Show less

The air was heavy. It tasked his breathing and slowed his charge. He felt death reia gather at his hand with every intention of crippling his brother. He would get a warning at best, but it would be worth it. No Iron should disrespect a silver as much as his brother had disrespected.

So he charged forth. Even as his brother moved from where he stood, blurring away from his vision, he did not stop. He would teach his brother a lesson. Only then would he be satisfied.

So as Seth slowed beside him and swung his shortsword, Forlorn dropped a palm, swamp green with death reia on him. He would take the cut. Knowing his brother was always one for reason, he would pull his blow. However, he was a mage of power willing to sacrifice much to achieve his goals.

Then the reia around him shifted. Off to his side it coalesced into what seemed like a blade. He had only enough time to know he would not be dodging it.

Worse, it was aimed at his neck.

Even if his hand met Seth first, even if he somehow halted Seth’s attack, there would be no stopping the blade aimed at his neck.

He’d been wrong about one thing. Seth had no intentions of pulling his punches.

…………………………………..

Seth’s grip on his sword tightened. The world blurred around him as he closed the distance between him and his brother in a single leap. [Heart of Winter] had activated on its own, unbidden and unbeckoned. It begged a lot of questions, none of which it allowed to cloud his judgement.

For the sake of not breaking any of the seminary’s rules, he needed to pull his punches. He did not expect the same logic from Forlorn, though. But he was not Forlorn. He was more reasonable. And in this moment, he was more clear headed, more logical. This was why he knew he could not pull his punches against a Silver mage with a touch capable of killing him.

He came to a stop beside his brother and swung his blade with the full force of raging beast. Finesse and grace were innate in all who learned the way of the sword. As cruel as Igor was, they were qualities he’d managed to guide them into imbuing in the way they used the sword. But today he was that child who’d been given a tachi too large to swing at a tree too strong.

Finesse and grace belonged to the seminary. In this moment he was violence and power. He was wrath.

He watched Forlorn’s reia imbued hand descend on him as his sword strike surged forward. In his periphery he felt the reia around him, natural and intimate gather. He had used this skill enough times to know how to control it and he did so with the same lethality he used against monsters. He gathered the reia a good distance from his brother’s neck and willed it to physical form. It was a beautiful arc of pale blue aimed at his brother’s neck like a reaper’s unblemished scythe.

Even if his brother stopped him, brought him death with a single touch, he would claim his brother with another blade. There was no stopping him.

His shortsword reached his brother’s side and his brother’s hand descended on his shoulder. Then everything came to a halt.

Igor caught his blade in a casual hand and took Forlorn by the wrist before it touched Seth’s shoulder. Seth’s reia blade shattered harmlessly against Igor’s back and his domain shattered under the weight of Igor’s unleashed reia.

Everyone froze in the training hall froze and Igor shrouded his core back, drawing the weight of his reia from the world. He turned deep black eyes on them.

“That should be enough,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”

[Heart of Winter] held Seth’s mind in a strong enough hold that he knew any sense of defiance that threatened to arise in him was pointless. The Baron standing before him was not one to be defied.

Then his attention moved to Forlorn, and while Forlorn had a scowl on his face, an uncomfortable frown that seemed intended for himself, there was a touch of a smirk. Seth saw it and knew the battle was not over.

He saw the reason a moment too late.

Green reia had pooled at Forlorn’s palm as if the boy had dipped it in green paint and a droplet fell from it. Seth pulled his arm back to avoid it. In the hold of a Baron his sword did not budge. His mind did not hesitate to release the weapon, but it had delayed him a moment too long.

As the droplet fell through the air, he had only enough time to curse the teachings of the seminary that taught him to never let go of his weapon before it splashed against his cassock. It soaked through the cloth, eroding it so that the threads came loose and stained his skin.

Pain erupted from his shoulder like an avalanche of fire. It burned his skin and he crumpled under the weight of it.

He heard himself scream like a dying banshee before he passed out. Unconscious, pain continued to play with his mind.

………………………………………………..

Seated in the Monsignor’s office, Igor kept his face as passive as he could muster. A single slip up had landed him here. But being here wasn’t what annoyed him, neither was the reason he was here. What annoyed him was the mild trembling he continued to fight. The fear instilled in him since the first day he’d stepped into the seminary.

He was a Baron now, and a Reverend at that. He had no reason to be scared. Yet, he was.

As a seminarian he’d only been in this office twice. Once was when Joel, a group member of his peers, had assaulted Ivan and he’d been forced to break one of the wooden practice swords with the boy’s head. It was still a thought that brought a smile to his lips but the thought of Joel was saddening. The boy had gone off for his pastoral year at Iron, only to be eaten alive by a gold beast. How it had happened remained a mystery that was never solved.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The second time was when he’d evolved to gold a year before his ordination. Monsignor Faust had summoned him to inform him that he was going to spend his final year patrolling the seminary walls under the command of Reverend Musty. It had been a terrible year for him.

As a priest he’d been here two times as well. The first was to be informed he was being stationed somewhere in the east of what had once been the continent Asia. And the second was on his redeployment from Asia, when the Monsignor had informed him that he was to learn the secrets to Barony, take a soul oath to keep that secrecy, and become an instructor of the seminary.

Now he was here, it would be his third time.

However, this third time was different. Today, Monsignor Faust was not alone. Beside him, like guardian angels ready to execute judgement were runemaster John and Baron Ulrich. They stood in their black cassocks while John asked the questions.

“I still fail to understand your reasoning,” John said. “You interrupted the spar for the safety of Forlorn.”

Igor nodded once. “That is correct.”

In front of him, seated on the desk stacked with scrolls and communication orbs only the seminary knew how to use, to the best of his knowledge, was Monsignor Faust.

Today the man was clad in a hooded cassock, and he drew the hood high over his head so that his face beneath it was shrouded in darkness. Even the blue light from the orbs on the walls did nothing to shed light on his face.

He still remembered when the man had once worn his simple cassock. Then he’d begun wearing a turtle neck for reasons Igor could not understand. As a Baron he was no longer susceptible to the weather. Cold and hot were nothing but words to him if they were not imbued with strong enough reia.

After a while he’d slowly ceased his occasional wandering of the seminary grounds. After a while, his existence slowly became ghost-like in the seminary. He’d heard there was a growing rumor amongst the new students that the Monsignor was a myth. A persona crafted, propped up by the seminary for one purpose or the other. In another rumor he was a chimera, a hybrid experiment of the seminary’s will to create the perfect soul mage. A mix between a powerful soul beast and a mage.

Children were allowed their stories. And he didn’t blame them for having them.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Ulrich said. “Forlorn is Silver.”

“That is correct,” Igor answered.

“And Seth is Iron.”

“Also correct.”

“Yet you interfered to save Forlorn—not Seth—from harm.”

“Also correct.”

“Even though Forlorn’s convergent skill is closely related to death reia,” John said.

“Correct.”

He wasn’t surprised none of them believed him. They hadn’t been there. They hadn’t seen what he had seen. Seth had been more determined than Forlorn in that single moment. For what he knew, Forlorn would not have survived that clash. Seth might have died, but Forlorn’s demise was certain.

John sighed but went on. “Eye witness testimony says that even after a number of skilled attacks that could’ve killed the Iron mage, you did nothing to step in. You did nothing to halt the spar as you should’ve. In fact, it was your duty to halt it and punish Forlorn for each lethal skill.”

“All Forlorn’s skills are lethal,” he answered. “The boy does not have a skill not designed to kill.”

“And knowing this, you allowed the boy spar.”

“Yes. It is how we strengthen our students. If he is not allowed to spar with his skills, how is he to learn to fight while using them?”

“You could’ve set him aside. Given him the treatment Timilehin is given.”

Igor shook his head. “Timilehin is different. He spars with me because it is necessary for the safety of his brothers and his continued growth.”

“And Seth’s safety is not important?”

Igor clenched his teeth behind an impassive façade. These were the same men who had instructed he make life difficult for Seth when he had first stepped into the seminary. These were men who’d gone out of their way to give instructions to every instructor so that life was made difficult for the boy. Now here they were, accusing him of the very same thing they instructed him to do all those years ago. Accusing him of the crime of allowing the boy suffer.

It would surprise them greatly to know he did it all for the sake of the boy. But he would not tell them that, they would not understand.

Seth had gone on his pastoral year and returned an Iron where his brothers had returned as Silvers. They were no longer his equal. Such a thing does terrible things to the mind. He could no longer stand on equal footing with his brothers. He could no longer challenge them in playful banter, knowing if things went too far they could kill him.

The reason he’d allowed the spar continue was because he needed Seth to truly understand this. Amongst his brothers he needed to remain alert, to remain on his toes. A single slip up would end his life. With skills that did little in the way of facing stronger foes he had to learn not to depend on luck. In his fight with Forlorn that was all he’d depended on.

Each time his brother struck at him he’d defended and avoided, surviving on nothing but luck. Each time he struck back it was a struggle. Each time he managed to find the opportunity to swing his sword, he struggled. Igor wanted him to learn to be resourceful. He sparred in the presence of other people commanded only to go against their sparring partners. He could’ve led Forlorn into the chaos of other fighters, confused him with the presence of more swinging swords.

Forlorn was a lot of things but smart was not one of them. Enough distractions would bring his downfall.

If that failed, he could’ve at least tried goading the boy. As risky as it was for an Iron to bring a Silver to anger, it was a logical decision. Anger would’ve blinded the boy’s judgement. Left him open to mistakes. Mistakes Seth could’ve capitalized on. Instead, he let the oaf of a boy goad him, taunt him.

It was pitiable.

So he had struggled through most of the fight. Luck had pulled him to last as long as he had. Then again…

Had it truly been luck. There was no doubt luck had played a part in it all. But the boy had struggled more than he had been lucky. And each time he struggled there was always a touch of result, always the faintest wisp of reward for his struggle. It was as though each struggle made the next easier. If he was being honest, it was part of the reason he had allowed the spar go on. At some point he’d even had the upper hand, struggling forward. Putting his stronger brother on the defensive. It had gone on a while until his brother was forced to activate a skill just to escape.

An Iron had put a Silver on the back foot.

He looked at his interrogators and repeated himself. “I stepped in to save the seminary from losing a seminarian in training.”

“The Silver authority seminarian,” John said. “Not the Iron.”

“Yes.”

For the first time since Igor entered the room, the Monsignor spoke. “You should’ve stopped the fight earlier,” he said, rising sluggishly from his seat. There was something worryingly old about the action. “You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long. Because of it, we have a seminarian whose hand is rotting. If Kyle is unable to do anything about it, he may well lose the arm.”

Something about the way Faust said it was wrong. There was a touch of fear in his words even if absent in his voice. It was the sound of a man who had just witnessed something he should’ve avoided. A man who was terrified of what had happened and feared the consequences of it.

As Faust walked to the exit and took the handle of his door in his hand, Igor wondered if he was merely imagining things, impressing his fear of the consequences of his slip up into the Monsignor’s words.

“Where are you going, Monsignor?” Ulrich asked cautiously.

“Somewhere,” Faust said, then opened the door.

“And what is to be the verdict of this?” John asked, gesturing at Igor as if he was a child.

Faust shrugged. “Do with him whatever you will. You have my complete support.”

Then he closed the door behind him and was gone. Rushed off to a place no one knew.