Fyron

There was no noise from the blast, just whirling chaos and a gentle hush like shifting sands. The main market street just a few meters away probably wouldn’t notice anything unless they got on a broom and flew overhead, but Fyron had taken measures to avoid interruptions. The wards, if they still even were classed as such, were only perceptible by the slight shimmer in the air that you would only notice if you paid attention to the stars or the pieces of the moon. Nothing the Three could detect right now, anyway.

Tonight was important. It was vital there were no interruptions.

From his spot near the edge of the blast radius, Fyron could see everything. He needn’t have come in person, but there was something sentimental about being here in person with his students as they go through this ordeal. They couldn’t know he was there of course, and young Medea was so perceptive even while intoxicated that he had to triple check his shroud to confirm he was still imperceptible while she scanned the area for the rest of the attackers.

He had almost intervened when he learned of Miko Alabaster’s plot to take Medea out before the finals, especially so when he realised that Wyll and Arryn would be wrapped up in it too, but then he recalled his first real taste of True Magic, and how unpleasant that was for him as well. At least this time their mentor was watching over the events to make sure that it didn’t get too out of hand. No, tonight went fairly swimmingly with only a few little snags.

The blast zone below him was a perfect circle, the buildings carved out with an interior lined with black glass that still glowed faintly orange with heat and crackled with arcs of lightning. The center of the radius was the exact spot where Wyll was standing, which was remarkably untouched. Fyron noted a piece of wet newspaper underneath Wyll’s unconscious form that wasn’t even ruffled by the maelstrom around it. Gently falling around the area was a faint red mist that coalesced on the glass and trickled in streams towards Wyll, pooling around him. The remains of Alabaster’s thugs, presumably. As the crimson liquid pooled around his mouth, Wyll started to cough and splutter. Fyron would have to get him out of here soon to mitigate the emotional fallout.

There was only one other part of the radius untouched by the working - another perfect circle, but this time around his other two students. They were piled in a heap, with Arryn protecting Medea with his body. Another surprise from the night. It was clear as day that Medea would end up a telekine, though he was impressed with her strength and flexibility with it. Arryn, however, didn't see it coming. He knew he harboured doubts on his capabilities to do magic at all, but to be able to instinctively deny all effects of magic entirely? A dangerous gift, if he used it right.

Unfortunately that meant that even Fyron would struggle to get them out of there. Even while unconscious, Arryn was maintaining a very small zone of antimagic around him and Medea. He could see the blood that trickled towards the center in streams now was curving around the pair, and the falling mist parted in the air showing visually the small dome around them. Experimentally, he tried to send them back home, but the spell didn’t even come close to connecting. Fascinating.

Wyll however, was now trying to sit up to cough out the mouthful of blood he’d accumulated. He’d push far too far, too soon, and was surely suffering the worst of mana sickness and mental distortions right now. He would need to be quarantined for a while. Fyron went to send him away, and noticed something strange. Though Wyll certainly had the dazed and confused look of someone who let the Universe completely dictate the outcome of a spell (to great effect, Fyron had to admit), he didn’t display any signs of his mana reserves being overtaxed. His skin wasn’t pale, his hands weren’t shaking, and although he looked dazed he didn’t look like he had much issue with pushing himself up to look around.

Fyron was sure when he chose his students they all had middling natural mana reserves, and for a spell like Wyll’s… Fyron used a quick spell to scan the environment, and saw mana in only one place: Wyll. Arryn created a void in Fyron’s perception, but it was clear that in the process of casting his spell, Wyll had used up every possible source of mana in the vicinity. There wasn’t so much of a wisp in the air, besides what had started to diffuse back in. Even the blood was lifeless, devoid of magic. Did he draw mana out of the assailants in the casting of his spell? He hadn’t even been taught that yet. Clever lad.

Medea was beginning to stir now too, wincing in pain as she tried to push Arryn off her and seemed to remember her gauntlets had been destroyed. Wyll still looked like he hadn’t grasped his situation yet, so Fyron quickly teleported him to the house in Gottlan. He’d be safe there. Better than that, there wasn’t another soul for miles just in case the mental strain was worse than he thought. Unable to help Arryn and Medea, he simply sat and watched them for a while.

It took another few minutes of wriggling, shouting, and kneeing Arryn in the side for Medea to wake him up. As he did it was like a bubble popped around him and the mist in the air, now far thinner, sprayed them in red. They both sat up spitting and wiping their eyes. Fyron couldn’t hear them talking from up here. He could, if he chose to, but he liked to respect his student’s privacy where possible. After a few tense words between the two below him, Medea tried to stand up and yelled in pain from her wounded leg. Arryn bent down and picked her up, and they left as quickly as they could towards Medea’s home. Fyron let them leave, taking down the wards before they passed through them.

In a while, someone on the main street would see the two, wounded, blood coated individuals and let the Peacekeepers know, but they didn’t have far to go.

A woman’s voice spoke from behind Fyron. “So, these are your students?”

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Fyron turned to smile at Sasha. Her dark green hair blew in the wind, tied back with a headscarf, getting caught on the large curved sword strapped to her back and tangled in the ribbons tied to the handle. Her thumbs were hooked around the twin daggers at her belt, and her multitude of silver piercings glinted in the moonlights as she surveyed the scene with a grim expression.

“Indeed they are. Making huge progress, wouldn’t you say?” Fyron pulled out his favourite pipe, and then a second one which he offered to Sasha. She took it, and sat on the edge of the rooftop next to him. He went to light them before realising that she already had without him noticing.

Sasha took a long, thoughtful draw of her pipe. “I’m a bit concerned that you’re moving things too quickly. The DAA are playing nice as long as we do, but something like this? Might accelerate things.”

Fyron gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Worry not, I have a feeling our friends at Brimstone might actually help our case here.”

Sasha spat. “Psh, Brimstone. When have they ever been good for something?”

“Well, rumor has it they’ll be making a move against Olivia soon. That’s not an opportunity we can waste.”

Fyron nodded down towards the street level. Two Peacekeepers were there, in their shiny glowing armour. Fyron wondered if in another life he would be standing there now instead of sitting up here. He and Sasha watched in silence, smoking their pipes, as dozens of peacekeepers descended on the area. They blocked off the streets three blocks in every direction, and broom mounted peacekeepers patrolled the skies. None of which were able to spot the two Wild Mages sat right under their noses.

Sasha nodded towards someone making their way through the blockade. “There’s something interesting…”

The woman walked with authority and purpose, her wavy hair tied in a tight ponytail that bobbed as she shouted orders to the Peacekeepers, who cringed and quickly moved out of her way. Her black and orange uniform was pristine, and she wielded a pen and clipboard like a sword and shield. Samantha Darter. Wyll’s sister. That complicated things.

Fyron had known that Wyll’s entire family was related to Brimstone. He had wanted a student from each of the Big Three, that was one of his criteria for picking them. He had however neglected to do much research into what exactly they did. He knew his father had made his fortune raiding Elven Artifact vaults, and his mother was a renowned socialite in the city’s upper class, but he hadn’t looked into Samantha. A rare mistake.

The way that she was bossing around the Peacekeepers, she must be fairly high up the ladder for someone in their mid-20s. The Peacekeepers weren’t officially beholden to Brimstone, but considering their funding, training, equipment, and recruitment was dependent on them they may as well be. Each Peacekeeper knew that it would take one message from someone up in the ranks at Brimstone to end their whole career. No fancy enchantments on your platemail can protect you from that.

Samantha stopped at the edge of the blast radius, where the stone floor of the street sloped down into black glass. She put on a set of gaudy spectacles that flashed with different kinds of mana, and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before inspecting the scene. For each observation she scribbled something furiously down on her clipboard, and eventually was brave enough to start making her way inside the radius. She spent the most time writing while looking at the two untouched islands in the destruction where Fyron’s students had been, and after a while rushed back out the way she came while pulling out some kind of device to send a message.

Fyron may respect his students' privacy, but that didn’t extend to their families. Especially not when they were apparently Brimstone executives. He linked the mana in the device to his own hearing, waving away the various anti-listening wards, alarm glyphs, and misleading elements meant to throw him off. As a courtesy, he went to let Sasha listen before realising she’d already done the same.

“Mister Grey. It’s Samantha.” she said.

“Who?” replied a gruff man’s voice. Polas Grey - Fyron would recognise that voice anywhere.

“..Your assistant, ser. You gave me this secure line and asked me to check in on the incident near the upper-west side branch.”

“Yes, of course. What do you have to report?”

“Well, it’s not like anything we have on record. The place is almost a complete mana dead-zone. It was coated in the biological material of several humans, and the structural damage is equivalent to certain higher-level spells that we don’t allow the public to purchase. Our official records show that there are only seven people on our list capable of dealing that kind of damage, but one one of them recently died under mysterious circumstances in western Gottlan.”

“Listen, I know it wasn’t Araxan the Betrayer. He never left his little domain anyway. My time isn’t cheap, so just skip to your conclusion.”

“Ser, I think we might be dealing with a Wild Mage.” Samantha said, trying and failing to keep the fear out of her voice.

Fyron could hear Grey go quiet for a moment, then Barked out a laugh. “Hah! Interesting! This could work in our favour. Samantha, was it?”

Samantha beamed, but kept her voice professional. “Yes, ser.”

“Report to Memory Storage.”

“You don’t want me to wipe my memory?”

“Not permanently. Just until you sign in to work tomorrow. I’m going to assign you this case, so find me this Wild Mage!”

“Yes sir!”

The call ended, and Samantha did a little fist pump before regaining her composure and continuing down the street.

Sasha tipped out the ash from her pipe. “Want me to kill her?”

Fyron shook his head. “No, that might complicate things. I’ll keep an eye on their investigation. For now I need to see how Wyll is doing. Would you like to meet him?”

Sasha handed back the pipe. “Nah, but soon I’ll stop by your cute little schoolhouse by the river. I have to go check in on the DAA’s progress. Wish me luck.”

“Heh, you don’t need it.”

Sasha vanished, leaving Fyron alone on the rooftop. He sighed, and stood up, before teleporting himself to the cottage in the Gottlan hills. He on