different from a God.”

(Mother says this is a lie: in actuality, it was the gods that originally created and gifted artifacts to their Champions, Mystrel being one of them. Everyone knows that's just propaganda, though. After all, it implies that Mystrel was a Champion and that her powers were divinely granted. A claim which has been disproven time and time again. All the zealous praise and accomplishments of Mystrel make me wonder if she really was some flawless genius, or if she was just as human as the rest of us.)

-532, On the Nature of Lexctere(artifacts)

Eliot

“Found them,” Eliot announced smugly.

“Excellent,” Henry cheered, seeing their quarry from a mug-sized portal.

“Already?” Penelope asked, shocked. She’d been converted to a believer the second Eliot explained his plan, but as the only voice of reason she still harbored some doubt.

They were set up in Eliot and Henry’s dorm, nearly the entire floor being taken up by standing mini-telescopes, peering into tens of small portals. The plan was fairly simple; the telescopes were engraved with a spell that beeped whenever they caught sight of a pre-specified symbol or picture. Unfortunately, Warren Canmore—his recent acquaintance in the magical business world—didn’t have anywhere near the amount they needed in stalk, so they had to wait another week and a half as Eliot painstakingly copied enough. He drew the Serpentine BrotherHood’s symbol of a dagger with coiled snakes, then placed the primed telescopes in front of portals that overlooked large swathes of the Metropolis.

Originally, Eliot wanted them to keep a look-out during the dead of night. Luckily, Henry had informed them that the BrotherHood only did its serious business at night, meaning much more resistance if they tried to stop them. It would be better to test the waters by interfering with a smaller, less costly operation done during the day. Afterall, his assassins had targeted him during the day, so it was clear there would still be plenty of movement.

“What are they doing? It looks like they’re just talking,” Penelope noted, observing a group of members casually chatting with a shop owner outside of its back entrance.

“Extortion,” Henry answered. “Mandatory payment in exchange for protection.”

“You guys ready?” Eliot asked, handing Henry Mark Medici’s sword. The only one he’d brought with him was an unadorned practice sword. Mark’s had all sorts of engravings Eliot couldn’t hope to measure to just yet.

“Are you sure this’ll work? It kinda feels like something out of a novel,” Penelope voiced her concern.

“If you want the truth, no I can’t be sure of anything. But I am fairly confident. Tell you what, if it doesn’t work, we can run away at the first opportunity,” Eliot assured her.

“Have faith,” Henry even chimed in.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not more nervous, Princeling,” he commented.

Henry smiled bashfully. “I’ve . . . hardly any talent concerning anything beyond the sword. The blade is my only domain, as pitiful as it may be.”

“It’s not pitiful at all. Really, if you wanted, you could leave all the hard thinking to advisors, like myself,” Eliot promised him, hand on his shoulder. “You’ll make a fine warrior king through and through.”

Henry looked toward the portal and unsheathed his sword, resolve empowering his blade.

“Well? Ready, Penelope?” Eliot tried before immediately complaining, “See, that’s why I like Miss Evergreen. It rolls off the tongue so much better than Penelope. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fine, great even, but just as a throwaway thing it’s a mouthful.”

“Now is hardly the time to care about something so stupid,” she groaned.

“I’m ready whenever you are. Just say the word,” he affirmed, his mana shaping into a spell, with just enough that it was a drop away from casting.

Penelope sighed. Even with fueling all those portals for the last half-hour, he still had enough mana to burn on preparing the liquify stone spell. Since unspecialized mana dissipates the second it leaves the spiritual body, while he could finish the casting in a split second, it was incredibly costly.

“Alright,” she nodded, preparing the opposite spell herself.

In a nondescript alley of the Commerce District, Henry bounded from a portal, sword raised, and shouted, “Halt as you are, criminal scum!”

The congregation of nine turned to him in shock, the eight BrotherHood members raising swords, knives, and crossbows. From the other side, Eliot and Penelope cast their prepared spells. The stone underneath the eight turned to liquid without warning, submerging them up to their chests before the stone flashed back to solid.

Penelope tsked, “One’s under.”

“Already on it,” Eliot called as he started casting his spell once more, this time in a smaller area.

The stone turned back to liquid, allowing him to grab the submerged man and drag him to Penelope. Penelope dropped to her knees and placed a hand on his chest. Her mana plunged into the man and forcibly extracted the liquid cement in his lungs. Eliot made a mental note to revisit what he thought he knew about ego and mana. Immediately, the man gasped and descended into a coughing fit, Penelope binding him in vines as he did.

With that taken care of, Eliot turned his attention to the shopkeeper, who was pressed against the wall with Henry’s sword at his throat.

Eliot placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “I can do it, if you don’t want to.”

Henry diffidently eyed the man, then Eliot. “That would be best,” he acquiesced.

Eliot regarded the man with a sympathetic grimace. “We’re really sorry about this, but if it doesn’t look like you resisted, you could get in trouble.”

The man’s eyes widened in fear, too late. A portal opened behind his legs, which Eliot sent a kick into, causing the man to fall to his hands and knees. Then, a full-force kick across the face knocked him out cold. Penelope quickly followed up with a damage report.

“He’ll be alright. Bruised but alright,” she deemed.

“Good,” Eliot cheered. That was the desired outcome, after all.

Swiftly flowing from one thing to the next, Penelope cast an attraction spell, causing small yellow pills to shoot from the members’ mouths.

“Are we sure this is the only contingency they planned?” she asked.

“Probably,” Eliot considered, “I mean, they’re just grunts. I don’t see why they would invest all that much into them.”

Finally done, he turned to Henry and bumped fore-arms. “Nice one-liner, by the way.”

Henry looked down, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “In reconsideration, it felt improper.”

“It should have. That was corny as all Abyl,” Penelope jeered.

“The brief high impaired my sense,” he mumbled.

“What the fuck is wrong with you three?” one of the members growled. “You’re courting death!”

“Ooh, nice Dan phrase,” Eliot gushed. “You don’t look Procudean, do you read?”

In response, the members all grumbled or moaned in defeat, their eyes losing the luster of life.

“Hey, relax, we’re not gonna kill you guys,” Eliot reassured them.

“Failure is death. It’s you or them. Killing us now would be mercy. They’ll tortue us first,” one of them sighed.

Penelope frowned. “Who says they have to know?”

“They already know. While you fucks were jerking each other off, we were supposed to signal our coordinator.”

It was Eliot’s turn to frown. That was tight timing. “Well, that’s what you get for joining the Serpentine BrotherHood.”

“You think we chose this?” seethed one of them near the back. “They know where our families live, dipshit.”

“You were coerced to serve?” Henry asked, horrified.

A member scoffed, “You think anyone wants to be a petty thug?”

“I’m sure some people,” Eliot mumbled.

“People are only that shallow in your shitty books,” spat the one he’d tried to be friendly with.

“Oh, pues cabrón,” Eliot groaned. “Sorry, guys, this one’s on me. Should’ve seen this coming.”

“I don’t see how you could have,” Penelope shrugged.

“That’s the point,” he emphasized.

“How shall we continue?” Henry questioned anxiously.

“You kill us,” they insisted.

“We can’t do that. We aren’t murderers,” Penelope refused.

“Life ain’t that simple. It’s us or our families. Please,” they begged.

Eliot turned away and shouted, “Damnit! Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit!”

Obviously, the best case scenario was to kill them. But if they had to do that, things would turn sour with Henry and Penelope fast. He was the one who came up with the whole plan, convincing them to trust him. They probably wouldn’t even be able to stomach killing them, insisting they find some other way. And when that failed, eight innocent families, with gods know how many children, would be brutally tortured, then they’d have to live with that.

“How does it work?” he demanded, turning back around. “Explain to me in detail how you’re supposed to signal your Coordinator.”

“There’s no point.”

Eliot bent down and grabbed the closest one’s chin. “Look at us,” he insisted, motioning to Henry and Penelope, who were on the verge of throwing up. “Does it look like we’re willing to do that? This is your only option. So, unless you want you family tortured, talk. Now!”

Fortunately, they spilled everything they knew. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much. The Serpentine BrotherHood followed a strict hierarchy. The lowest level members were called Scales, in other words people threatened through family or other blackmail to do small scale, petty jobs, like move product or collect protection fees. Each Hide, a team of eight to ten Scales, reports and gets orders from two coordinators at any given time. Above them were Blades, skilled, hardened, and most importantly, complicit, members that followed a similar structure to a Hide. Blades did most of the murder and illegal activity. When he asked about Zephyrs, though, they had never heard of them.

Whenever they were needed, they would get a letter under one of their loved one’s pillows—a dick move in Eliot’s humble opinion. They would follow the instructions to the letter, and, depending on the operation, they were expected to give a specified, random signal within ten minute intervals. The timing wasn’t all that close after all, they’d just gotten incredibly unlucky with the timing of their operation. They had no idea how or from where the coordinators watched them, but one of them would have to go to a public street and do whatever random signal was asked of them. It could be anything from shoving someone to buying something. A few minutes ago, one of them was supposed to kick a wall while looking frustrated.

Eventually, Eliot sighed in relief. The answer was simple, though time consuming. If the coordinators had seen what happened, the trio would probably be dead already.

“So, here’s what we can do. We’ll make you disappear,” he concluded, after a long stretch of silence.

“They’ll find us eventually.”

“Not if you’re outside of Everveil,” he countered.

“We can’t risk that. They have people at the wall, they’ll know.”

“Who said anything about going through the wall?” he said rhetorically, showcasing his portals.

“You’re that Portal Mage!” one of them realized.

He bowed theatrically, “Guilty as charged.”

“You’ll have to kill one of us. It has to look like we’re dead, not disappeared,” a sharper one insisted.

“I know,” he nodded, “That won’t be necessary, although a few of you will have to give up a finger.” He turned to Penelope and asked, “Do you know any spells to make animal blood at least resemble human blood?”

“Why would I know how to do that?” she shrilled.

“Can you get a spell like that?”

“Maybe?”

“I need a definitive answer,” Eliot barked.

“Yes, I-I know someone,” she stammered.

“Hunting’s a popular pastime for nobles, right? You ever been?” he asked Henry.

Despite his nerves, he nodded. “Often with my father.”

“Good. We’ll need a lot of blood for what I have in mind,” Eliot said, surveying the alley with determination.

Hours later, he collapsed on his bed, completely wrung out. The hunting was fun, though rushed and inauthentic from the use of his portals. Penelope had come through with a potion they mixed with the raptor blood. While the experience was harrowing for her, she was confident the blood would look indistinguishably human. To go the extra distance, Eliot borrowed some of Penlope’s physiology books to compare and contrast what raptor parts looked human enough to leave at the crime scene, and soaked those with the potion. Finally, he dressed up a different alley, a few streets away just in case, to look like Beelzebub’s handywork. Luckily, he had first-hand experience to work with. And, throughout the process, to make absolutely sure, they used the cleanse spell on themselves every thirty seconds and wore heavy clothing to make sure none of their organic material was left behind.

All in all, they made pretty good fixers. Honestly, it was a fun experience for him. Imagining the scene in his head, splattering the blood just right, cracking the stone in all the right places, finding just the right method to pulverize raptor guts to make it look like pulverized human guts. While Henry was too squeamish, Penelope had helped him with the knitty-gritty of it all to make it look all the more authentic. Apparently, her only compunctions were the moral kind, she had no trouble getting her hands dirty in an ethical way. Eliot had doubted her for a second, but it was to be expected with her study of anatomy.

Speaking of Penelope, she flopped onto his bed, right on his stomach.

“Ow!” he protested, shoving her off of him.

“You deserve it,” she said, plundering his furs for herself. Despite Eliot’s height, their dorm beds were so big it could easily accommodate the both of them without any awkwardness.

“I fixed my mistakes, didn’t I?” he argued.

“Oh, honey, your solution was hardly better than the alternative,” she drawled.

“Oh, really?” Eliot scoffed. “So, if push came to shove, you would have killed them?”

Her face paled, though her voice was steady when she answered, “If I had to.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. You looked like you were gonna faint.”

“I won’t apologize for having a conscience. It’s not like you were much better, Mr. Tantrum. Throw a fit, it’s solved all your problems thus far, why not?”

“My ‘fit’ got us out of the situation,” he groused.

Before she could respond, one of the scales cleared their throat. “We’re still here.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eliot moaned.

“You’ll do what you promised, right?”

“I’m getting to it,” he waved, lethargically rolling out of bed. “This is gonna suck,” he bemoaned.

Finding his map, he displayed it before them and instructed in a monotone, “Take as much time as you need to choose whichever settlement you want to be taken to. I know it’s tempting, but you probably shouldn’t choose one with extended family or friends. When you’ve chosen, grab your pack of essentials that Penelope and Henry have so kindly provided, and line up near the window.”

Lamentful, he asked his friends, “Hey, do you guys know any spells that can clean up vomit?”

Henry shook his head in confusion.

“Yes, why?” Penelope answered, similarly confused.

“Can you show it to me real quick?”

“Again, why?”

Eliot sighed. “You’ll see.”

After finishing with all five portals—thankfully a few of them wanted to go the same one—and puking his guts out, he laid on the hard floor clutching his stomach in sorrow.

“Woe is me!” he dramatically exclaimed.

Henry and Penelope stood over him with concern.

“Eliot, that isn’t healthy,” Penelope told him with her arm crossed, like it was his fault. Which it kinda was.

“Oh, is that so? I had no idea,” he said, completely and totally sincere.

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “Do that often enough and it might just kill you.”

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating? You finally found my limits, I can’t do everything after all.”

She sat down next to him. “Not when you’re literally killing yourself to help other people.”

“I certainly didn’t want to,” he refuted.

“But you did it anyway.”

“Oh?” Eliot laughed, completely too amused, “Does that score me some points in the gods’ eyes?”

“It does,” she frowned, apparently not in the mood to have a back and forth.

Finally, a knock sounded at the door, the large pitcher of water they’d requested having arrived. Henry, of all people, poured him water and handed him the glass.

“Blessed be thy good Prince, my savior! Forever shall this sheep behold the shepherd who leads his flock to water,” Eliot continued the melodrama.

After having his fun and downing a glass of water, he adopted a somber tone. “In all seriousness, I’m sorry for dragging you guys into that. It was arrogant of me to think I could outsmart a decades old criminal syndicate.”

“We agreed to it, didn’t we? We knew what we were getting into,” Penelope shrugged.

“Indeed, we bear our personal responsibility,” Henry agreed.

“Still, I’m sorry. It was in a flight of stupidity that I thought it was a good idea.”

“You do realize we have to go after them now, don’t you?” Penelope asked him slowly.

His brow knit. “But we didn’t leave anything behind.”

Henry glowered, though not at him in particular. “How could I remain still knowing hundreds of my people are in situations paramount to slavery? I’ve dreamt their destruction since I’ve been aware. Enough is enough, I say.”

Eliot bloomed a smile, chills running down his spine. “Alright, some noble wrath, I like it! Well, in that case, we should still probably take a break, but I’ll get to planning our next move.”

And so, life moved on, days passed.

Floating just off the ground with his legs locked under him, Eliot closed his eyes and jabed his finger into the ground. Cracking his eyes open for a brief moment, he noted, “Thirty centimeters.”

Penelope, lying at the foot of his bed, reading a book, couldn’t contain her curiosity. “What in life’s loving Paradise are you doing?”

Eliot grinned sheepishly, though he continued repeating what he’d been doing the past hour. “Honing my spatial awareness,” he answered. “I figure if I want to use my portals more precisely in the future, I should get better at feeling out distances.”

“Uhuh,” she grunted, unimpressed. “Is it working?”

Finally, Eliot dropped to the ground and sighed in defeat. “No,” he admitted glumly.

“You know, a spell could probably help with that?” she enlightened him, going back to reading.

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled, “But then if I’m ever caught without that spell active, I’ll be limited.”

“Clearly, it’s time to try a different approach.”

“I’ll think of something,” he dismissed, doing just that. Unfortunately, now that his focus was broken, his mind wandered. After a minute of silence he asked, “Hey, Penelope? What exactly did you do to become an Archpriest?”

“What happened to that research you supposedly did?”

“I did do that research, I just want to hear it from your perspective,” he insisted.

Penelope continued her reading as she said, “There isn’t much to tell. Gaia appeared in my dreams, said I was special, now I’m here.”

“That’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask about,” Eliot continued. “Is gaia like, an aspect of the Goddess of LIfe, or how does that work?”

She lifted her head just to give him an exasperated look. “You’ve been alive how many years and you don’t know how the gods work?”

He opened his mouth as if to give a scathing rebuttal, then stopped. “Yeah, pretty much. What’s up with that?”

She laughed in disbelief, burying her head in her book as if wondering how she ended up here. “It’s a pantheon, Eliot!” she shouted, throwing up her hands. “A big one with the Goddess of Life at the top. All the gods have their specific domains, but hers is literally everything to do with life, so she’s the big one. Gaia’s well-known as her honorary second in command as the god of nature.”

“Hm,” Eliot intoned thoughtfully. “So I imagine there's a god of death with his own evil pantheon?”

“Goddess of death, and yes,” she corrected.

“Really? Then she probably has her second of command, like a god of destruction or something, right?” he supposed.

“Yes, she does, the god of entropy.”

“I wouldn’t call entropy inherently evil,” he thought aloud, “It’s also surprising the two biggest gods are goddesses, considering.”

“You really don’t know anything about history, do you?” Penelope scoffed ludicrously.

“At this point, it’s your fault you’re still surprised,” Eliot said, unapologetic.

“It shouldn’t be surprising because for most of human history, our society was a matriarchy. All the way back during the Ancient Ieconions, men were property and slaves to women, only good for physical labor and reproduction. Since you don’t know, if you ever find a grimoire that uses feminine pronouns when referring to mages, you should study it until you're sick. That means it was written during the Ieconion Empire, also known as the birthplace of magic, in case you didn’t know that either.”

Eliot raised a brow at that: his journal was exactly as she’d described. Obviously, it wasn’t written gods know how long ago, but the author was most definitely studying from one such grimoire. There were many sections where the author had clearly quoted directly from another text, one that associated mages with feminine pronouns.

“Things only changed after Mystrel, The Mother of Magic and Empress during its largest heights, either died or ascended as a god, depending who you ask. During the ensuing civil war, the men led a rebellion for freedom. Somehow, through tactical genius and arrogance, they won, taking power and killing the Ieconion Empire once and for all. Unfortunately, after being slaves themselvse for all of history, the men decided women should be given the same fate. Slowly, over the course of countless years, we’ve trudged ever closer to equality, but there’s so much baggage and toxic tradition that every step is hard-fought,” Penelope elucidated.

“Wow,” was all Eliot could think to say.

“I loved learning about it when I was younger because it teaches two very important lessons,” she continued, unprompted. “First, no matter how much power you have, you aren’t invincible. The rebellion was led by some astounding generals, but it was mostly the conceit of the Ieconion mages that led to their defeat. Second, neither man nor woman is intrinsically better than the other. Men, on average, are more physically inclined, and women, on average, are more spiritually inclined, but that’s just a product of natural evolutionary pressures. You can find the same thing in all sorts of animals. Different genders are good for different things so that the species as a whole can be good at both those things. Both are important.”

“Well said,” Eliot nodded. “Completely unrelated question: what’s the speed of magic?”

“Why is it that you inquire?” Henry decided to join their conversation, amused by his antics.

“It’s important for an idea I had,” he non-answered.

“You mean casting time?” Penelope asked, not understanding.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Eliot shook his head, “I mean the amount of time it takes magic to activate. From the moment that you cast a spell to that spell taking effect.”

“You can usually adjust the velocity of ranged spells,” she still didn’t understand.

“Here, think about it like this: how long does it take for my portals to start to form after I’ve casted the spell? Is that instant? If not, can I make that go faster? And, once that’s answered, can I make my portals open faster?” he explained.

“That’s . . . interesting,” Penelope frowned in thought. “I’m sure there are plenty of ways to find out, but it doesn’t strike me as entirely useful for most purposes. You likely won’t find the answer in a book.”

Eliot rubbed his chin in thought. He’d expected as much. A smile stretched across his face, so big it hurt. It was about time he did some experiments of his own. After some preliminary brainstorming and cataloging the materials at his disposal, he decided it would be easier to find out how fast his portals opened and go from there. As it turned out, courtesy of Karl Favesh, the academy boasted the only atomic clocks in the world.

His set-up was simple. Using two of the clocks, he synced one to record the exact time he cast the spell and the other to record the exact time the connected sensor sensed a light. He cast the light spell and encased it within a box, encasing the sensor in a different box. Finally, he cast the portal spell such that the first was inside the light’s box and the second directly in front of the sensor, in its box.

When all was said and done, Eliot found the use of light inspired. Originally, he planned to use water. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out how to measure the exact time that the water exited the second portal. Trying to think of what to use instead was like the what-am-I? riddles his father used to torment him with. He’d always hated those riddles because going off of a few vague descriptions the answer could be justified as an innumerable amount of things. The ‘correct’ answer was completely arbitrary, based on the riddler’s whims. His predicament felt much the same. What was as close to instantaneous as possible in speed whose movements could be controlled with precision and measured as close to instantaneously as possible.

He’d figured it out while wallowing on the windowsill, making shapes out of shadows with his hands. It hit him that light fulfilled two of his requirements better than water ever could, he just needed to figure out a way to measure when it struck something, which he imagined wouldn’t be all too hard. He was pleasantly surprised when it had already been done. Karl Favesh took a fascination to light, and according to him it played a pivotal role in understanding many of reality’s functions. After reading his Fundamentals of Optics and the uses of Light, Eliot agreed whole-heartedly and took an obsession to just how amazingly awesome light was.

Apparently, plants generated energy by absorbing light, and as he knew, plants spewed out air and mana in return. In a way, light played a pivotal part in the cornerstone of reality. Although he knew that was a moot point since the same could be said for most phenomen. Reality was the product of its functions. If one of those functions were different, reality itself would be different.

The experiment yielded vastly interesting results. The light hit the sensor instantly—or at least faster than even the optical atomic clocks could measure. That result, however, didn’t make any sense. The portals could be observed opening at a speed visible to a mortal’s eye. He hypothesized that it was because the portal started to open instantly in its very center, and the light entered through the smallest of openings. He felt, regardless if his specific hypothesis was correct, that it was evident that the speed of magic was indeed instant. Or, at least close enough that for the vast majority of applications, it could be considered as such. After all, the atomic clocks that could measure an amount of time seven decimal places smaller than a second, couldn’t measure any time passing before the sensor was activated. Furthermore, the sensor—which worked via magical means— registering and communicating that light had hit it in less time than the clocks could measure, seemed to imply the same conclusion.

So, he repeated the experiment. This time, he encased the first box containing the light in a second, larger box. Then, he cast the portal such that only the outermost centimeter of its diameter was inside the first box and thus capable of transmitting the light to the second box. He’d already found that he could spawn portals inside of objects without trouble. As expected, if the first portal were inside a solid wall, the second portal would be completely filled by that wall. He’d wanted to experiment with the exact effects that would have on the material—were the portals effectively isolating a portal-thin sheet of the material, for example—as well as what that would do to a living organism, but he regrettably only had so much time on any given day.

Eliot had planned on repeating the second version of the experiment multiple times with differently sized portals to get an average ‘opening speed’ per second. Shattering all of his expectations, however, the results again showed that it was instantaneous. Now that didn’t make sense. Eliot did the rational thing and assumed he had faulty equipment. He redid both of his experiments with three different sensors, just to be sure, and shockingly, got the same results. It couldn’t be that all three were faulty, but just so that there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt, he rented different clocks, as well as sensors, and repeated the experiments three times again. He also quadruple-checked the boxes and encased each in three layers, just to be extra sure light wasn’t somehow slipping through. The same results.

With no possible avenue in which his equipment failed him, he was forced to consider how an impossibility was possible. He cast the portal spell and watched its lackadaisical expansion over and over again as if in trance. How was it possible that light could travel through a part of the portal that hadn’t formed yet? He could see with his own eyes that it wasn’t physically possible! Unless, of course, his own eyes were wrong. He recalled a section of Karl Favesh’s book on light discussing optical illusions. Could that be the case?

Fortunately, that was entirely too easy to prove. Eliot casted a very large portal then thrust his arm through a portion of space that the portal would eventually fill. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and chills ran down his spine as he saw his arm jutt out of a portion of the second portal that had yet to visually form. The portals themselves were created instantaneously! For some reason, the visuals of the portal lagged behind.

That was amazing! Instantaneous portal generation was the reason he wanted to know the speed of magic, after all. It was also incredibly interesting! In hindsight, it made a sort of sense to him that the creation of a portal would happen all at once. In fact, that might be one of the defining qualities that separated the portal spell from the ritual, though that was entirely assumption. Unfortunately, as he was now, he was ill-equipped to try and answer either of his questions.

As for the differences of the spell to the ritual, he made a mental note to observe a public-portal-transport-opening ritual and obtain the ritual itself as soon as possible. As for why the visual portal lagged behind the actual portal, he could only think of two possibilities. Either it was some complicated interaction between light and space, or it was an intentional feature put in place by Karl Favesh—an extension of his theory that the portal spell was entirely too simple and there was something deeper at work. If it was the first, he probably needed to know much more about light and space than he currently did. And if it were the latter, gods’ knew when he’d be an appropriately experienced mage to tackle something like that.

Regardless, there was no time to waste. The myriad of applications he’d dreamt for instantaneous portals demanded they be realized, and already he was dreaming up ways to use portals in a fast enough time-frame that it couldn’t visually be seen at all. A savage grin sprouted on his lips and he couldn’t resist an evil, megalomaniacal laugh along with. He could only imagine how much more unstoppable he could make his already unfair portals.

“Both of you listen up!” Penelope announced as Henry allowed her entry to their dorm. Like the obedient friends they were, Henry and Eliot stopped whatever they were doing and sat at the edge of their beds.

“As you well know, our last altercation with the Serpentine BrotherHood was akin to three relatively powerful mages bullying powerless civilians.”

“That’s a little harsh. They were armed,” Eliot objected.

“With no training. For all we know, they could have been as bad at using their weapons as you are with a sword,” she refuted, immediately going for the throat. Henry chuckled surreptitiously while Eliot shrugged in acceptance. Knowing Penelope, she probably intended the obvious dirty implications a phrase like that could have. While he acknowledged he was utterly incompotent with a sword, he would have to get her back on principle, at a later date.

“In the future, we’re going to have to fight trained, bloodthirsty killers, fighters, and assassins,” she continued, “So, I used my political connections to speak with some experienced experts about the best strategy and tactics three mages of our skills should use.”

Eliot frowned. “Doesn’t that introduce the possibility that the Serpentine BrotherHood gets forewarning of our intentions? Also, who did you talk to, exactly?”

“They were all trustworthy individuals, and after our first few operations they’ll know we have it out for them, besides. Mostly, I talked to people you wouldn’t know, plenty of mages at the Guild and experienced tacticions, like I said. Including Reltus Eldon, Captain of the Royal Guard.”

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

Henry nodded sagely. “If it’s by Reltus’ advisory, it will be invaluable, indeed,” he extolled.

“I’ll see to it that we’ll practice exact tactics and general teamwork later, but for now, the most important thing to understand is our battle roles. Henry, you will be our forward fighter. You will be our primary offense, as well as deal with the brunt of the enemies’ attention, our tank so to speak.”

“What’s a tank?” Eliot asked with a half-raised hand. He could assume from context, but wanted to annoy her for her earlier comment.

She rudely ignored his question and continued with her spiel. “You, Eliot, will be our main defense, but in equal parts you will focus on battlefield control. You will use your spells to restructure, destroy, and control the field of battle in our favor. Since you have an animus for attack spells, you should keep directly offensive spells to a minimum. Your mana is much better spent as a control mage.”

Eliot snapped two sets of fingers and followed into a double thumbs-up. “I gotchu guys,” he assured them.

“Take everything I just told you with a grain of salt. Not only will each situation require a unique solution, trumping your other responsibilities, you two must protect me at all costs. As our so-called white mage, I am the beating heart of the team. My role is to heal and pepper you guys with buffs, while, if applicable, debuffing the enemies. In the heat of battle, it might seem tempting to save yourself, but you need to remember that I will heal you. Also, if the situation arises, you should absolutely take damage to yourself to protect me. Like I said, I will heal you guys, but if I go down suddenly you two are much easier to kill,” she stressed.

“And what happens if you run out of mana?” Eliot asked the obvious question.

“We would try to avoid getting ourselves into that scenario as much as we possibly can, and that goes for any of us running out of mana. If one of us does, we should retreat immediately, unless there is overwhelming evidence that we shouldn’t. I know you’re going to be reckless, but if you insist on staying in that situation without a reasonable explanation, we will leave you to die,” she admonished solemnly.

Eliot was tempted to roll his eyes at that. Obviously, neither of them would be able to stomach such an act. But, to appease a dead serious Penelope, he promised with equal intensity to be ‘reasonable’.

“Good. The second, and only, thing you need to internalize right now is formation. We will have two. The first is the arrow formation, with you two shoulder to shoulder and me directly behind,” she explained by physically positioning them as described. “We’ll use this mostly if the threat is only coming from one direction. The second is the I formation, with you two in front and behind me. This one will be harder to pin down, I’m sure, since you’ll need to pivot around me completely in synchronization to deal with threats from all sides.”

That . . . would be harder than even she knew. Eliot had always lacked good gross motor control and coordination. It was a big reason as to why he was that bad with a sword. Thankfully, similar to the rest of his life, if he was good enough at battlefield control, they would never be surrounded in the first place. Suddenly, the image of an imposing control mage warping reality to his whim was very appealing.

“With that done, and hopefully internalized, I also have recommendations for the type of magic you two should learn in the future,” she prefaced yet another lecture. She was a natural born scholar through and through.

“Henry, since you’re our main offense, you need to add more range to your arsenal. At the very least, by whatever means you want, you should increase your effective range to five meters. I recommend that you start learning lightning spells. They suit your swift fighting style, have a variety of ranged options, and have plenty of melee applications to augment your somewhat limited damage type. If we ever come across someone in heavy armor, for example you aren’t yet powerful enough to deal with that using a sword. With a simple discharge of lightning, on the other hand, it would be pretty easy. Otherwise, it strikes me that you should double down on movement options. It would be great if you had Eliot’s portals at your disposal, honestly”

Along with her passive aggressive comment, she gave him a side glance.

Eliot put his hands up in innocence. “I’m really sorry, but Karl Favesh intended for me to be the only user of his portals, as he was in his time.” He was fairly sure, at least. “And, even if I told you how to cast it, I’m ninety percent sure it wouldn’t work for anyone except me.”

“I’ll want to hear more about that later,” she told him with a raised finger. He nodded, of course.

“As I’m concerned, Eliot fighting by my side is no different from wielding the portals myself,” Henry lauded him. Effectively, too, it warmed his heart to know Henry had such confidence in him.

“That will have to be enough,” Penelope conceded. “As far as you go. Mr. Reileus, you should definitely learn a smattering of spells to help with your role, but primarily I think you should focus on water and darkness spells, water’s sub elements, like steam and ice, as well.”

Suddenly, a beautiful idea hit him. “What about light spells?” he questioned. It seemed to him like manipulating light would make for excellent area of control.

Her brow knit in thought. “I may be wrong, but light spells aren’t typically used for area of control. Most of its spells are attack spells.”

It was Eliot’s turn to knit his brow. “How in Abyl would you weaponize light?”

“You haven’t ever played with a magnifying glass as a kid? You seem like the type,” she said, crossing her arms.

Eliot looked her dead in the eyes and informed her, “I literally didn’t know glass existed until some weeks ago.”

“Oh,” she realized, embarrassed. Meanwhile Henry snorted in amusement.

She used a simple telekinetic spell—which Eliot immediately memorized and put on his must-learn list—to bring a piece of parchment to her hand as she stepped near and opened the window.

Holding the parchment outside the window, she cast another, not-so-simple, spell that he memorized. From the runes shot a concentrated beam of white light that immediately burned a hole through the parchment and lit the rest aflame. Before it could burn her, she released it and let the ash scatter in the wind.

Eliot watched the process with stars in his eyes. “That’s so cooooool!,” he gushed like a five year old.

“It eats up large amounts of mana and is easily countered,” Penelope dashed his dreams without remorse.

He fell to his knees and clutched at his chest as if wounded. “You foul villain, you! Why dangle hope before my eyes just to snuff it out the next moment?” he lamented with such passion that his performance would bring a tear to the eyes of any hardened thespian.

“If I see you using light magic in the field, I will lambast you afterwards,” she threatened, “With flames and words alike.”

Eliot groaned and returned to a serious mien. Clearly something had happened. Ignoring some of his antics for a serious conversation was one thing, ignoring nearly every opportunity he’d given her, no matter how dramatic, was another. He’d had his suspicions since her one ruthless barb, but now was sure something weighed on her. What else was new? In his professional opinion, Penelope was in sore need of a vacation.

“Any actual questions?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“Yeah, why shadows? I’m not familiar with those spells either.”

“Shadow spells are usually utility spells and involve manipulating shadows for various purposes, such as distraction and obfuscation. It’s where the term cloaked in shadows comes from. While true for all magic, shadow magic in particular is dependent on the user’s creativity and resourcefulness.”

Eliot reviewed her words with careful consideration. While, as she said, he could think of many uses of other elements for area of control, water and shadow were without a doubt the strongest contenders, just in front of air spells. While air spells sounded good, in practice he imagined it was mostly offensive and ruthless spells. Most often in fiction, when he heard of air magic, it was of summoning tornados or ripping the air out of lungs. Sure, it could be used to summon a gale just strong enough to knock people off their balance, but a much more effective and less costly approach would simply be to flood the area with water. He also liked the fact that using water spells might make all those hours he’d spent bored out of his mind, swimming in the lake, useful.

As for why she recommended general elements instead of suggesting they pick up specific spells, he knew it had to do with mastery. As stated in his journal, there were two types of mastery, as far as magic was concerned. The first was specific mastery, or mastery over a single spell. The more a mage casted a spell, not only would they improve through normal means, reality itself would grow more used to the mage casting that spell. As that happened, the casting time would reduce drastically and the mana to power ratio would increase. In other words, whenever that mage casted the spell it would be more powerful than if another mage without mastery casted it with the same amount of mana. Although exceedingly rare, it was well documented that it could reach a level known as reflexive mastery, where reality was so comfortable with the mage casting that spell that whenever they went to cast that spell, mana would leave their mana storm and the spell would cast before any runes formed. The mere thought and intention of casting a reflexively mastered spell was enough to cast it in its entirety. In practice, the vast majority of reflexively mastered spells were simple grooming spells like the cleanse spell.

The second type of mastery was known as general mastery, or mastery over a general type of spells, very similar to a proclivity. If a mage used and mastered enough fire spells, they would eventually develop a general mastery for all fire spells as reality grew comfortable with them using fire. The boons of a general mastery were practically the same as a proclivity. When learning spells of that mastery, they’re easier to pick up, have reduced casting times, and have improved mana to power ratio. In fact, general mastery used to be known as an artificial proclivity. However, since then it’s been hypothesized that proclivities are internal magical qualities, while general mastery is external, and are therefore different things. While never documented or even claimed by the most audacious of boasters, theoretically it should be possible that general mastery could reach reflexive mastery.

Eliot observed that the relatively recent discovery of general mastery had compounded with the already heavy emphasis placed on proclivities and mana specialization to create a culture of hyper specialization. The traditional definition of an archmage, a mage having mastered all facets of magic, no longer applied to most modern ‘archmages’ of Eliot’s time. While there were notable outliers—namely Karl Favesh and Celeste Chantelle—for most it was simply easier and more efficient to hyper focus on a few things, usually whatever their proclivities. Afterall, why spend your entire life to hopefully be really good at everything when you could be a master at a few things within a much shorter amount of time. He didn’t scorn them, either. For most mages, hyper specialization was, in fact, the best option. The responsibility of archmagedome lie solely on his and similar geniuses’ shoulders.

When finished with that train of thought, Eliot snapped back to reality and pretended like he’d been listening.

“. . . obviously, you shouldn’t follow my advice to a fault. Do whatever you two think is best for your personal development,” she finished with a sigh.

“Your advice is good,” Eliot assured her, “We appreciate it.”

“Indeed,” Henry helpfully agreed.

“On a loosely related note, what happened?” Eliot asked in concern.

“You’ll have to be more specific. What happened to what?”

“To you,” he clarified, “You’re in a really bad mood.”

Henry shifted, severe enough that it was almost a flinch. Obviously, he hadn’t noticed. Eliot could see why he might have trouble navigating a court of nobles.

Penelope massaged her temples. “Just . . . stuff,” she not-really answered.

“Well, I’m sorry. Or maybe I’m not sorry, maybe I should be telling you to stay strong and that things’ll change. Unfortunately, I’m not sure which condolences to express, or how to help. And we will continue not to know until you tell us,” he admonished sternly.

“It’s nothing you can help with. It’s family stuff, you aren’t involved,” she argued.

“Really?” Eliot queried skeptically. “That sounds like something a few words from the Crown Prince might help with, at least.”

She scoffed, “Believe me, he’s tried.”

Henry grimaced and nodded.

“Oh, so Henry gets an inkling of what’s going on and I don’t?”

“Yes!” she shouted, impassioned. “Unlike you, I can’t tell everything about a person with a glance. You may know me, but I’m still getting to know you. And you certainly aren’t making it easy with the mental warfare you wage simply because you’re bored, Mr. Reileus,” she huffed.

Eliot groaned inwardly. While he wanted to say that he was perfectly aware of the rush and simply chose to play it risky to speed things up, in reality he now realized he’d gotten quite a bit overzealous, automatically jumping to his preferred antics Cel usually took part in. Henry, too, was so amicable that he’d gotten comfortable playing whatever games he’d wanted. Penelope, though, as she was currently doing, had no problem calling him out. In fact, he’d started relying upon that interaction as their basic conversation loop. It was also seeming more and more apparent that there was a good reason she didn’t have friends. Whether it was one of personal doing or trauma, he still couldn’t tell. And until he could, he should have been playing it extra safe.

In his defense, he’d been more genuine with them than with anyone other than Cel. To be fair to Penelope, though, that wasn’t saying much. What did it mean to be genuine, anyway?

That doesn’t matter right now, he mentally shook himself before he could start rationalizing his actions with half-assed philosophy.

So, he let a genuine pang of emotion drive his gaze to the floor and control his next words. “I’m sorry. You’re right. To be well and truly honest, I don’t care for most people. To the point that I started . . . mind games, so I wouldn’t have to deal with them.”

“You manipulated people,” Penelope corrected without impunity.

“Everybody does a little bit, but yeah,” he admitted. Finally lifting his head with a sigh, he said, “The point is: I actually like you guys! I’m trying my best the way I know how. It’s ironic, really. I could tell you with scary accuracy how any given person would react to any given scenario, but I’m not sure I know who I am yet.”

While a perfectly factual and genuine statement, he was still kind of cheating. To him, obviously he didn’t know exactly who he was yet. People were ever changing, and Eliot in particular changed constantly. If he looked at himself in the mirror every day, each day he would be looking at a slightly different person. Not to mention, he was still young, and more prone to change. And really, what did it mean to be genuine, anyway?

Penelope and Henry shifted between a variety of emotions. The subdued reaction had left him completely unprepared when Penelope pulled him into a hug. Now that was a critical effect if he’d ever seen one. Maybe she could relate with at least some aspects of his story on a personal level? The irrational dislike of most people, perhaps? Henry’s reaction was also . . . interesting to say the least. He wouldn’t make assumptions just yet, but he would definitely keep a watchful eye.

When she pulled away, her eyes were faintly glassy, only noticeable because of the early morning sun spilling through their window.

“I’ve never had very many friends, or been too social, either. Clearly, this is hard for both of us, so I don’t see any reason to burn bridges over it. We can start over,” she said softly.

Henry’s reaction to her words basically proved Eliot’s assumption true, but he decided something of that gravity needed extra confirmation.

As far as Penelope was concerned, he flashed her a sunny smile and laughed, “Well that’s your problem right there. Obviously, you’re have an extroverted personality, so you get energy by being with people and get tired out whenever by yourself. And it should be said that being alone doesn’t necessarily mean physical distance from people, you’re alone simply whenever you're without someone that you have an emotional bond with.”

She considered for a long moment before lighting up. “You know, I’ve never heard of that, but that sounds right, I think.”

“Henry, I’d say, has more of an introverted personality,” he motioned to his roommate. If he hadn’t involved him soon, it would just be cruel. He couldn’t imagine the pain of wanting to join a conversation but not knowing how. “Introverts get energy from being alone and being around people wears them out. That doesn’t mean they don’t want to be around some people, in fact it’s usually the opposite. They want to be around people more, but they get exhausted from it. So, we shouldn’t take for granted that he spends his limited energy on us. I’m sure it’s easy to imagine how sharing a dorm with another person would be hard, too.”

“Is that true? But you’re forced to attend so many meetings and social events,” Penelope frowned with sympathy.

Henry shifted anxiously with the spotlight suddenly on him. “Yes . . . I suppose it is. I’ve detested such events for as long as I recall. Though I’d thought it the deplorable company.”

“I’m really sorry,” she expressed, “I can’t imagine how much that sucks.”

Eliot’s lip quirked at that. She knew exactly how much that sucked. They were in opposite but ultimately similar situations.

To his credit, Henry shrugged casually, “It’s my solemn responsibility.”

“Even still,” she insisted, “I’m sorry.”

“In other matters,” Eliot changed the subject, “Recently, I’ve been asking around, thankfully my relative infamy led me to the right people. If all goes well tonight, I’ll have secured us a valuable ally in our crusade against the Serpentine BrotherHood.”

Polly Ofal

The heavy-set, scarred man attracted little attention as he entered the run-down bar. His clearly ostentatious clothing would usually warrant a riot among the clientele, but he’d managed to secure himself as a regular at the dim, dank den. Story went, he started from nothing, like the rest of them, and climbed the latter. But he just couldn’t get used to the fancy liquors and wine of the upper-class. Whenever he wanted a real drink, he’d have to revisit his roots.

Slumping against the bar, he smirked at the genius and execution of the story, like he did every time. The best lies weren’t half-truths, they weren’t lies at all. They were truths with just the right details omitted and kept. It was all true, even his distaste for fancy drink, but if they knew who he was, who he really was, their tone would be a far cry from begrudging tolerance. Like every time, he scoffed mirthfully at the thought.

“I’ll have the scotch,” he told Terry, the bartender, while removing his scarf and overcoat. Many people thought him crazy for wearing heavy clothing during the warmer season, but those people obviously didn’t understand the importance of appearances.

Terry poured him the more-orange-than-usual whisky without the obligatory theatrics. That was the only difference between them, he considered. Terry was sharp and he’d had many late-night conversations with him, to the point that he wondered how much the man suspected who he was. While Terry pursued useless fancies, however, he honed and learned useful skills. On second thought, for Terry to choose that path it was clear who between them was the intellectual superior. They weren’t so similar, afterall.

Polly Ofal raised his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink just yet. He breathed in the caramel and apple aromas tinged with a savory flavor from whatever sawdust Terry added to stretch the supply. He took a sip and balanced the liquid on his tongue, ever so slightly leaning back to indulge in the experience. Most would be enraged that such a thing was put into their drinks. He, though, he knew every bar in the slums added their own version. Finally, he swallowed, a quiet groan escaping him as he was momentarily overwhelmed by the burn. Whatever Terry put in the drinks, no other whisky burned quite like his. Not even imported rum or sake from the Procudo Kingdom, lauded in fiery prestige, burned quite like Terry’s did.

Suddenly, the door screeched open and immediately he knew from the atmosphere shift it was someone important. He growled in protest, taking another sip. It seemed his oh-so-precious, quiet night would be interrupted. He could hardly remember when he’d managed to fit the last one, nor did he have any hopes he’d get another one within the year. Whoever it was had better be worth his time.

Within the intruder’s first few steps, Polly Ofal was certain it was a mage. The old wood didn’t creak from their steps. Either a skilled assassin or a mage, and he had ample reason to doubt the former. His inference was confirmed when the man sat down beside him. Clearly, he was a powerful mage. Over time and experience, he’d learned to roughly identify a mage’s skill based on their cosmetic spells. The man beside him had nearly too many to count, but he wasn’t riddled with them, like most overzealous talents. Each one had careful consideration behind its execution, perfectly achieving the desired appearance: a magically enhanced above average. Beginner mages usually start with too many or too few and with improper application, unerringly growing into a happy medium as they garnered more experience.

Unfortunately, the man was no archmage. While the progression of appearance past powerful mage into archmagedome was entirely unique, once mages achieved a certain level, their presence held an unmistakable gravity to them, despite his mana ignorance. All their spells, including cosmetic, would carry hints of that as well.

The white haired young man—clearly a magical genius—displayed no discomfort over how the entire patronage eyed him.

“Give me two of whatever he’s having,” the young man told Terry, gesturing to his only neighbor. Once humored, the man held one of the glasses up and studied its oddities in the light. “It’s no wonder you feel the urge to keep coming back. I hear their drinks are stimulating,” he whispered in a low tone before downing the drink in one gulp.

Polly Ofal grimaced. So, they put that in, after all. He’d had his suspicions, of course, but he’d gone to great lengths to keep them suspicions. Now, he’d have to burn the place down on principle. He grit his teeth and sipped what would be his last drink at Terry’s. It was worth mentioning that the mage drinking the liquid after confessing his knowledge didn’t imply good intentions. He didn’t believe for a second the mage hadn’t altered the drink with a surreptitious spell, but it was the appearance that counted. The sufficiently surreptitious casting also weighed in favor of his initial assessment.

“Wha’d’you want?” Polly Ofal ground.

“You see, Sir, I was hoping to discuss a mutual friend of ours. The scaled sort.”

Polly Ofal was up before the mage could finish his utterances. The glass shattered in his grip as he subdued and slammed the mage against the bar, holding a broken piece of glass up to his throat.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Completely unperturbed, the mage’s brow raised in mild shock, not at the hostility, at the question. Should he know the mage? If his only call to fame or infamy was in magic circles, he wouldn’t. He left those observations to others.

“Eliot Reileus, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the mage answered calmly, still nonchalantly dangling his glass in one hand, as if his other wasn’t painfully locked behind his back.

Polly Ofal didn’t recognize the name, as expected. Still, the utter arrogance, or perhaps psychotic mania, the man carried unnerved even him.

“What of our friend?”

“Well, we have common goals concerning them. I figure why not cooperate?”

Polly Ofal released the man, after some thought. He rubbed at his missing ear as he sat down. More than anything, he couldn’t stand being in the dark. He needed answers, who was this man? His nerves were more taut than his last confrontation with Beelzebub, and he’d nearly lost the rest of his head, then. Deciding he would help himself to the man’s second drink, he leaned forward and scoffed at the thought. Maybe the recent peace had made him senile. He must be, if any such mage could catch him on the back foot.

He raised the glass to his lips, but froze just before the drink. The mage faced him, leaning on the bar with an amicable grin, a twitch betraying his fight against a larger one. The mage made no moves to stop his possession of the drink, nor did he make any indication he would order another.

Polly Ofal glanced down at the dink still held against his lips. There was no way . . . could he really have . . . ? Without further hesitation, he downed the drink and slammed the glass against the bar with a ferocious grin.

“Wha’d you have in mind?”

The man was dangerous. All the more reason to keep him close.

Eliot

Henry and Penelope jumped to their feet as Eliot returned to the dorm via portal.

“How did it go?”

They awaited his answer anxiously.

Eliot betrayed no negative or positive emotions until spontaneously breaking into smile. “Polly Ofal, Captain of the Everveien Guard, has agreed to support our endeavors!” he announced with jubilation.

They cheered their victory with a glass of cider. According to Penelope, every great victory should be celebrated with cider, preferably the cider her family manufactured, of course. She promised them the best cider in Everveil, and Eliot had no doubt, to her, it was. Unfortunately, his distaste for alcoholic beverages was proved once more, the carbonation only making it worse. Now it hurt through somatosensation and taste. Still, for the sake of his friends, he took consistent sips throughout the night.

The exact form of their cooperation with the guard remained to be seen. Afterall, on top of many factors, the trio hadn’t been tested in battle yet. More accurately, Polly Ofal had promised cooperation if they proved up to the task. He’d given them the location of a drug den the guard had been monitoring. Apparently, he knew it was a Serpentine locale for definite, but couldn’t legally raid it using his authority without more proof. If a few rambunctious mages went in first and started visible fighting with Serpentine members, it was a different matter.

Long after their celebration ended, Penelope departed and Henry fallen asleep, Eliot used the night to work on an important engraving. It was going to be an ambush. He could feel it in his bones. The Serpentine BrotherHood didn’t reach such empirical heights without equal parts audacity and competence to back it up. Whether they glean it from the watching guard’s suspicious movement, or Polly Ofal is loose-lipped enough for the lower echelons of the guard to hear and infiltrators pass along the information. It didn’t matter, it was a set up and he wouldn’t let them be caught unprepared. Or so, he tried.

Eventually, the day of the raid arrived, half a week later. The trio had spent nearly every waking moment practicing and running drills, Eliot compromising for four hours of sleep to work on his engraving. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t figure it out in time. The original idea was for a single-use, guaranteed escape using portals. As he worked on it, it slowly morphed into a variety of designs until settling on a layered metal ball. He even figured that only the outermost layers needed to be single-use, the core layers with the portal spell could be used as many times as he wanted.

He’d even figured out what he had thought would be the most difficult feature with relative ease. The first layers were nothing more than information gathering. Once more taking inspiration from the world around him, after activation the outermost layers would send out pulses of light and sound to determine the position of Eliot and his allies, identified from a few of their unique features. Then, the layers would destroy themselves into a configuration that would tell the core layers where the portals needed to be opened.

The problem lied in the speed of it. Sound and light were fast, magic faster so. With the speed of magic confirmed to be instant, his original design called for literally instant evacuation. But half-way through engraving the core layers, he realized that they would still need to be shepherded into the portals. Annoyingly, the weak mortal body didn’t take to travel at high speed, let alone the speed of magic. By the time he gave up on his design being perfect and settled on a rough telekinetic shove, it was already too late. So, he decided to improvise. If he couldn’t use it on his allies, he’d have to settle on his enemies.

Unfortunately, that left them without a surefire escape. If his intuition was right, he would have to play it by ear.

Early in the morning, the trio were briefed on the building’s prospected layout in a nearby inn by civilian clothed guards. At first appearance the den seemed just another inn, a popular one serving food and drink at its front with stairs leading to a room floor. The room prices, though, were an exorbitant ten gold per night. The inn claims its rooms are of the finest quality with the many amenities and first class services only nobles are usually able to enjoy. It certainly seemed to be true, the inside was lavish and the workers were easy to look at, wearing perpetual smiles.

The clientele and placement of such an inn, was what had originally tipped off the guard. Frequenting the place for food and drink were almost entirely haggardly, poor peasants. Meanwhile, the rooms were booked for months out by wealthy merchants and nobles. While fanciful and expensive for the common folk, the rooms were nothing compared to their kind of wealth and standards. Then, there were the sketchy deliveries and disposal of waste. The amount of product in the shipments didn’t match the amount needed for their average consumption. Instead of usual disposal methods, they had their own private mages incinerate their waste.

Looking it all over, Eliot was relieved to see such obvious evidence. Clearly, it was a drug den, but it put on the face of an honest, high-end establishment with the support of many minor nobles and wealthy individuals. If the guards raided the premises without any damning proof beforehand, there would be a shit storm. The political kind. He could see how frustrating it must be for Polly Ofal and the guard. He did have one doubt, though.

“How can we be sure this has ties to the Serpentine BrotherHood?” he asked their handlers, undercover as a common couple. “Obviously, the Serpentine BrotherHood controls the drug trade in Everveil, but nothing here shows an inkling of their involvement. In fact, from my own forays into the public record, this area has had little to no Serpentine meddling for at least half a decade.”

“We think there might be an underground layer. If they got blades, they’re there. Might be the workers, too. Sometimes, a bunch of wealthies show up on the same day and don’t leave till morning. Can’t tell if it’s gambling or sex slaves just yet.” Ron Londele, the male guard explained.

“Both,” insisted Diane Ilva, his compatriot, “But we haven’t any idea how prominent the place is yet. For all we know, it’s got Zephyrs defendin’ the place.”

The wealthies, as they were called, disguised their features using magic. Depending on how high-profile their real identities were, it could very well be a massive revenue stream, more than a regular drug dun already was. It wasn’t any exaggeration to consider the possibilities that it very well did have Zephyrs as defense.

Eliot had learned, from asking around and information from their new allies, that Zephyrs were what truly separated the Serpentine BrotherHood from all the other underground organizations in the past. Every one was a genius assassin or mage with nigh-demigod level prowess. There were even a few named teams that were said to have faced or directly killed Demigods in the past. Though he should have been reeling from the implications, it served to put into context just how amazing Beelzebub truly was.

“Alright, anything else we should know?”

“Nah,” waved Londele, “We’re suppose’ta let you three take point.”

Eliot turned towards his apprehensive friends with a sunny smile. “Well, it seems we get to decide how to do this. Really, the only choice is: bust in magic at the ready or employ a bit more finesse?”

“Finesse,” Penelope immediately stressed. “We should find how deep that underground layer is and send in Milo, my familiar, with your portals.”

“You have a familiar?” he asked in shock.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “For a while now. He’s usually in my hair,” she said, parting a braid and coaxing a small beetle to her palm.

“Ah, some time has passed since I last noticed him,” Henry said with a smile, petting the bug with a fingertip.

“So . . . why a bug?” Eliot asked, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in his voice. Penelope was a talented mage, it made no sense for her not to bond to something cooler, at least.

“Milo, intimidate,” she ordered, smugly.

The bug leaped at him from her hand, halfway through the air transforming into a striped jungle cat. It slammed him to the ground and meowled in his face, the razor-sharp fangs only eclipsed by the deadly glint in its red eyes.

“Shapeshifter!” Eliot gasped in equal parts pain and awe. “Can it turn into a dragon?”

“Not yet,” she told him, thankfully after ordering Milo back into a bug. “But he grows in power as I do.”

“Alright, espionage it is.”

Eliot sat down and cast a series of miniature portal spells underneath the inn. It only took him four tries to open one in empty space instead of solid earth. In short order, Milo was sent in and Penelope was the one sitting in intense concentration. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes with a blanched complexion.

“There’s no gamlbing, but . . . they have slaves,” she informed them slowly.

“Demihuman?” Ilva asked.

Penelope’s face pulled in disgust, but she nodded. After all, if even the Serpentine BrotherHood dared take full human slaves, things wouldn’t end well for them. Demihumans were expected, though. That’s racism for you.

“What were they doing with them?”

Penelope took a deep breath, hand over her mouth. “I think . . . they’re testing aphrodisiacs on them.”

Eliot frowned in disappointment. He’d hoped their first operation would be less distasteful. But that was humans for you, a deplorable race controlled by their lust.

“We shall put an end to this,” Henry comforted, a white-knuckled grip on his hilt.

“Is there a safe place we can shuttle the Demihumans to?” Eliot asked the room. When no one answered him, he sighed mournfully. “This is gonna suck.” Then, he dropped through a portal.

After a few minutes of confusion, he returned with a map of the Feral Sea. “Seven thousand kilometers, to be safe. UUUUUUUUUUgh,” he whined, knowing how much the next hour or so of his life was going to suck.

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked, though she was already aware. “You can’t! That’s insane, it would kill you!”

“It’s the only place they’ll be safe. Sure, there’s still discrimination, but in the Procudo Kingdom they’re given the same rights as everyone else,” Eliot argued.

“There’s over fifty of them,” she said quietly, “Even you can’t portal them halfway across the world.”

“I managed a portal nearly six thousand kilometers pretty much right after I got my Spiritual Awakening. Since then, my mana storm’s grown by twenty percent and my soul should have strengthened significantly from my constant use of magic. That’s without factoring in specific mastery,” he explained.

All in all, his mana purity had leveled out to what he had before his minor soul damage and his storm had grown twenty percent larger. His exaggerated accruement of mastery had long since dropped the spell’s cost to even less than an SUM for a kilometer distance. Now, he only needed to pay seventy four hundredths of an SUM for each kilometer.

The only reason he balked at the prospect at all was because he would have to open a portal much larger than normal. All of his calculation of cost had been with a given diameter of one hundred ninety-one centimeters, slightly above his height. To fit just over fifty people, he would need to have a diameter of at least ten meters, or one thousand centimeters. Even with all of his testing, the increase to mana cost with the increase of diameter seemed arbitrary. What he did know, however, was that there was a relationship between distance and size. The farther the distance, the much more expensive it would be to increase diameter. On the bright side, he would only need to hold it for slightly less than a second. Thankfully, neither would he have to wait for it to open in its entirety, since it was instantaneous.

“Fine,” Penelope begrudgingly accepted that she wouldn’t be able to dissuade him, “But, why are you doing it now? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after we’ve arrested everyone inside?”

“For one: we might not have to go inside in the first place, if this works. They’ll scramble to figure out what happened and probably do something incriminating. For two: I’d rather they don’t pull the hostage card on us.”

“They don’t see Demihumans as anything other than product, the thought probably wouldn’t even cross their minds,” she disagreed.

Eliot countered, “Against most people, no doubt. But once they see they’re against Penelope Evergreen, well-known, charitable, altruist Chosen who's been very outspoken about Demihuman rights, it becomes a reasonable chance that I’d rather not risk.”

“So you’re going to risk this?” she huffed.

“Absolutely. Like I said, if it works, we probably won’t have to fight, so it won’t matter if I’m debilitated.”

“If you keep this up, you will get soul damage. All the work you’ve done, all the responsibilities you’ve sworn to uphold, and all your magical aspirations will be gone,” she insisted harshly, “You’ll be lucky if you don’t develop sensory issues that send you into a panic attack every time you so much as accidentally stir your mana.”

He locked eyes with her and let a wave of severity wash over him. “I know.”

She sighed and sat down across from him. Using her mana to create imagery, she conscientiously explained the den’s layout. After retrieving Milo and letting his mana fill to its maximum, Eliot sharpened his sensitivity and began the casting.

Casting time usually consisted only of the time needed to shape the runes, as most spells could be powered with physically small amounts of mana. This casting, however, was very similar to his first. Eliot bit his lip and endured nearly an entire minute of funneling his mana into the runes. Also similar to his first, it swiftly took its toll. Almost immediately, sweat gathered on his brow as his breathing came in shorter and shorter pants. Sizzling mana roared from every avenue it could find, warping the light around him as it increased the room’s ambient temperature.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. He increased the physical size of the runes fifty fold and shoved the rest of his storm in all at once. Unfortunately, as he would later learn, time mattered a great deal with mana fatigue. The shorter the interval, the worse it hit. Pain flared all throughout his body and his breath left him as if he was slapped by a dragon. His eyes bulged, his ears popped, expunging copious amounts of blood. Finally, his body fell limp as darkness consumed his vision.

Henry

After Eliot bagan his casting, Henry and Penelope started in shock as Diane Ilva drove a sword through her partner’s stomach, though theirs paled in comparison to Ron Londele’s wide-eyed horror. Without any trace of remorse, she yanked her weapon free and raced toward Eliot. Henry lunged forward, sword first, but in a burst of speed, she parried and smacked his blade to the side. Without slowing, she shoved him to the ground, barreling past. Fortunately, it was enough time for Penelope to finish a spell.

The floorboards between Ilva and Eliot sprouted into a wall of thick bark. She simply braced and smashed into the wood, causing the floorboards acting as its only support to snap, toppling the wall. Luckily, Henry was up and hasted before she could continue forward. Their swords blurred in a back and forth of strikes and parries. Unused to fighting at such fast speed, however, it was only a few seconds until Ilva maneuvered her blade in a circle around his and tore it from his grasp. Penelope covered his short vulnerability by launching a bundle of thorned vines. As she dodged, Henry cast a whip of lightning, both pushing her further back and flinging his sword back towards him.

Snarling in frustration, she stretched out her free hand, prompting a rod of red light to appear. From its tip, she spewed ravenous flames, consuming everything in Henry’s general direction.

“Duck and roll!” Penelope shouted as she hastily protected Eliot with a wall of wind.

Caught completely off-guard, Henry did as he was told. The flames ate at his back and legs, half his body erupting in sweltering pain. It wiped any semblance of a strategy from his mind. With a roar, he braved through the flames and tackled Ilvia to the ground. His magic at the ready, he placed his hand on her chest and shocked her with every bit of mana he could muster in time. Her body seized erratically, foam spilled from her mouth, and most importantly, her heart stopped dead.

Penelope sucked the life out of all the flames in the room, though Henry remained scorched. He could do nothing but breathe through the pain while she dropped to her knees and assessed Londele’s injuries. In a moment of dismay, she realized there was nothing she could do. The wound was too large, too high up, he’d lost too much blood. She grit her teeth, tore herself away, and healed Henry, then darted towards Eliot.

Just regaining his wits, Henry eyed his kill in terror. He’d lied awake many nights wondering how he would inevitably bloody his hands. Imagined the irreversible loss of something deep inside him. But as he caught his breath, relief filled him most. He’d just snuffed a life. Every philosophical principle he held told him it would be a heart breaking, sacrilegious act. Instead, his strength flowed better than it ever had before. He was a royal after all.

Penelope’s hand brushed against his face, sending a tremor through his body. He flinched away from her touch, raising hollow eyes to see she carried Eliot on her back.

“I know, trust me, I know, but we have to run,” she pleaded desperately. “This is an ambush.”

Henry closed Ilva’s eyes and grabbed the Rod of Fire.

“We can’t use the entrance, you’ll have to break through the wall,” Penelope assessed.

He gathered his mana to do just that, but their enemies beat them to it. The wall exploded, peppering them with wooden shrapnel. Luckily, both of their mage armors were strong enough to protect them. The street crowded with black cowled assailants sporting the Serpentine BrotherHood’s crest. Despite the title of blade, clearly they had mages among their ranks, as the street sloped up to their room on the third story.

A storm of arrows loosed immediately before a charge of their melee fighters. Penelope deflected the projectiles with a gust of wind, meanwhile Henry raised the Rod of Fire. Their charge fell over itself in panic; walls of wind, earth, and water raised to defend their forces. Both he and the serpents paused in confusion when nothing happened. Penelope, on the other hand, capitalized by summoning a flood of water, completely washing every combatant down the slope, though efforts were made to divert its flow before it could collect at the bottom.

It gave them enough time for Henry to lift Penelope—as well as Eliot by extension—and take flight. Unfortunately, their hopes of an easy escape were immediately dashed. A barrage of firballes, twisters, scalding bodies of water, luminescent balls of energy, luminescent rays of energy, and everything in between beset upon them from all sides, from attackers hidden on the rooftops. To add insult to injury, they managed to enact a field of low air pressure, asphyxiating them as they entered. With nothing done, they would fall unconscious in very little time.

They would have been dead then and there if Penelope didn’t shield them in a ball of warding green light. Whatever it was winked out as soon as it appeared, but it did its job in protecting them against the unavoidable first strike. With Henry’s modified flight spell and his experience, they weaved untouched through the sky with consummate grace. But the attackers were well prepared.

Once more believing they would escape as they gained distance, they slammed head first into an invisible wall. His mage armor flared to life and immediately shattered, though without its intervention he might have been knocked out of the sky entirely. Panic set in as a disoriented Henry held onto his friends for dear life. Then, a bolt of lightning struck them. Unable to breathe, concussed, and electrocuted, Henry let go. He was only vaguely aware—red and white light encroaching to consume his aching field of view—as a foreign influence pulled him towards a rooftop.

Suddenly, a burst of wind buffeted him, filling his sore lungs with precious air. Penelope, now with wings of green roots sprouting from her back, crashed into him, saving him from the attraction spell’s clutches. Although the mundane physics weren’t in her favor, she flew with almost as much legerity as Henry, and now had Eliot in a cocoon of vines attached to her back. Still dodging attacks, they took in large breathfuls of air before it all succumbed to the low pressure spell, Penelope healing them as they did, then turned to face their adversaries.

Against them, a small army of mages with ranged superiority and ample cover. They were two somewhat above average mages with lowered mana reserves and an unconscious, spent ally. It would be a miracle if they made it out alive. As the Crown Prince, there was no doubt he would be ransomed, but Penelope and Eliot would die here. Henry clenched his fists. No matter what it cost him, he wouldn’t let that happen. He reached for his sword, only to pass through empty space. Looking down, his sword was gone, slipped from its scabbard during the commotion, the rod as well. He’d always ensured his sheathes fit the sword snug to prevent that, but Mark Medici took no such measure.

He laughed bitterly, knowing it was his karmic punishment. Unexpectedly, the barrage of spells slowed to a trickle and the low pressure ceased. Taking flight themselves, nearly twenty mages closed in on them. Many weren’t using the orthodox fly spell, either. Most were carried by concentrated gouts of flame, others skated on the wind, and some even trapped themselves in cyclones. While incapable of touching the regular flight spell’s speed, they provided much more instability and maneuverability.

Penelope grew a flail of keratin and loosed a wave of thorns at their advance. Henry unhooked his scabbard and sheathed it in a current of lightning. While not as deadly, it would be more than sufficient to cause plenty of pain and incapacitation, not to mention it would conduct through metal weapons.

“Have you a strategy?” he asked hopefully as he drifted closer to Penlope.

“Try not to die, hope the guard gets their shit together,” she scoffed brusquely.

As they got within range, she flung her flail, which expanded into a large net. While catching some, most scattered and attacked them from all sides.

“Fly as I do,” Henry advised as he gripped his improvised sword in preparation.

Penelope saw fit to lash them together with vine, a better solution than he could ask for. Before they could be swarmed, Henry rocketed them towards their right. His target accelerating towards them with fire was unable to react as they collided, continuing to smash him into a wall, shattering his mage armor. Henry, having braced himself, jabbed his scabbard underneath the man’s chin, then kicked off after he fell unconscious. The others were more prepared, though.

He dived under a fireball, spun with a cyclone, and attracted a lightning bolt to the metal on his scabbard—the only on his person—before repeating his maneuver. Except, he had to break the mage armor with a few punches since no convenient surface presented itself. Dodging another slew of projectiles, Henry reoriented himself and assessed the situation.

Six down, fifteen more to go, then those still on the rooftop. With their judicious use of magic, some of them had to be nearly low on mana. Penelope released those in her flail rendered unconscious from the harsh inertia of being flung about.

“I’m pretty much out of mana maintaining all of this, even then I only have a few minutes left,” she informed him disquietly.

“It will be enough.”

He dived once more, filled with new conviction. This time, however, a wind glider sweeped in front of him with a braced short sword. Begrudgingly, Henry held his scabbard with two hands and smacked her sword down before it could impale him as they crashed. She’d somehow gotten lightning immunity—or at the least a very strong resistance. Henry attempted to slip past, but she immediately latched on and created bands of stone that bound their forearms. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. No matter how much he yanked and pulled, he couldn’t break free.

A fireball struck them in the side, exploding in a consuming conflagration. His world turned dark. When he regained consciousness a few moments later, he’d hit the ground. The agony of broken bones drilled into his psyche; he groaned a low cry as he forced himself up. Penelope and Eliot landed less than a meter away from him, Penelope’s vines wilting at her unconsciousness.

This was the end. They’d lost. The serpents didn’t even bother with terms of surrender or intimidation. Though he sat up, he was no threat anymore. Dread seeped deep within his soul as he watched them float down to apprehend them.

No. He wouldn’t just let them take him. The least he could do was die at his friends’ side. Steely determination dulled his anguish as he dragged himself to their limp bodies. There had to be something left he could do. He knew Penelope carried all sorts of magical items, along with a few vials of potions. But as he searched her, the most he recognized was shattered glass. He patted Eliot in a frenzy, the shadow of his would-be captors looming.

Hope bloomed as his hand closed over a metal ball covered in engravings. Grinning wearily, he activated the item as a last act of defiance. The ball didn’t so much activate as it came alive. It shot from his hands, soaring high into the sky. All the while, it glowed with the intensity of a miniature sun and emitted sound of all frequencies in a raucous cacophony. Then, it ripped mana from him in droves. The third of his mana storm still available left in seconds. The transfer taxed his meridians so much that he immediately descended into a wracking coughing fit, spewing blood and phlegm. When he managed to lift his head, they were all gone, everyone but the trio. The ball clunked to the ground, reduced to a smoldering husk. It required every ounce of his muddled mind to realize they were forced through portals.

Henry shook with a flighty, quavering laugh. Tears collected in the corner of his eyes as he looked upon Eliot’s slack expression. “Thank the gods,” his voice broke. “Eliot . . . a genius through and through.”

Then, something impacted the ground next to him hard enough to crack the stone. Thick liquid pelted his body in splotches. He turned and immediately vomited. Laying next to him was a smear of gore and bone. Henry looked toward the sky with hollow eyes as bodies splattered around him.