Emerging from the broken spire's shadow, Martin stood alone, smoke curling off the shoulders of his coat. The fabric was scorched at the hem, soaked with the scent of overdrawn mana and scorched alloy. His left hand gripped the recharging rod while the other traced shifting glyphs in the air. Mana thrummed in low, metallic pulses beneath his boots as he recalibrated the lattice beneath Solholme.
"Showtime," he muttered.
Across the ruined cityscape, the divine spirit hovered—barely stable, barely whole. A storm given thought. Its silhouette flickered with arcs of gravitational disruption, warping the light and matter around it. The very concept of direction faltered near its core.
Martin narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Majestic. We get it."
With a shriek that peeled clouds apart, the spirit dove—jagged limbs outstretched, lightning screaming from its joints.
Martin didn't move. Not until the last possible moment.
Then: release.
The cannon fired with a concussive thump, launching a spear of condensed alloy—a rod layered with compression runes, spell-folded seventeen times, humming with caged intent. It cracked the air as it passed the sound barrier, slamming into the divine spirit with enough force to warp the skyline.
The spirit convulsed. Its form fractured. The ambient storm turned inward, collapsing toward the impact point. Gravity folded. Light twisted. The air became a scream.
And then: silence.
Only the spear remained, embedded deep in the stone.
Martin stepped off the broken parapet, falling with control. At just the right moment, he kicked off a drifting slab of rubble and landed beside the rod. With a flick of his wrist, the spear split down the middle, releasing a glowing, trembling core.
He lifted the core—a swirl of liquid light and crystallized force—and muttered, "Not bad. Eight hundred dead, a ruined cannon, but we contained something that could level… what, a medium-sized island?"
"Could've gone worse," Belisarius replied from behind him.
Martin turned.
The Warden was dragging his feet slightly—his armor cracked, blood at the corners of his mouth—but he held something in his left hand: a heart-shaped crystalline artifact, faintly pulsing.
"You got the artifact," Martin noted, tilting his head. "Impressive."
"It fell when you stunned it," Belisarius muttered. "I was just fast enough to grab it before it imploded."
"Right. Well, congratulations. Job's done." Martin pocketed the core. "Let's not meet again."
"Nope." Belisarius grabbed his shoulder, hard.
Martin stiffened. "What the hell do you think—"
He didn't get to finish.
Belisarius surged with mana, leaping into the air with terrifying force. Martin flailed as the city vanished beneath them in seconds.
"You bastard!!" he roared. "Put me down!"
"Eventually," Belisarius said calmly, readjusting his grip on Martin like a mildly annoyed courier handling a squirming package.
They soared over the mountains, the ruined city a smear on the horizon behind them. Martin dangled like a particularly furious kite.
"I just saved the entire region! You're welcome!"
"And in the process, you violated half a dozen international spellcraft regulations," Belisarius snapped. "Varncrest law supersedes national laws in magical emergencies. You're under academic detainment."
Martin glared upward. "You're what?"
"Detaining you. Academically."
"Is that even a thing?!"
"It is when Varncrest deems a rogue mage too dangerous to remain unsupervised."
"Oh, come on!" Martin tried to pry his arm free. "I admit maybe it wasn't entirely legal—"
"Understatement."
"—but it worked!"
"You don't get awards for reckless genius," Belisarius said. "You get shackles. Or a desk."
"You're conscripting me?!"
"I'm educating you," the Warden replied, tone flat. "You have talent. I'll admit that. Too much, in fact. But unshaped, unchecked, and untrained? That makes you a bigger threat than anything I've ever fought."
"I already know how to use magic," Martin said, exasperated.
"No, you know how to weaponize it," Belisarius corrected. "That's not the same. You think technique is enough? Power without philosophy burns everything it touches."
"Oh, so now I'm supposed to sit in a classroom with teenagers while some batty old professor lectures about leyline theory?"
"You look barely eighteen yourself," Belisarius pointed out. "Besides, Varncrest doesn't operate like a normal academy. No rows of desks. No bells. You'll be given a facility, tools, protection, and more than enough rivals trying to sabotage you for fun or pride. You'll feel right at home."
Martin rolled his eyes. "You're forgetting the part about internal politics, noble privilege, organized sabotage, and architectural disarray. Varncrest is a battlefield pretending to be a campus."
"Exactly. It's the only place chaotic enough to contain you."
"And what if I say no?"
"You already did. I'm ignoring it."
Martin scowled. "You're going to regret this."
Belisarius shrugged. "I regret many things. Not this."
They dipped low, skimming the canopy of an old forest. Belisarius kicked off a treetop to gain altitude, sending birds scattering into the ash-dark sky.
Silence stretched for a beat.
Then, Belisarius asked, "What's your name?"
Martin blinked. "You're only asking now?"
"You didn't deserve the courtesy before. What is it?"
"Martin Kaiser."
Belisarius didn't respond at first. Then: "Huh."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'd heard rumors. Some idiot cult boy who torched his own sect and scavenged the wreckage."
Martin gave a toothy grin. "You're late to the party."
Belisarius grunted. "And now you're my problem."
"I don't like being anyone's problem."
"Too bad. You're mine now."
Martin hung limply in the air, sulking. "I hope your academy burns."
Belisarius smiled without humor. "It already is. You'll fit right in."
To Be Continued…