Quinten tilted his head and raised a hand, putting their attempts to improve Cedric’s ability to use his Gifts under suppression to an end. As uncomfortable as the feeling may have been, it was turning out to be an incredible training tool. After the second day, Cedric’s boredom reached a point he was willing to try to break through the irritating feeling, something that only got worse the more you pushed against it. It took what they guessed to be the third day in its entirety for him to get his first success. The bowels of the palace dungeons not having a convenient window available to track the passage of time.

The stomping of heavy soled boots had reached Quinten's ears first. He’d taken to running a small bit of energy to them at all times over the last week in an effort to take in every bit of information regarding their current situation as they could. What he learned was far from fully detailed, only piecing together snippets of conversation between the guards when they believed they were far enough away to go unheard. That, and what they liked to “let slip” when checking on their prisoners.

It was never anything that left the pair with the warmth of hope burning in their gut.

Rolling to his feet. Quinten turned to face the stairwell leading down to the noble cells. He hadn’t known he could hate someone without a face to hold in his mind, but the black leather masks with openings for a pair of eyes, nose, and mouth proved otherwise.

He and Cedric learned quickly to be prepared for the underhanded ways the faceless men would try to force them to err, providing just cause to hold back a meal or justification to refuse taking away a filled pot.

Hidden behind a veil of anonymity, Quinten assumed it was to allow their jailers to be swapped out at random and prevent prisoners from targeting any of the guards, in particular for bribery or blackmail. But the reverse was also true. Those same protections gave Cedric and Quinten no one to attribute their abuse and harassment to.

At least they can’t torture us, not yet anyway.

Quinten was wearing nothing but his small clothes, having removed and folded his formal robes when it became clear they wouldn’t be released anytime soon. He placed them in the center of his cell—as far away from the bars as he could manage—a lesson learned on the third day when a tormentor tried to soil them with his waste-filled pot after Quinten refused to acknowledge their attempts at provocation.

The heavy treads continued to draw closer. Based on the number of approaching bodies, this was a break in the routine of the last week.

Casting a look back at the pile, Quinten considered rushing to put them on. But if this was indeed someone coming for them, the petty part of himself was screaming for a victory, even one as small as making whoever was coming wait while he dressed.

To Quinten's shock—and great relief—his grandfather was the first one to exit the stairwell. He moved forward in a rush. His face growing murderous as he took in their conditions.

Gripping the bars of Quinten's cell, his voice low and scratchy, he forced out, “Curse the darkened stars.”

Placing his palms on the older man’s hands, Quinten put his forehead against the cold steel between them. The feeling of suppression squeezing tighter with direct contact, a sensation he knew his grandfather could feel as well.

“What’s going on? Are we being released?”

Grandfather shifted away, releasing the bars with a slight shiver, shaking out his hands as if attempting to work back the feeling. “I don’t know, son. You’ve been summoned to meet with the king—I’ve pulled down every star I’m owed, promised a few on your behalf, and I’m still not sure how this will unfold.”

A dozen men and half again, as many Core mages entered the floor while they’d been speaking. Quinten looked up and met each pair of eyes, one by one, trying to glean all that he could from their expressions. He was met by a majority of professional and cautious looks from the guards. Those that weren’t matched the anxiety and fear he could see in their gazes.

Shaking his head, Quinten focused as the guard sergeant stepped forward. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Would you mind getting dressed, my lord? I don’t think it would be appropriate parading you through the palace in this state.”

Quinten eyed the man. He was in his early to mid-thirties and clean shaven, but his helmet hid much, and other than the blank professional stare of someone used to dealing with nobles, Quinten could read little.

Instead of doing as requested, he asked a question of his own. “Will you be taking us somewhere we can bathe?” Lifting an arm, he sniffed loudly and said, “We stink.”

Dipping his head slightly, the man grimaced. “I’m sorry, my lord. Our orders are to take you straight to the king.”

“Fine.” Quinten said with a sigh, “Can you at least open the gate so I can give us a rins—?”

“No magic,” commanded one of the Core mages, catching the three of them by surprise. Shifting his gaze, Quinten saw that the mage corporal, based on her stitched rank, was the one to issue the order.

Grandfather spun, demanding, “Excuse me?”

Quinten had to give her credit. She remained unintimidated as she returned his glare with one of her own. “If either of them uses magic, we are supposed to see it as a threat and respond accordingly. Those are our orders, given directly from the Archmage.”

“Then I’ll do it, stars above, this is ridicu—”

“You can’t, Councilman.” The mage corporal interrupted once more. “I’m sorry, but you are here just as an observer. That is the deal you made to be allowed to accompany us.”

He interrupted before his grandfather could argue further. “Forget it. Let’s just get this over with.”

*****

Quinten heard the sounds of others, likely palace staff, bustling about for the first time in over a week. It was such a mundane sound, and it shocked him how much he’d missed something he’d never even considered previously.

At some point, it became clear they were being led somewhere other than the Grand Hall, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad development. But after having already been in the dungeons for the past week, wherever they were going was likely better than where he’d been.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Their escort stopped before a pair of doors, finely made and heavily constructed. They were accented with silver, with the crowned star of the royal family’s sigil transmuted into the center of each door. A pair of guards pushed them open, revealing an audience chamber that currently stood empty.

The mid-sized room, designed for more intimate or sensitive gatherings, showed its grandeur, not through size and scale as the Grand Hall, but through its pinnings. Frescoes of grand feats of magic adorned the arched ceiling. Large wooden beams accented the room with glowing gems embedded into the wood, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that resulted in a warm light bathing everything within.

Quinten, Cedric, and his grandfather were ushered inside. Their guards and the Core mages spreading out to cover the space in its entirety. They waited, the quiet of the formerly empty room and their anxiety somehow overpowering the hall’s intended construction, bringing forth the chill of a trespassed tomb, its eternal peace disrupted.

Cedric was the first to break. Leaning over, he asked in as soft a voice as he could manage, “Do you know what’s been going on? They wouldn’t tell us anything, just utter nonsense. Surely the Gentry and common-folk aren’t calling for our heads.”

Grandfather’s head whipped around, a look of confusion running rampant. “Starfire. Who’s calling for your heads? If anything, it’s the opposite.”

That released some of the tightness in Quinten's chest. The drooping in Cedric's shoulders as he let out a breath of relief said he felt the same.

His grandfather’s gaze swept the room. “I wouldn’t relax just yet. The fact that we were brought here instead of a public audience has me nervous. I can’t help but feel that none of us are going to enjoy what follows.”

Lapsing into silence, they waited for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than half of one. Each lost to their own thoughts and fears.

Quinten jerked slightly when the sounds of people approaching reached him. His reaction did not go unnoticed as he saw the mage corporal shift, staring at him with an intensity that made him nervous.

Forcing their hand because I forgot I was boosting my ears is the last thing I need.

Neither she nor the other Core mages wore a helmet. Allowing Quinten an unobstructed view of her face. She too appeared to be in her early-thirties and was a boar of a woman. Wide shoulders that stretched her brown robes with an upturned nose and narrow black eyes to match.

Maintaining eye contact, he held his breath when the heavy doors swung open, wondering if she would accuse him of using his Gift. Several long moments passed and when it became clear that she wasn’t likely to say anything, Quinten released the air through his nose slowly as he refocused on the people entering the room.

The King and Queen swept in first, the Archmage following closely on their heels with over half-a-dozen additional mages in the purple robes of Council members filing in behind.

With Grandfather here, they have the entire Council of Mages in attendance. Stars above, what is going on?

While the royals took their seats overlooking the room, Quinten used the time to assess each of the mages standing behind the Archmage. He’d asked his grandfather about them out of curiosity in the past, but this was his first time seeing any of them in person.

The Council of Mages, headed by the Archmage, was made up of eight seats, each assigned a different role based on their abilities and the needs of the kingdom.

The first to catch his eye was, if not the most well-known, easily the most loved. Selena Hartwin, the Master of Healing and leader of the realm's Healers stood out as a contrast. She looked every bit her fifty years, refusing to use her Gift to turn back the clock and remain looking young. She’d been asked about it once, and only once, late in her service to the Core and her scathing answer of, “What does a wrinkle matter when men are dying?” Had made her famous. The agonized cries of the men in the make-shift infirmary in the background and the blood dripping from her hands as she stared at the unfortunate young noble, stupid enough to ask, instantly won over the common-folk as the story spread. Their support had likely placed her in her current position when the previous Master of Healing stepped down.

Next, and Quinten couldn’t help notice the similarities in stance and mannerism if not in looks, between her and the Mage Corporal, was the Master of the Core, Petra Vextris. She had short cropped hair and a no nonsense expression. Her flat gray eyes swept over him, measuring him like a carpenter eyeing a piece of wood for its worth as a wedge. He fought the urge to shrink beneath her iron gaze.

The rest flew by with less presence. Maris Arvani, leader of the Mage’s Council, bookish and unconcerned with anything but the exploration and study of magic if the rumors were to be believed.

Hortensia Ironwright, Master Mediator, head adjudicator and overseer of mage affairs throughout the kingdom. Stiff and unyielding were the most common words used to describe the woman. Looking at her ram-rod straight posture, hands clasped behind her back, Quinten could see why that might be the case.

The married pair of Master of Coin and Master Administrator included the only male other than Quinten's grandfather on the Council. They were nondescript and, if what Grandfather told him was the truth, Althea Greve controlled a significant amount of power through coin within the realm, just as she controlled her husband, Elias.

Quinten almost missed the final purple-robed figure, somehow managing to fade into the back even with him counting and knowing how many had followed the king and queen into the room.

It was for this reason that Quinten feared her the most. Reven. He wasn’t sure if it was a title or an assumed name, but it was the only one ever used regarding the cowled councilwoman. The chin of her infamous white mask was the only thing visible through the depths of her hood.

She’d frightened—and morbidly fascinated him the first time his grandfather mentioned the Spy Master. The head of the realm’s intelligence network, she worked independently and reported directly to the King and Archmage. The pair being the only two to know her identity. Her office supplied information to the Ministers of Interior, Exterior, as well as the Office of Inquisition at Reven’s discretion.

Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and just knowing that she was aware of his existence made a bead of cold sweat run down his spine. The layers of dress robes he wore doing nothing to ward off the chill of that realization.

Quinten quickly turned his gaze to where it should be. On the person who would decide his fate today, not the reaper coming to end him in some potential future.

The king stared down at him, his face impassive. He leaned on the arm of one chair with his elbow, his hand cupping his chin. The scratching of his stylishly cropped beard scraping against his palm was obscenely loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Earl Ashford, Lord Vaelmara,” the king began. “Your actions, and the choices you made at the Mid-year Ball, have kicked over a hornet's nest.” His tone was calm, with only the barest trace of irritation hidden within.

Quinten would have loved to know what the man was feeling but with the number of mages in the room, and his inability to repeat his experience sensing the emotions of others, it was only a passing wish, a star shooting across the night’s sky.

“We confirmed your claims with the Infirmary. Lord Hastings did indeed deliver a student of the Academy to them just before your duel with Viscount Highbridge began.” The king said, placing special emphasis on the word.

Ahh. Quinten thought. They are calling it a duel?

It made sense, sanctioning their fight as a duel. The solution neatly sidestepped their inability to prove who threw the first punch and they could gloss over the details of who challenged who, easily enough. A silver lining was the fact that the king referred to Highbridge by his title instead of as Instructor, gave Quinten some hope.

“That being said…”

The man let his words hang over the room. Each of its occupants had their attention directed wholly toward the pair standing at the room’s center. Their collective gazes made each breath a struggle as Quinten felt the burn at the back of his throat.

This is bullshit. I did what was right by Mage Beaumont and all those who came before her. This is the result?

Quinten latched on to that anger. Squeezing it tight, he pulled the flame down deep and gave it a home sheltered from the gusting wind of injustice raging around him.

Lifting his chin, Quinten rolled his shoulders and stood firm against the metaphysical gale. His steady hazel eyes locked with the king’s, unashamed of his actions. Time seemed to stretch, and the storm swelled in intensity as the tension in the room became charged. The hair in Quinten's nose tingled as the sharp promise of a lightning storm built for its first strike.

Diving back into his core, he cupped his hands protectively around the ball of burning anger, and did the only thing he could.

He braced for nature’s fury.