Marvel had enough of passing out and waking up.
The full moon hung outside the window as he awoke. He wondered how late it was.
He sat up in his bed, relieved to feel no pain—thanks, undoubtedly, to Aisling's care. The room was empty: no Baylin, no Aisling. Just the fire crackling in the hearth and a note from Aisling stuck to a steaming bowl of soup that floated before him.
He took the note and read:
Marv,
I'm so sorry about the kathar wall. You know Baylin tends to use the most brutish methods to get things done. I know you're scared and confused, but you can't do anything rash. I've gone for a midnight Element class. When I come back, I promise we'll talk about everything. And if you really think we should, we'll go to the Grandmasters. We'll sort this out together, the way we always do.
P.S. I put some rejuvenation potion in the wheat soup. It'll help, I promise.
Love, Aisling.
The note comforted him a little. Aisling had promised her support. Despite not being the best mage at the Academy, she was an exceptional Healer. They had always managed to solve their problems together. He would wait for her to return and then they could figure things out.
One thing he was sure of, however, was that he wouldn't go to the Grandmasters.
Thinking clearly now, Marvel realized that approaching the Grandmasters was a terrible idea. What would he even tell them?
Everyone's forgotten my dead friends who were killed on an assignment I wasn't even supposed to be on? I basically erased their existence with some evil magic smoke that came out of me somehow? How did that happen? I don't know. Maybe it's because I was probably resurrected with Fusion magic—yes, the same outlawed magic that creates evil creatures that kill innocent people and eat them.
Even uttering one of those sentences could get him killed. Fusion magic was a dark, forbidden art that had been banned for over a thousand years for the millions of deaths it had caused. Anything even remotely associated with it was immediately destroyed by the Academy of Mages.
Mages were tasked with eradicating that kind of alchemy. They destroyed every warlock they came across. If even a hint of Fusion magic touched a person's home, the Academy would order the house and everyone inside it burned, along with all of their relatives and acquaintances.
Marvel didn't know how he had been brought back. He doubted even the Magi could know. If they couldn't tell whether Fusion alchemy had been used in his resurrection or not, they would likely kill him to be thorough. They would also murder the people he cared about—Aisling, Baylin. It was safer to keep the whole thing quiet.
Since nobody remembered the mages who had embarked on the mission, it would be easier to keep this secret. He just needed to come up with a story about how he had lost his magical centre.
"The soup is getting cold."
Marvel nearly spilled the soup in surprise. Baylin's half-transparent avatar stood before him, the same one she always used when she needed to fetch him.
"Master Baylin," he said, clearing his throat. "I—"
"You remember people who don't exist," she interrupted him. "Your magical centre is gone, yet, somehow, you're still alive. You've experienced magical exhaustion despite never being able to perform even a simple spell before. You're a walking tangle of impossibilities."
Marvel tried to steady his hand as he spooned soup into his mouth. "I don't know why."
"I wasn't going to ask why," she said, her voice calm. "But it's curious that is the question you fear answering the most."
He froze. "Are you reading my mind?"
"I am attempting to," she said with a slight frown. "Strangely, all I find is a reflection of what I expect you to be thinking."
"What does that mean?"
Baylin looked puzzled. "It's possible there's a spell on your mind, perhaps from a very powerful Alchemist."
Marvel's heart raced. "And my magic? Can you sense it?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You have no magical centre, no athar. Therefore, I can't sense anything like that from you."
"Oh." Marvel frowned. She couldn't read his mind or detect his new magical centre or the immense amount of athar wound around it. But she was a Master. Athar couldn't be hidden from Higher Level Mages. How could she not see it?
Who could have placed the spell on his mind? The same person who brought him back?
"Where did you go?" Baylin asked. "You were gone for three days before falling out of that portal. Where were you?"
"I was—" He hesitated. If she couldn't read his mind, he wasn't obligated to tell her the truth. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to.
Their relationship had always been strictly professional. Baylin largely ignored him except when she needed him for menial tasks. He had a room at the Academy and a shot at becoming a mage as part of his payment. Baylin's relationship with the Academy was similar—she focused on her research and only occasionally taught.
If he revealed what he knew, there was no telling how she would react. She might turn him in to the Grandmasters as an abomination to be destroyed. She neither feared the Academy nor cared for him. Predicting where her interests lay was impossible.
Since he didn't ever want to face death again, he couldn't risk revealing the truth to anyone, especially not her.
"I don't know," he finally said.
Baylin's gaze remained fixed on him, her curiosity evident. Marvel knew that the more she became fascinated with something, the more she obsessed over it. There was no chance she'd leave him alone until she got the answers she wanted. But how could she find anything if she couldn't detect his new centre or read his mind?
Marvel had to be cautious. He struggled against the instinct to squirm beneath her gaze.
"I wanted to thank you for what Aisling said earlier. For helping me," he said.
Baylin scoffed. "Didn't your friend make it clear I did nothing outside my own interests? Save your gratitude for her."
"But—"
"Are you going to tell me about the nonexistent people you intended to approach the Conclave about?" she asked, running a finger over her lower lip thoughtfully.
"It was merely a dream," he said. "You were wise, Master, to dissuade me from wasting the Conclave's time."
"The Honoured Conclave," Baylin muttered with disdain. "As if those old fogeys have ever been able to get anything useful done."
Marvel was unnerved by her lack of reverence for the Grandmasters. He recalled the warlock woman who had dissolved Quinn with a thought. What sort of person didn't fear them?
"You should rest," Baylin said. "Tomorrow you'll be assisting me with all the tasks I've had to postpone. You'll need your strength."
"Yes, Master," he replied.
As soon as Baylin's avatar faded, Marvel let his shoulders relax. He had managed the conversation without revealing too much, but Baylin's cleverness was formidable. He needed to devise a plan to avoid her scrutiny while maintaining his position at the Academy.
Suddenly, Baylin's avatar reappeared, barely an outline this time.
"M-Master?"
"I forgot to mention," she said briskly. "The Conclave of Grandmasters has summoned you to the Curia."
"What?" The bowl fell to the floor. Marvel's chest tightened with apprehension. "Why?"
"A debrief of some sorts, I believe," Baylin said. "You must go there immediately."
"Debrief about what?" Marvel asked, but Baylin had already disappeared.
He felt a surge of bitterness. Despite serving her for eight years, the moment he was likely facing death, she couldn't spare a few more seconds to answer his questions.
Marvel glared at the spilled soup on the floor. The anger subsided as he acknowledged it was probably his own fault anyway. He had doomed his friends and had the gall to survive. Every bad thing that had happened so far was his due.
He briefly considered fleeing, but knew he couldn't outrun whoever would be sent after him. Leaving the Academy would mean abandoning his dream of becoming a mage. Even if it cost him his life, he couldn't give up on that.
With no other option, he had to face the Grandmasters and hope that whatever magic was shielding him from Baylin's detection would protect him from the theirs. It was unlikely, but what else could be done about it?
He was going to meet the Grandmasters.
…
Marvel trudged through the labyrinthine halls of the Academy. The night outside was dark, but the hallways were brightly lit by the Grandmasters' soullight, shifting colors from soft blue to fiery red.
The walls were adorned with moving, wriggling tapestries that looking at for too long made him feel ill. He focused on the green and silver banners of the Draconian Heritage instead, the Academy's burning tree insignia. The disturbing images on the tapestries relentlessly drew his gaze anyway.
This up in the castle, fewer mages could be seen. The Grandmasters' Section was eerily deserted. Only a select few mages ever attained Grandmaster status. Reaching that level required more kathar energy and expertise that most mages only dreamed of. The Academy recognized only twenty-four Grandmasters worldwide, with a total of only nine on the Continent of Orr. Irrhydia, the birthplace of the Academy, had six, five of whom formed the Conclave of Grandmasters.
Despite being a small kingdom on the south of Orr, Irrhydia was the origin of mage philosophy. Anyone desiring to become a mage came here to train in the Academy. It was the only way to reach the upper echelons of alchemy.
The Academy's influence did not extend to the Northern Mountain Kingdoms, where every Alchemist was presumed to be a warlock. In the Eastern Republic of Vassar, there were merely two Grandmasters. The Western Isles had just one. They regulated every facet of Alchemy. Every mage and maverick alchemist was subject to their authority.
The only entities they acknowledged as superior to them were the King and the Eldritch, a being whose power surpassed even that of the Grandmasters. Marvel had once read in Baylin's books that the Grandmasters were essentially children compared to the Eldritch. Thankfully, the Eldritch rarely made an appearance anywhere. Facing the Grandmasters alone was intimidating enough on its own.
Marvel willed his palms to stop sweating, hoping to avoid appearing disheveled before the god-like Magi. However, three hours of climbing several hundreds of flights of stairs had already left him a sodden mess.
On the rare occasions when the Conclave summoned someone, they materialised them in front of the Grandmasters. Marvel wondered if he was being punished.
He wasn't sure where the Curia was exactly, though an older Magus had told him he would recognize it when he saw it. All he knew was that he had been walking for hours without finding any rooms in the Grandmasters' Section. Exhausted and heavy with dread, his legs trembled beneath him. How much further did he have to go? How would he even find his way back?
Marvel groaned, resting against a bare patch of wall.
The wall immediately began to move.
He shouted as his back met air, flailing as he toppled to the floor. Once he managed to orient himself, he saw the endless hallway had vanished, replaced by a large, high-ceilinged room. The sight took his breath away.
Here, the soullight was so bright he had to shield his eyes. As his vision adjusted, he gasped at the room he'd found, every surface covered in marble and gold. A domed ceiling with a round skylight revealed the moon above. Pillars rose from a floor tiled, gleaming floor. In the center of the room, beneath the skylight, was a giant mirror reflecting the ceiling above.
The room's most striking features were the four large statues at each corner. Carved gods and goddesses perched regally on marble thrones, their faces exquisitely detailed. Despite their beauty, Marvel felt a chill at their lifelike presence.
Rising from the floor, he approached the mirror and knelt in front of it. Its surface rippled, and shadows like storm clouds billowed menacingly around his reflection. Panic surged through him. These shadows seemed to beckon him. They wanted to harm him, to hurt everybody who lived, to wreck the world as he knew it. Just like their master.
Marvel reached toward the mirror, captivated—
"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU SEE, CHILD?" The voice rumbled like thunder, causing the skylight panes to shiver.
Jolted by fear, Marvel glanced up. His heart stopped as he saw the heads of the giant statues tilting to observe him. All four of them were now focused on him, their marble faces unforgiving.
Satis' teeth. It was only through sheer willpower that he managed not to panic.
"I— I—" His mind went blank.
"WELL?" demanded one of the statue goddesses. "CAN YOU NOT SPEAK?"
The other statues, another male and female, glared at him with celestial impatience.
Marvel reminded himself to stay composed. Even though beings could destroy him with barely a thought.
"Honoured Grandmasters," he said, bowing his head in reverence. "Your lowly servant obeys your summons."
"NOW, NOW," said one of the goddesses. "NO NEED FOR THAT."
Marvel could sense her satisfaction.
"WILL YOU ANSWER THE QUESTION, BOY?" boomed the first statue.
"PERHAPS HE IS TOO INTIMIDATED BY US IN THESE FORMS," suggested another. Marvel struggled to focus as their voices reverberated through his teeth. "SHALL WE MAKE HIM MORE COMFORTABLE?"
A powerful presence, greater than even the Grandmaster warlock who had killed Quinn, surrounded him. Marvel squeezed his eyes shut, irrationally fearing that seeing their magic might burn his eyes.
Footsteps echoed over the tiled floor—soft thuds of lambskin boots. Marvel's insides quivered.
"Raise your head, boy," said a more human voice. Marvel obeyed, though he kept his eyes lowered in respect.
In front of him stood a handsome man of regal appearance, with bronze skin and broad shoulders. His silver eyes glittered in the soullight.
"I am Grandmaster Magus Darius Hagan," the man declared, his voice still booming. "I am the head of the Conclave of Grandmasters. You will answer all of my questions truthfully. Do you understand?"
Marvel nodded dumbly before remembering it was disrespectful.
"Good." Grandmaster Darius scrutinized him with a piercing gaze. "Now, Marvel Satis, tell me exactly how you came tumbling out of Orson Baldrik's portal."