Aizen had learned two things in his short tenure as Baron Phoenix:
Nobles would buy anything if it was labeled "antique" and placed on a velvet cushion.
Auctioneers were the world's most theatrical liars.
"Lot 47!" bellowed the auctioneer, a man whose waxed mustache defied gravity and common sense. "A mysterious relic from the depths of the ancient Thunderwilds! Scholars believe it to be… uh… a paperweight?"
The crowd tittered. On the podium sat the Storm Sigil—a palm-sized disc of tarnished silver, its surface etched with runes even Vermis couldn't translate. Lightning crackled faintly around its edges, but to the silk-clad nobles sipping champagne, it might as well have been a fancy coaster.
"Master, that artifact radiates enough mana to power a small city," Vermis hissed. "Also, the auctioneer has spinach in his teeth."
Aizen raised his bidding paddle. "Ten gold."
The auctioneer blinked. "Ten gold… for the paperweight?"
"Call it a charitable donation to your dental hygiene."
The Artifact's Price
Back in his manor, Aizen tossed the Storm Sigil onto his desk, where it promptly fused with the wood in a shower of sparks.
"Well," Vermis said, "it's definitely not a paperweight."
Lyra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Let me guess—you blew the estate's quarterly budget on cursed jewelry."
"Cursed bargain jewelry," Aizen corrected, prying the sigil free with a fire-coated dagger. "Vermis, scan it again."
The grimoire fluttered closer. "The runes appear to be a binding oath in Old Celestial. Rough translation: 'Power demands balance. Break the pact, and the storm breaks you.' Cheery."
"So it's a magical contract?"
"With a deity who really hates loopholes."
Aizen grinned. "Perfect. Let's wake it up."
The Lightning in the Bottle
Midnight found Aizen on the highest peak overlooking Phoenix Nest, the Storm Sigil clutched in one hand and a stolen bottle of the king's "reserve" wine in the other. Thunder rumbled overhead, the sky a bruised purple.
"This is inadvisable," Vermis warned. "Also, the wine is a 300-year-old vintage. Please don't drink it."
"Relax. I'm using it as a ritual prop." Aizen took a swig. "Hic—see? Sacred libations."
He raised the sigil skyward and slurred the first Old Celestial phrase Vermis had taught him: "Hey, thunder god! Let's tango!"
Lightning struck.
When the spots cleared from his vision, Aizen found the sigil seared into his left palm, its runes glowing electric blue. Power surged through him—not the familiar wildfire of his mask, but something sharper, wilder. Raw lightning danced between his fingers, and for a dizzying moment, he could feel the storm's pulse, the charged air in his lungs.
Then the nausea hit.
"Master, your hair is standing on end. Literally."
"Worth it," Aizen gasped, collapsing onto the rain-slick grass.
The Academy Gambit
Headmaster Orin Thistlewick of Arcana Regalia Academy was a man who looked like a disappointed owl. His spectacles perched precariously on a beaky nose, and his office smelled of lemon polish and existential dread.
"Baron Phoenix," he said, eyeing Aizen's still-smoldering cloak. "To what do I owe this… charged visit?"
Aizen leaned back in his chair, channeling every ounce of Baronly charisma. "I'm here to recommend a student. My younger brother, Grey. He's got… spark."
Thistlewick's eyebrow twitched. "The academy's admissions are highly competitive. We require aptitude tests, lineage verification, and—"
Aizen slammed his Storm Sigil-marked hand on the desk. Lightning arced across the wood, scorching a very precise tally of Days Since Last Noble Nonsense: 0.
Thistlewick blinked. "That's… thunder magic. A lost art."
"Grey's a prodigy. Shy, though. Terrible with people. Probably why he's hiding in the countryside, talking to rocks."
"Master, you're describing a hermit, not a student," Vermis muttered.
"Quiet, you."
The headmaster tented his fingers. "Why not train him yourself?"
"Because I'm a busy man with a fiefdom to mismanage. Also, Grey needs to learn from the best. Or… you know. You."
The Brother Who Never Was
Thistlewick demanded a demonstration.
A week later, "Grey" arrived at the academy's gates—a lanky teen in a hooded cloak, his face obscured by a borrowed illusion charm. Aizen, playing both roles, had never been more grateful for his mask's shape-shifting magic.
The headmaster led him to a training field. "Show me."
Aizen summoned a flicker of lightning, careful to mute its power. The bolt fizzled pathetically, scorching a daisy.
Thistlewick sighed. "That's… underwhelming."
"Now, master!" Vermis prompted.
Aizen channeled the Storm Sigil. The sky darkened. Thunder cracked on cue, and a lightning bolt the size of a tree obliterated a practice dummy.
The headmaster's spectacles fogged with awe. "…Remarkable."
"Grey's modest," Aizen said, reverting to Baron Phoenix's voice. "But even he knows not to show off."
The Oath's Whisper
That night, as Aizen sketched plans for "Grey's" dormitory wardrobe (black, hooded, theatrically mysterious), the Storm Sigil pulsed angrily.
"The thunder god's patience wanes," Vermis warned. "You've bound yourself to an oath you don't understand."
"Balance, schmalance," Aizen said, tossing aside the sketchbook. "I'll juggle world-saving and homework. How hard can it be?"
Lyra appeared in the doorway, holding a scroll. "The headmaster's invoice just arrived. 'Lightning damage to training field: 500 gold.'"
Aizen groaned. "Add it to Gerald's therapy fund."