Quinten lunged to his feet. Gripping the cold, unforgiving stone railing before him. He’s too far away for me to stop him at range and too heavy to trust that his clothes, those that remain, will be enough to hold him.

Watching Jed’s boot rise, poised to stomp down on his friend, Quinten made his choice.

Screw the star-blasted consequences.

One sharp breath later, he raised a hand and reached out telekinetically. His gift surging through him as he locked the older boy in place, freezing him mid-stomp. Leaving a dirty, dust caked boot hovering inches above Ronan’s chest.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Students and instructors alike rose to their feet in horror. Being the first to stand, he’d already drawn a few looks. Now, all eyes were on him—the outstretched hand, his fixed gaze, and his breech of a deep taboo.

Instructor Highbridge’s voice cut through the stunned silence, trembling with emotion. “Are you mad!? Release him immediately.”

Quinten ignored the man, his focus still wholly on Jed.

Turning his wrist, he translated the simple motion to metaphysical action. Lifting his shifted captive into the air, Quinten moved him across the field and far away from his friend. Only then did he release him.

Jed staggered as his body returned to his control. Immediately shifting back to his normal appearance, he met Quinten's eyes briefly. Whatever he saw drained the color from his face, and he quickly averted his gaze, trembling.

The dueling field had gone deathly silent. The only sound was Cedric’s feet impacting the ground as he leapt down from the stands and jogged over to check on Ronan. Peering around him, Quinten noticed the stares. A mixture of shock and fear written across their faces.

Not many had seen him work his Mental gift, with it only being pushed to its limits in his sessions with instructor Burns or in his own private training. What he’d just done was on a level that few second-years could hope to replicate. It wasn’t just the increased weight of Jed’s shifted form, it was the distance he’d mentally reached that shook those who understood, to their cores. Seeing him do so in an effort to rob someone of their physical autonomy. A closely held fear by many when it came to those with the Mental gift, other mages included. It was no surprise Quinten's actions had resulted in this type of reaction.

Turning to face Instructor Highbridge’s apoplectic expression—his face crimson, with veins bulging at his temples—Quinten braced himself. The instructor’s voice, a low and venomous hiss from between his clenched teeth, was somehow still loud enough for all to hear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Quinten swallowed, but met the man’s gaze without flinching. Augmenting his own voice, he answered with only a slight hitch in his throat as he felt the weight of all those watching bear down on him. “I stopped a clearly unconscious student from being unnecessarily injured.”

“No!” Highbridge’s voice cracked on the word in indignation, his body trembling. “You violated one of our most sacred principles! Mental control of another person—it’s forbidden! Do you know how many mages have been killed for this?”

Quinten's jaw clenched. Peering around him, he saw an unsympathetic crowd. He knew the Council of Mages guidance on Mental magic. It was one of the first things Elara taught him. But he also knew he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Knowing he’d do it again if given the same choice. His decision settled around him like a warm cloak of integrity and decency.

“That may be,” Quinten replied, his voice steady despite the severity of the accusation. “But I would not have needed to take such drastic measures to protect my fellow student had you called an end to the duel as you should have.”

Excited murmurs swept through the crowd. With Highbridge sneering at Quinten, his chin raised higher than even his nose. Staring down from the overlooking dais as if he were a watered-down version of the king. “This won’t go unanswered. You’ve crossed a line, Mage Ashford, and you will face the consequences.”

*****

The headmistress’s office had a different flavor compared to his last visit. The hard wood floors and paneling used to accent the formed stonework were now taking on an authoritative cast. Supported by centuries of tradition and beliefs, many of them formed due to necessity and fear. A palpable emotion that Quinten could practically taste while he was escorted from the training field.

“I should have you placed under arrest and presented to the Council of Mages for trial.”

Quinten held back a response, observing the room instead. The bookshelves lining the wall remained orderly. A contrast to the avalanche of clutter covering the headmistresses desk. Smudged drafts, a spilled inkpot, and a number of files strewn haphazardly on the wooden surface. One of which contained the letters QVA scrawled across the front.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“A trial for what, headmistress? I have broken no laws lain down by the King.”

Having noticed his perusal of her work area, the silver-haired woman rose to her feet, stepping over to the sideboard. Neither spoke. The telltale sounds of a cork popping and liquid being poured filled the otherwise silent room.

Turning to face him once more, she eyed him, as if considering the best method to prepare him for a meal.

But not for herself, Quinten thought. Her gaze containing none of the heat that would indicate. No, this was a cold, calculative consideration.

She raised the glass of dark liquid to her lips and took a shallow sip.

“….”

Blinking rapidly, Quinten asked. “I’m sorry, headmistress. Could you repeat that?”

Frowning, she looked down at the glass in her hand. The item he’d been unable to look away from and the thing responsible for Quinten's distracted state.

“I said, you may not have broken any kingdom laws, but you have violated one of the pillars of trust the non-gifted look to us to uphold. How can we expect them to feel safe if they fear being controlled against their will by our Gifts?”

Clearing a throat that’d gone inexplicably dry, Quinten replied. “That is beyond me. And I believe, this situation, Headmistress.”

She leaned back against the sideboard, light enough that not a glass rang from touching another. Nodding her head in concession, she admitted. “Possibly, but you are walking a thin line in the use of your Gift. One wrong step could have far-reaching consequences. It may even be considered my duty to report this incident to the Archmage and the Council.”

Drifting gracefully across the office, she sat demurely on a conveniently placed chaise lounge.

“Perhaps…” she said, tapping her lower lip with her glass. Drawing Quinten's gaze to it once more. Lowering her tone charmingly, she continued. “Perhaps—it does not need to come to that. I have certain… influence, you understand. A conversation among my peers could be all that is needed to keep this unfortunate incident from reaching the Council. You’re young, talented, and your future remains wide open. With the right decisions, your actions today do not need to tarnish that.”

Quinten's eyebrow twitched, but otherwise, he made no indication of his thoughts as he considered the words spoken, and more importantly, the ones left unsaid.

Surely she must know Grandfather is back on the Council.

In a bid for time, Quinten faked an exaggerated swallow and asked a question he knew she’d be happy to answer.

“Which decisions would those be?

A subtle smile slowly crept across her face. “With whom you align yourself with, of course.” She said, a tinkling laugh dancing throughout the room.

“A young man of your potential should marry into a family of equal or greater standing. I happen to know a few families who may be amenable to such a union. I’d be happy to make the necessary introductions.” Her eyes were gleaming with excitement, a full-blown smile blooming on her lips.

Quinten couldn’t help feel the implication hanging in the air like the ball of compressed manure they’d set off in Taylor’s room months before.

Processing the blatant extortion, he recognized the out she was offering him. If he agreed to her terms, it was a way to avoid confrontation with the Council. The price being marriage, binding himself and his future to someone of her choosing.

The silence stretched between them. A thick cloying deluge doing its best to wash Quinten away with the current of the headmistress’s ambition, or drown him in his refusal.

Quinten's eyes unintentionally darted to her hand one last time as his thoughts coalesced. Taking in the faceted glass, the finely worked metal banding the cup’s base, and the ornate raven’s head etched into the polished silver.

“An interesting proposition, headmistress,” he said. His voice coming out smooth and easy. Strengthened by his confidence, he was making the right choice.

Thank you for the warning, Grandfather.

“I—can’t help but believe we have differing understandings of the current situation.”

Her smile faltered ever so slightly. A flicker of unease, of uncertainty, flashing across her expression at his change of demeanor.

Sitting up, she asked. “Whatever do you mean?” Her tone noticeably colder than it had been moments earlier.

With precise movements, the first steps since planting himself before the headmistress’s desk. Quinten stalked over to her side of the room and sat down on the edge of an armchair, uninvited.

“My actions, as questionable as they may have been, are rational… explainable, even. I’m confident in the Council’s judgement if this incident was brought before them.” Leaning back in the chair, Quinten took on a thoughtful expression.

“Yes—I’m quite confident. After all, my actions were knowingly in full view of both students and instructors. I stopped a duel that had gone too far and prevented a helpless student from being brutally injured. The inheriting son of a Duke, no less.” He said, holding the gaze of the woman across from him.

Behind her pale green eyes he saw dawning surprise, frustration, and something… else.

Unable to stop the momentum of his speech, Quinten continued. “There was nothing nefarious about my use of magic, and the circumstances of the situation would go a long way to alleviating the fear of the non-gifted were they to learn of today’s events.”

The thoughtful look he’d lost somewhere along the way in his tangent returned, drawing his brows together in concern.

“Perhaps…” he said, pausing in a reflection of her earlier machinations. “Perhaps it would not be in the best interest of the Academy, for this failing of its instructors to become widely known. For the Peerage, who send their children here to learn, to find out that their children are at risk.”

The headmistress didn’t speak immediately. She just continued to watch him as she swirled the remnants of her drink around its glass confines.

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mage Ashford.” She said in a cold and empty voice that scared Quinten far more than if she’d lost her composure in anger.

A small shiver worked its way up Quinten's spine, starting in his left calf.

“It takes courage to stand behind the truth, headmistress—A lesson my father taught me.”

Another long silence passed as they held each other’s gaze.

Rising to her feet, she said. “Well played. I suppose we will leave it at that—for now. Do not think that this will simply disappear, Mage Ashford. Actions have consequences.”

There are always consequences, Quinten thought.

With a flick of her hand, the door to her office swung open. Revealing, the two instructors crouched against them, doing their best to listen in.

“He’s free to go. This morning’s duels are over and the students have likely already broken for lunch.” Turning to Quinten, she said, “Do be careful, Mage Ashford. One never knows when a consequence will decide to take its due.”