The sky above Barmo was a shade cleaner than the storm-choked ruins behind them, but Martin still squinted as the sun caught the curve of the city's high outer wall. They landed with a crunch of gravel just outside the fortified entrance, which glowed faintly with magical wards and authority sigils.
"Put me down already," Martin hissed, still dangling from Belisarius's armored grip. "Unless you plan to parade me through the gates like a trophy."
Belisarius obliged—by hurling him at the stone wall with casual violence.
Martin twisted midair, landed feet-first on the surface, rebounded with a soft hop, and landed beside the Warden without so much as a scuff.
He dusted his sleeves. "Really funny."
Belisarius arched a brow. "So, you also know Flow magecraft."
"Close combat equals basic survival," Martin said, flexing his fingers. "I'm not some wand-waver who faints when kicked."
Below them, the Barmo gate guards had stopped what they were doing to gawk. The wall's wardlines flared in brief recognition, and one of the captains stepped forward—a broad-shouldered woman in a bronze half-mask with etched runes.
"Warden Belisarius?" she called up, uncertain.
"Relax," Belisarius said, voice carrying down. "Just an academic escort."
Martin grinned as he adjusted his collar. "Is that what we're calling forced extradition these days?"
The guards looked between the two men. They clearly recognized Belisarius. His armor—though cracked—still bore the sanctioned seal of the Crown's Mage Enforcement Division. His name carried weight from the frontier to the imperial capital. A living reminder that magical law did, in fact, have consequences.
But the boy beside him?
Martin looked like some street-tier arcanist who had stumbled into high company. Slightly burned coat, good boots, and enough casual arrogance to qualify as a one-man diplomatic incident.
Belisarius didn't explain further. Instead, he peered down at the captain. "Which one of you is the best fighter?"
The captain hesitated. "He's not present. I can summon him, Warden."
"Do that," Belisarius said, already turning away. "You'll need him when I leave."
That shut the guards up. They stepped aside without further protest.
"Follow me," Belisarius said over his shoulder, already striding into the city.
Martin walked after him, more relaxed. "Are all your diplomatic entries this dramatic?"
"I don't do diplomacy," Belisarius said flatly. "I do results."
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds clean."
They passed under the main archway of Barmo—a towering structure of reinforced stone, etched with flow-reactive spellwork. As they stepped beneath it, the runes lit with scanning magic, reaching out like invisible fingers.
Belisarius's Warden badge pulsed in response, accepting and authenticating him. No resistance.
Then came Martin.
His coat flared with motion as the scan ward touched him—and immediately recoiled. Something buckled. The ambient mana trembled. The scanning array glitched, restarted, and—
Crack.
The arch's topmost ward crystal let out a faint pop.
"Oops," Martin said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Forgot to disable the anti-scrying layers. My bad."
Belisarius turned slowly, nostrils flaring. "You layered deep warding into your clothing?"
Martin shrugged. "Wouldn't want just anyone tracking me, would I?"
"That scan was imperial standard."
"Then they should've paid for better countermeasures."
Belisarius exhaled through his teeth. "You are exhausting."
"I'm told it's part of my charm."
The two walked through the inner gates of Barmo—past curved alleys, enchanted lanterns, and a market district that had just begun its midday flux. Hawkers sold mana-infused ink, familiars in brass cages, and maps of spell leyline currents around the city. Children played with levitation toys. A pair of elderly mages floated serenely above a park fountain, arguing over the precise definition of "ritual anchoring."
It felt normal.
Too normal, Martin thought.
They were halfway down a winding street when Martin finally asked, "So what is Barmo to you? Supply stop? Transit hub?"
"Checkpoint," Belisarius said. "You're being processed before we continue to Varncrest."
"Oh joy. Bureaucracy."
"You'll need an identity imprint registered," the Warden continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "Varncrest tracks all mana signatures and scholastic outputs. If you want a lab, an allocation budget, or even lunch, you'll need to scan clean."
Martin arched a brow. "And if I don't care about any of those?"
"Then you'll starve. Or get recruited by a noble house, which is worse."
Martin snorted. "I thought you were the paranoid one. You're letting nobles sponsor magical researchers?"
"I'm not letting anything," Belisarius growled. "Varncrest is a collection of power, and where power concentrates, so does influence. Nobles, foreign embassies, rogue sects, self-funded cultists—everyone wants a piece."
"And I thought I was the unstable one," Martin said lightly.
Belisarius glanced sideways at him. "You still are. You're just not organized about it."
"Yet."
They reached a checkpoint building with green-tiled roofs and brass doors humming with ward-craft. A mage-scribe stepped out, looked between the two of them, and visibly flinched.
"Warden Belisarius?" the man asked nervously. "Is this your… guest?"
"Academic detainee," Belisarius said. "Martin Kaiser. Run a background imprint and clear him for provisional transfer to Varncrest."
Martin waved lazily. "I bite."
The scribe gave a weak laugh and vanished back inside.
Martin leaned against a post. "So. What exactly is your plan for me once we get to Varncrest?"
"Assessment. Probation. Assignment."
"Sounds charming."
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't plan on staying long."
Belisarius didn't reply.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind shifting faintly, carrying the scent of ink, brass, and spell-laced stone.
Then Martin added, voice quieter, "You're not like I expected. Thought you'd be more of a tyrant."
"I'm tired," Belisarius said. "That's different."
Martin stared at him.
Then: "I don't like cages."
"You'll have a lab. A facility. Resources. You'll be watched, yes, but not imprisoned."
"And if I run?"
Belisarius finally looked at him, eyes unreadable. "Then I'll find you again."
Martin gave a crooked smile. "I'll make it entertaining."
Belisarius didn't smile back. "I don't enjoy hunting children."
Martin's expression shifted, faintly. "I'm not a child."
"You keep saying that."
The checkpoint door opened.
"Ready," the scribe said, holding out a mana-imprint reader.
Martin sighed. "Let's get this over with."
To Be Continued…