Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

10:45 AM.

Lieutenant Jorik Halmsen checked his pocket watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, salt spray misting his weathered face as he snapped the silver case shut. The Farmusian fleet cut through the morning swells like a blade, fifty warships strong, their crimson banners snapping in the ocean wind.

"Still on time," he announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried across the crowded deck.

Sergeant Theron looked up from where he'd been sharpening his sword for the past hour. "Nervous, Lieutenant?"

"Cautious," Jorik corrected, tucking the watch back into his breast pocket. "There's a difference."

Around them, the eight soldiers assigned to this particular vessel prepared for what their commanders promised would be the easiest victory in Farmusian history. Most of the fleet's four hundred men were spread across the other ships, but every vessel carried its complement. Some cleaned weapons that were already spotless. Others stared at the horizon where Arkhos waited, invisible beyond the morning haze.

Near the mizzenmast, Battle-Mage Korvain adjusted the focus crystals on his staff for the third time this morning. His blue robes fluttered in the sea breeze, the silver threading that marked his rank catching the sunlight. Unlike some of the younger soldiers, he looked perfectly calm.

"Still tinkering with that thing?" called Corporal Bren from across the deck.

"Habit," Korvain replied without looking up. "Though I doubt I'll need it today."

Private Corwin, barely eighteen and trying to grow his first proper beard, clutched the ship's rail with white knuckles. His face had a distinctly greenish tinge that had nothing to do with his armor's reflection.

"First campaign?" asked Bren, a squat man with scars crisscrossing his forearms.

"Yes, sir," Corwin managed, swallowing hard as the ship rolled over a larger swell.

"Not sir. I work for a living." Bren's grin was missing two teeth. "And stop looking like you're about to puke on my boots. What's got you spooked, boy? This isn't exactly going to be a battle."

Corwin's Adam's apple bobbed as he fought down another wave of nausea. "I don't understand why we couldn't just use transportation crystals to get there. Why did we have to take ships?"

"Because the city's warded against magical entry," Korvain explained patiently. "They've set up interference fields around Arkhos for the trial. You can teleport out, but nothing can teleport in from the outside."

"Smart of them," Theron added. "Prevents any unwanted guests from crashing the prince's big day."

"Unfortunately for them, it doesn't stop ships," Bren said with a laugh. "Old-fashioned naval approach works just fine."

Corwin nodded weakly, then leaned over the rail as his stomach betrayed him again.

"Oh, for crying out loud," groaned Private Lem. "Kid's been green as seaweed since we left port."

"Leave him be," said Master Sergeant Valdric, veteran of three wars and owner of the most magnificent mustache in the Fifth Regiment. Though his voice carried a hint of amusement. "We've all been seasick at some point."

"Not me," Bren declared. "Born with sea legs."

"Born with sea brains too, apparently," Theron muttered, earning chuckles from the others.

Corwin straightened, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. "It's not just the seasickness," he admitted. "It's... what if something goes wrong? What if the plan fails?"

"Then we adapt," Valdric shrugged. "But it won't. Too much preparation, too many pieces in place."

"What pieces?" Corwin asked, then immediately gripped the rail again as another wave hit.

"Someone with very good reasons to want the current regime gone," Valdric said carefully. "Someone with access to the highest levels of government."

"A prince," Bren added with a grin. "Imagine that. A prince of Sundar, working with us to take down his own father's empire."

"Prince Kalyon," Lem said with satisfaction. "Smart man. Knows which way the wind's blowing."

The ship's captain, a grizzled Farmusian named Torrhen, approached their small group. "Arkhos comes into view in about thirty minutes," he announced. "Almost time, gentlemen."

"How are the other ships, Captain?" Jorik asked.

"Formation's perfect. Weather's holding steady." Torrhen squinted at the sky. "Good day for a handover."

"Any word from our... inside contact?" This from Private Lem, who'd been unusually quiet this morning.

"Silent as planned," Torrhen replied. "Birds would be too risky during the trial. But everything's proceeding exactly as discussed."

Corwin perked up despite his nausea. "But how do we know he's actually going through with it?"

"Because he wants his father dead even more than we do," Bren said bluntly. "Kid's got motivation."

"Still," Corwin swallowed hard, fighting another surge of sickness, "what if he changes his mind? What if—"

"Gods' balls, boy," Lem interrupted. "Would you rather be storming fortified walls under arrow fire?"

"No, but—" Corwin doubled over the rail again.

"Then shut up and enjoy the easy assignment," Bren said, shaking his head. "Look at him. Can't even handle a calm sea, and he's worried about battle."

"At least he's not puking on us," Theron observed. "That's something."

Jorik pulled out his pocket watch again. 11:16.

Right on schedule.

"I still think this seems too easy," Corwin mumbled, straightening again.

"Easy?" Valdric laughed. "Boy, do you have any idea how much work went into setting this up? Months of planning, careful coordination, precise timing. Just because you don't have to swing a sword doesn't mean it's easy."

A lookout's voice rang down from the crow's nest. "Arkhos in sight! Two points off the starboard bow!"

The small crew moved toward the rail. Corwin reluctantly joined them, though he kept one hand on the rigging for support. In the distance, a smudge of blue, white and gold resolved into the famous skyline of the City of Mages. Towers that seemed to scrape the clouds themselves, walls that had never been breached, harbors that had hosted ships from every corner of the known world.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jorik said quietly.

"It will be," Theron replied. "When it's flying our colors."

The mood on deck was almost festive now. Even Corwin seemed momentarily distracted from his seasickness by the approaching city.

"Remember," Valdric announced, "we're liberators today. The people of Arkhos are about to be freed from an incompetent emperor. They should be grateful."

"And if they're not immediately grateful?" Bren asked with a grin.

"Then we'll help them understand the situation," Valdric said mildly.

"What if they fight?" Corwin asked, his voice small.

"With what army?" Lem laughed. "Their prince just handed us the keys to the kingdom."

"Besides," Korvain added, "most of their forces will be busy dealing with the chaos. Hard to organize a defense when your government's collapsed."

The Iron Serpent, their flagship, began signaling to the rest of the fleet. Flags snapped up and down masts in predetermined patterns. Across the water, forty-nine other warships adjusted their positions, preparing for what should be a peaceful arrival.

"You know what I'm looking forward to most?" Private Lem said, leaning against the rail. "Seeing the look on their faces when they realize what's happened."

"I want to see the emperor's head on a spike," Bren said cheerfully.

"Easy there," Valdric warned, though he was smiling. "We're liberators, remember? We'll let Prince Kalyon handle the family reunion."

"I just want to get off this ship," Corwin muttered, looking green again.

"Aw, is the baby sailor feeling poorly?" Bren cooed in mock sympathy. "Maybe you should've stayed home with your mother."

"Leave off," Theron said, but he was grinning. "Kid's doing fine for his first time at sea."

Jorik checked his watch again. Perfect timing.

"All right, listen up!" Captain Torrhen's voice carried across the deck. "Final positions in 30 minutes! Weapons ready but sheathed—we're not expecting trouble, but we stay prepared. This is what we've planned for, gentlemen."

The organized preparation began. Men checked that their equipment was secure but accessible. Officers reviewed the occupation procedures one final time. Korvain ran a few practice gestures with his staff, though everyone expected it to remain ornamental today.

Jorik found himself next to Valdric at the rail, both men staring at the growing city ahead.

"You really think it'll be this smooth?" Jorik asked quietly.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Valdric replied. "Our ally has had months to arrange everything."

The city was clearly visible now. They could make out individual buildings, see the famous floating tower of Xerkes, the people moving along the harbors like tiny ants. Fishing boats dotted the water between the fleet and the city, their crews probably wondering about the impressive naval formation approaching.

"Peaceful morning for it," Jorik observed.

"Perfect morning," Valdric agreed. "Clear skies, calm seas, and a city about to hand itself over to us."

Behind them, Korvain stood with his staff planted beside him like a walking stick, completely relaxed. Corwin had found a spot where he could grip both the rail and a rope, determined not to embarrass himself further.

A commotion started among the soldiers at the bow. Voices rose in curiosity, then confusion.

"What is it?" Theron called forward.

"Something in the sky!" came the reply. "Look!"

Every head on deck turned upward. There, perhaps a quarter mile ahead and several hundred feet above the water, something moved through the clear morning air.

"Is that a bird?" Corwin squinted, momentarily forgetting his seasickness.

"Too big for a bird," Lem said.

"Could be some kind of magical construct," suggested Korvain, though he sounded uncertain.

Valdric pulled out a spyglass and extended it toward the mysterious shape. After a moment, his weathered face creased in confusion.

"What do you see?" Jorik demanded.

"I'm... not sure," Valdric admitted, lowering the spyglass.

Korvain stepped forward. "May I?"

Valdric handed over the spyglass. The battle-mage peered through it, adjusting the focus, his free hand unconsciously moving toward his staff.

"What do you see?" Theron pressed.

Korvain slowly lowered the instrument, his expression puzzled. "It looks like..."

He raised the spyglass again, double-checking, his grip tightening slightly.

"Like what?" several voices demanded.

Korvain slowly lowered the spyglass, and for the first time since boarding, the confident battle-mage looked genuinely perplexed.

"It..."

The figure in the distance began to expand.

What had been man-sized moments before swelled outward like a balloon filling with air, but wrong—violently wrong. Arms stretched and broadened, a torso that elongated and thickened, a neck that extended impossibly far. The transformation wasn't gradual. It was explosive, each second doubling the creature's mass.

Korvain swallowed hard, the spyglass trembling in his hands as he tracked the metamorphosis.

The thing that had been human-shaped was now the size of a house.

Then a ship.

Then larger still.

Massive wings erupted from its back with an audible crack that carried across the water. The clear morning sky began to dim as the creature's bulk blotted out the sun. Its shadow fell across the lead ships of the fleet like a black stain spreading across the ocean.

"What is it, mage?!" Valdric insisted, his voice sharp with growing alarm.

Korvain's staff began to glow involuntarily, responding to his mounting terror. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

"It looks like a dragon."

The entire deck fell silent except for the sound of wind and waves.

They never reached Arkhos.

*****

11:30 AM.

A particularly fat pigeon wobbled across the temple roof, oblivious to the danger it was in. Soot twitched his whiskers, calculating the distance. Six paws' length, maybe seven. The wind was against him, but not strongly. The pigeon turned its back, pecking at something invisible.

Perfect.

Soot gathered his haunches, tail swishing once, twice—

"Focus."

The voice in his ear was sharp, impatient. Soot flattened his ears, irritation rippling through his sleek black coat. The voice belonged to a scarred woman crouched behind the chimney stack, her fingers absently stroking the enchanted collar around his neck.

"You weren't brought here to hunt birds," Lissa said. "Find the bad people."

Soot glared at her, then pointedly looked back at the pigeon, which was still gloriously fat and tantalizingly close.

"Remember what Adom promised," she said, scratching under his chin despite his attempt to remain dignified. "Find a Devoted, and tonight you'll have the finest tuna in Arkhos."

Tuna. The word triggered a cascade of memories: silky texture, rich flavor, the satisfaction of a full belly. Better than pigeon.

With a final glance at his lost opportunity, Soot stretched, feigning indifference. He'd do Adom the human's job, but not because he asked. Because he wanted to. On his terms.

He leapt down from the roof to a window ledge, then to an awning, navigating the vertical landscape of the city. The market square spread below him, crawling with humans. So many humans today, all pressed together, their emotions a tangled scent in the air—excitement, fear, anger, anticipation.

Soot wrinkled his nose. Humans were exhausting.

His job was simple.

Adom said: Look for the ones who smell wrong. The ones who might hurt many others. The ones with the crystals.

Soot slipped into the crowd, weaving between legs, occasionally accepting an unwanted pet from a child before moving on. Most people ignored him. Cats were everywhere in Arkhos, especially today. Adom had made sure of that, calling in every feline in the city. They weren't as good as Soot—common cats with common collars—but they served their purpose as cover.

A merchant selling candied nuts kicked at him halfheartedly. "Shoo! Away from my wares!"

Soot gave him a withering look that was wasted on the human. Candied nuts. As if he'd bother with such things.

He continued his patrol, nostrils flaring, taking in the scents around him. Sweat. Perfume. Food. Horses. Nothing unusual.

A small girl spotted him, her face lighting up. "Kitty!" she squealed, lunging toward him with sticky fingers.

Soot darted away. He had no patience for children today, not with tuna at stake.

The crowd grew thicker as he approached the western gate. This was where the danger would be greatest. Adom had been clear about that.

His collar tingled against his fur, a reminder that his handler was checking in on him.

"See anything?"

Soot meowed, letting her know his frustration. Too many humans. Too many smells.

"Keep looking. Close to the gate."

The connection faded. Soot flicked his tail irritably. Of course he'd keep looking. He wasn't an ordinary cat. He was Soot, finest of his kind. He did not need to be told to do his job.

He slipped through the forest of legs, avoiding the occasional boot that threatened to step on his tail. A group of street musicians had set up nearby, adding to the cacophony. Their badly-tuned lute made his ears hurt.

A boy tried to grab him, calling, "Here, kitty!" Soot evaded the clumsy attempt with contempt.

Couldn't these people see he was working?

He paused near a food stall, partly to savor the smell of roasting meat, partly to survey the crowd from a new angle. His gaze swept over the faces, looking for the telltale signs Adom had taught him to recognize—the too-wide eyes, the nervous sweat, the hands that kept touching the same spot on their clothing.

There.

A man standing alone against a wall. Thin, sallow-faced, constantly adjusting his robe. His scent reached Soot's sensitive nose—fear, excitement, and something else. Something unnatural and sharp. Wrong.

Soot watched him, ears forward, whiskers quivering. The man's gaze darted around the square, never settling. His hand kept returning to his chest, pressing against something hidden beneath his clothes.

Crystal carrier. Devoted.

Soot's collar warmed as he focused on the man, automatically sending the signal to Lissa.

"Stay with him. Don't lose him."

As if he needed to be told.

Soot slipped closer, keeping to the shadows. The man was muttering to himself, words too soft for even Soot's keen ears to catch. A prayer, perhaps, or instructions. So strange.

A commotion rippled through the crowd—people pushing forward, jostling for position. The Devoted man tensed, his hand pressing harder against his chest. Soot could smell his sweat, sharp with adrenaline.

Time to act.

Soot abandoned stealth and trotted directly toward his handler. Lissa was positioned at the edge of the square, her scarred face partially hidden by a hood. He meowed loudly, pawing at her boot.

Lissa glanced down, her expression changing subtly as she noticed him. She crouched, pretending to pet him.

"Where?" she murmured.

Soot looked deliberately toward the Devoted man.

Lissa followed his gaze, studying the nervous figure for a moment. She scratched under Soot's chin and murmured, "Good cat. Stay close."

She straightened and moved through the crowd, somehow never pushing yet always advancing. Soot followed a few paces behind, watching as she approached the Devoted.

"Excuse me," Lissa said. "You dropped this."

She held out a small token—a bronze medallion with the city emblem. The Devoted man startled, his hand jerking away from his chest.

"I—that's not mine," he stammered.

"Are you sure?" Lissa stepped closer, studying his face. "I could have sworn I saw it fall when you passed by the fountain."

"I don't have pockets," the man said, his voice rising slightly. His eyes darted to the street, then back to Lissa. A flicker of suspicion crossed his face. "I've never seen that before."

"My mistake then," Lissa said with an apologetic smile, stepping back. "Sorry to bother you."

The man nodded stiffly, still watching her with wary eyes. After a moment, he turned away, resuming his position against the wall, his hand once again drifting to his chest.

Lissa moved casually through the crowd, her expression neutral until she was a safe distance away. Only then did she reach into her pocket and withdraw a small communication crystal.

"Thorgen, this is Lissa," she said quietly.

A crisp voice responded immediately. "Go ahead, Lissa."

"I've identified one of them. Western square, north side. Thin man, gray robe, dark hair. Shows all the signs--nervous, keeps touching his chest, definitely carrying something underneath. That's the tenth one today, right?"

"Yes. The final one." Thorgen's voice held a rare note of satisfaction. "Maintain surveillance. Do not approach further. Remember the system, cats locate, handlers confirm, we flag and tail until the signal."

"I already made contact to confirm. He's definitely one of them."

A pause, then: "Understood. Was your cover compromised?"

"No. I used the dropped token approach. He's suspicious but hasn't made me."

"Good. Keep eyes on him but maintain distance. We need to coordinate simultaneous takedowns now that we've located all targets."

Lissa's jaw tightened. "So we're finally moving?"

"Yes. Adom's contact said there would be only ten Devoted. Not knowing their faces was a pain in the ass, but you guys did a good job."

"Thanks."

"Just make sure you have the suppression collar ready. Apply it the moment you have him subdued."

Lissa took a collar out of her bag. "Are you sure these things work? They'll prevent the crystals from activating?"

"Adom tested and confirmed it. According to him, the collar creates a localized mana disruption field. Once it's activated on the wearer, any embedded crystals become inert. Just make sure it's secured before they can trigger anything manually."

"I understand how this works," Lissa cut in, irritation edging her voice. "I've been doing this job since before Adom could tie his own boots."

"Just following protocol, Lissa. Move into position and await the coordinated signal. We can't have any of them alerting the others."

"Understood. Lissa out." She slipped the crystal back into her pocket, her scarred face briefly showing her annoyance at being managed.

A demanding meow drew her attention downward. Soot sat at her feet, looking up with an expectant expression.

"Not now," she murmured.

The cat meowed again, more insistently.

"I said tonight."

Soot's tail lashed once, his yellow eyes narrowing in what could only be described as feline indignation.

Lissa sighed. "Fine. Here." She reached into another pocket and produced a small piece of dried meat. "This will have to do for now. The real reward comes after we've caught all these zealots."

Soot sniffed the offering critically before accepting it. Not tuna, but it would suffice as a down payment on the promised feast. He chewed thoughtfully, keeping one eye on the man while Lissa casually repositioned herself to maintain surveillance.

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Humans and their complicated schemes...

Still, the dried meat was acceptable. And tonight there would be tuna. Real tuna, if Adom knew what was good for her.

*****

11:39 AM...

Thorgen and Valiant followed Tormin through the crowded market, maintaining a careful distance. The mouse beastkin perched on the freeman's massive shoulder, whiskers twitching as his bright eyes tracked their target's every move.

"He's on edge," Valiant murmured, his tiny paws gripping Thorgen's collar for balance. "Keeps touching his chest where the crystals are strapped."

Thorgen moved with surprising grace for someone his size, using the flow of the crowd to mask his approach. "How much time before the prince passes?"

"Six minutes I think," Valiant replied, nervously bouncing on his perch. "But these people are unpredictable. He could decide to go early."

The communication crystal in Thorgen's pocket vibrated with sudden urgency. He slipped it out discreetly, cupping it in his massive palm.

"Adom's given the signal," he whispered. "All ten Devoted identified. Simultaneous takedown, now."

Valiant's tail stiffened. "What time is it?"

"11:39," Thorgen said, glancing at the clock tower. "We need to move."

"Alright! Let's go," Valiant murmured, his voice tight. "We have to get closer without spooking him."

"Let's keep track of the time, little boss. Let's make it in to minutes."

They began their approach, no longer circling but moving directly toward Tormin. Thorgen kept his movements casual, stopping briefly at a vendor's stall, angling his body to keep Tormin in sight while appearing interested in the wares.

"One minute thirty," Thorgen muttered under his breath.

Tormin stood twenty feet away, watching the growing crowd with nervous eyes. His hand kept returning to his chest, feeling the crystals beneath his robe. A family with children settled on a blanket nearby, completely unaware of the danger.

"One minute fifteen," Valiant counted quietly. "Closer."

Thorgen moved again, cutting diagonally through the crowd, his massive frame parting the sea of people. Fifteen feet now. Twelve.

"Don't look directly at him," Valiant whispered. "Peripheral vision only."

"I know how to tail someone," Thorgen replied, voice barely audible.

Ten feet. Eight.

"One minute," Valiant breathed.

They were close enough now to hear Tormin muttering to himself, reciting something that sounded like a prayer. His fingers drummed anxiously against his chest.

"Forty-five seconds."

Six feet. Five.

Thorgen slowed his pace, timing his final approach. He positioned himself to pass casually behind Tormin, as if simply moving through the crowd.

"Thirty seconds."

Four feet. Three.

The suppression collar was hidden in Thorgen's palm, ready to be deployed in one smooth motion. Valiant tensed on his shoulder, electricity beginning to build between his whiskers.

"Twenty seconds."

Two feet.

Tormin suddenly stiffened, some sixth sense alerting him to their presence. He began to turn.

"Fifteen seconds," Valiant whispered, barely audible.

Tormin's eyes met Thorgen's. Recognition flashed across his face—the freeman and mouse from earlier. His eyes widened with sudden terror, his mouth opening to shout or begin the activation phrase.

"GLORY TO THE N–"

"NOW!" Valiant hissed.

Before Tormin could make a sound, Valiant launched himself from Thorgen's shoulder. He landed directly on Tormin's face, tiny paws gripping his nose as he discharged. Electricity surged through the man's body, seizing every muscle, locking his jaw shut before he could utter a word.

"Ten seconds," Thorgen counted, stepping forward.

Tormin's eyes rolled back, his body rigid with the current coursing through him. Blue light began to pulse beneath his robe—the crystals responding to his distress, preparing to detonate even without the command.

With his one arm, Thorgen slipped the suppression collar around Tormin's neck in one smooth motion. The collar's runes activated with a soft click.

"Five seconds."

The crystals pulsed more frantically beneath Tormin's robe, their glow intensifying, seeping through the fabric. Nearby, a child laughed, completely oblivious to the danger.

The suppression collar hummed to life, emitting a soft blue field that spread downward, countering the dangerous energy building in the crystals.

"Three... two... one..."

The crystalline light beneath Tormin's robe flickered, struggled against the suppression field, then faded entirely. Tormin sagged forward, Thorgen catching him before he could hit the ground, making it look like he was simply helping a friend who'd had too much to drink.

"Got him," Thorgen murmured, checking the city clock. 11:41.

"Whoo!" Valiant jumped back to Thorgen's shoulder, his white fur slightly singed, whiskers smoking faintly. "That was waaaay too close," he whispered, breathing hard.

Thorgen guided Tormin's unconscious body to a nearby bench, arranging him to look like a man who'd simply passed out. No one in the crowded market had even noticed the brief, silent struggle—all eyes were on the western gate, waiting for the prince's procession.

The communication crystal vibrated in Thorgen's pocket. He slipped it out with his free hand.

"Thorgen here," he said quietly, still supporting Tormin's limp form.

Lissa's voice responded immediately. "Target neutralized on my end. Suppression collar in place. What's your status?"

"Secure," Thorgen replied. "Though it was closer than I'd like."

"That seems to be the theme," Lissa said dryly. "I'm getting confirmations from the others as well. All targets accounted for and neutralized."

Valiant let out a shuddering breath. "Any casualties?"

"None reported," Lissa answered. "Adom's plan worked. The cats found them all."

Thorgen felt the tension draining from his massive shoulders. Hundreds of lives saved, and no one in the crowded market would ever know how close they'd come to disaster.

"Those powers of yours really do come in handy," he murmured to Valiant.

The mouse beastkin preened slightly, grooming his whiskers. "Told you I should've handled this alone. You nearly got us spotted with your enormous self."

"And I told you I don't trust you to handle this kind of thing without backup," Thorgen countered. "You get... impulsive."

"Hey, would you mind pick—" Valiant began, gesturing toward Tormin's unconscious form.

"ACHOO!"

The explosive sneeze came from directly beside them. They turned to see a young boy standing there, wiping his nose on his sleeve, staring curiously at Tormin.

"What happened to that mister?" the boy asked, pointing at the unconscious figure. "And why is he smoking?"

Valiant froze, electricity instinctively crackling between his whiskers before he forced himself to calm down. "Oh, he's had too much to drink, is all," he improvised, forcing a laugh. "Remember, kid—drink in moderation, or you'll end up passed out on benches too!"

The tabby cat that had been following them appeared beside the boy, meowing loudly and insistently, clearly demanding its promised reward for a job well done.

The boy looked between the cat, the mouse, and the giant freeman, then shrugged. "My dad looks like that sometimes after festival night," he said simply. With another mighty sneeze, he turned and wandered back toward the crowded street.

"ACHOO!"

*****

11:41 AM

Kell stood in the shadow of an old statue, its marble features worn to anonymity by centuries of rain and wind. The small courtyard—tucked between two administrative buildings—offered both cover and multiple escape routes. Perfect for a meeting point.

He checked his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. The silver timepiece gleamed in the midday sun, its hands creeping ever closer to the appointed hour.

Four minutes until 11:45.

Footsteps echoed on the cobblestones behind him. Light, deliberate. Someone who didn't mind being heard.

"You're in advance," Kell said without turning.

"Is that bad?" A female voice, low and tinged with amusement.

Kell closed the watch with a snap. "Better than being late, at least."

He turned to face her.

Thessarian Valdris leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over her chest. She wore nondescript clothing—the kind that blended into any crowd—but the quality of the fabric betrayed her status.

"The time is close," Kell said with a nod of greeting. "The prince is in the trial now."

"As expected." Her eyes scanned their surroundings.

"Did you prepare the terrain well?"

Thessarian's expression hardened. "Who do you take me for?"

"Someone I need confirmation from."

"I've been doing this since before you knew which end of a dagger to hold," she said, pushing off from the pillar.

"Thessarian. Report." The word was clipped, an order rather than a request.

Thessarian's jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like she might refuse, which was impossible given her binding as a homunculi.

Then she sighed, running a hand over her braid.

"Fine. The explosive crystals are placed at load-bearing points throughout the Hall. Six locations, each calibrated to detonate in sequence. The transportation crystals have been distributed to our allies among the nobles—Lord Darrow, Lady Crestfall, and the others. Morwen's man will use his crystal to extract the prince before the first explosion."

"And the escape route?"

"Three tunnels, as planned. The eastern one leads to the harbor, where a ship is waiting. The northern passage connects to the old catacombs—from there they can reach the countryside. The western exit opens near the Temple District, where they can blend with pilgrims leaving the city."

Kell nodded. "Good."

"I didn't do all this for your approval."

"I know." Kell checked his watch again. "Four minutes."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of what was coming settling between them. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed the quarter hour.

"You seem tense," Thessarian said, her voice softer now. "Are you afraid?"

"The emperor, his children, dignitaries from the Elven Consortium, the Dwarven Holds, the Tirajin Federation—all gathered in one place." Kell's fingers traced the thorn pattern on his watch. "The perfect moment. The perfect message."

"Will it be enough?"

"It will be a beginning."

Thessarian studied his face. "You've dreamed of this moment for years. Yet you don't look... satisfied."

"Satisfaction comes after." Kell's gaze drifted over the rooftops, toward the great dome of the Hall of Justice. "When the message is delivered. When they understand what it means to destroy a city."

"Still thinking about Aledia?" Thessarian murmured.

"You weren't there." Kell's voice remained even, but something shifted in his eyes—a depth of rage so cold it burned. "It was my hometown. A frontier city of Sundar at the Farmusian border. We were loyal. We paid our taxes. We sent our sons and daughters to fight in the emperor's wars."

"And they repaid you by burning it to the ground."

"Because we were expendable. Because we lived too close to the enemy. Because some of us had liked the emperor's brother." The words came out clipped, as if each one had been polished by repetition.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "My sister was seven. She had no idea what a 'sympathizer' even was."

Thessarian reached out, her fingers brushing his arm—the barest touch, then gone. "I know."

"Sometimes I think it's too easy," Kell said, gesturing toward the Hall. "One moment, and it's done. They should suffer longer. They should understand what it means to lose everything, piece by piece. It's–"

A faint blue pulse caught his eye—a rhythmic glow emanating from Thessarian's breast pocket. So subtle he might have missed it if the light hadn't reflected off the polished button of her coat.

Kell froze mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on that pulse.

"What is that?"

"What is what?" Thessarian's expression remained neutral, but her hand moved casually toward her pocket. Too casual.

"In your pocket." Kell nodded toward the faint glow. "That blue pulse."

Thessarian glanced down, then back up with a puzzled smile. "I don't see anything."

"Do not lie to me." Each word fell like a stone. "Show me."

"Kell, you're being paranoid." She took a half-step back, maintaining her smile. "The stress is getting to you."

Kell's jaw tightened. "Three years, Thessarian. Three years we've worked together. I've never known you to carry anything in that pocket."

"Maybe I started today."

"Then you won't mind showing me."

Her smile hardened slightly. "We don't have time for this. The operation—"

"Show me what's in your pocket." Not a request this time.

Thessarian let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine." She reached toward her pocket with exaggerated slowness. "But this is ridic—"

In a blur of movement, Kell lunged forward, grabbing for her chest. Thessarian leapt backward with unexpected speed, looking shocked.

"Have you gone mad?" she snapped.

Kell didn't back down. "That pulse. That blue light. It's one of those new magic devices from the Wangara Guild, isn't it? The ones the Syllas use."

For a moment, Thessarian maintained her offended expression. Then she glanced down at her pocket, where the blue light had grown more noticeable with her rapid movement. Her shoulders dropped slightly, and something shifted in her eyes.

"Oh, come now," she said. "How unprofessional."

"Who are you signaling?" Kell's voice was deadly quiet. "How long have you been working for them?"

Thessarian's hand moved to her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the device. "You really expect me to tell you that?"

"The plans," Kell said, mind racing. "The placement of the crystals, the transportation network—you've told them everything."

"Again," she countered. "Do not expect me to tell you."

"Give it to me." Kell's hand extended, palm up. A command, not a request.

Thessarian did not move.

"You refuse?" His voice turned to ice. "How? Since when did a homunculi like you refute orders from superiors?" His eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You shouldn't be able to even hesitate."

The homunculi created by their Alchemists were perfect servants—magically bound to obey their masters without question. Without the capacity to disobey. Without the ability to hesitate when given a direct order.

Thessarian—if that was even her name—stared at him for a long moment. Then her shoulders relaxed, and her entire demeanor changed. The stiff, proper posture gave way to something more fluid, more natural. Her eyes—previously downcast when not directly addressed—now met his with unwavering confidence.

"This was going so well," she sighed, a note of regret in her voice.

"You're not Thessarian."

"I am," she corrected. "Just not the one you think you knew."

"Where is she? The real homunculi?"

"Oh Kell," she said, almost fondly. "I must admit, I have some sympathy for you. You're one of the good ones among these monsters."

Betrayal crashed over Kell like a physical blow. Thessarian. The one who knew every detail of their operation. Every name. Every location.

"Who?" he demanded, hand inching toward the knife at his belt. "Who are you working for?"

"Does it matter?" She glanced at the small device in her pocket.

"ANSWER ME!" Kell's roar echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard.

She smiled—a small, sad thing—and took out what looked like a transportation crystal. "It is nothing personal."

Kell lunged forward, knife drawn—

But in a flash of blue light, she vanished.

Kell's forward momentum carried him through the empty space where she'd stood. As he stumbled, his instincts screamed a warning. Something was coming from below.

Toward his jaw.

He couldn't evade it.

It was too late to do anything, really.

And soon enough came...

WAM.

The uppercut caught him with devastating force, launching him skyward. His feet left the ground, body arcing through the air in a grotesque parody of flight. The world spun—sky, buildings, ground, sky again—before he crashed down on the cobblestones.

Pain exploded across his body. His jaw hung at an impossible angle. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic. Each breath sent fresh agony through his chest where a rib had punched through skin, its jagged end gleaming white in the sunlight.

Through swelling eyes, Kell made out a masked figure standing over him.

The figure held a crystal in one hand—not unlike the one Thessarian had used to vanish. With the other, they retrieved a communication crystal from their pocket and activated it.

"Adom!" a female voice crackled through the device. "We got the 10th Devoted."

"Perfect," the masked figure—Adom—replied. "Things started to move here, too. Execute the plan, catch them all at the same time. Now."

He cut the connection with a flick of his wrist and turned his attention back to Kell.

Through the red haze of pain, Kell's regenerative abilities were already kicking in—knitting bone, stopping internal bleeding. Not enough to save him yet, but enough to keep him conscious. Enough to understand the situation at hand.

"You..." Kell gurgled through broken teeth and blood.

"Me," Adom agreed, crouching beside him.

BAM.

The impact of Adom's fist sent Kell into darkness. His body went limp, blood pooling beneath his broken jaw. For a moment, the square was silent except for the distant sounds of the city.

Then Kell's index finger twitched.

*****

11:43 AM.

Kalyon stood in the center of the Hall of Justice, the muzzle removed but the chains still binding his wrists and ankles. Two minutes remained.

"How do you plead to these charges?" the Chief Judge repeated, his voice carrying a note of impatience.

Kalyon's gaze swept the vast chamber.

Hundreds of eyes fixed on him, waiting for his defeat, his submission, his plea for mercy. The nobles who had always whispered behind his back, the council members who had blocked his reforms, the mages who had denied him access to their precious knowledge: all here to witness his fall.

There was House Caldris with their purple banners, House Blackwater's crossed swords, House Redbrook's crimson oak, all the great names were here. And there, beneath the golden banner bearing a roaring lion, sat Lord Jude of House Lionheart.

The old man's weathered face was impassive, his silver hair gleaming under the magical lights. Those blue eyes watched the proceedings with detached interest, and Kalyon felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Those eyes. The same damned eyes that had stared back at him from that boy's face.

Nearly a year ago, when he'd grown curious about the boy who'd been caused all this, Kalyon had inquired into his lineage.

To his surprise, he'd discovered that Adom's mother was Maria of House Lionheart, estranged from the great house, cast out for marrying a man her father had not approved of.

It had seemed like providence.

House Lionheart was ancient, respected, influential. If he could bring them into his cause...

But the old man had been a disappointment. "Visionary ideas for a different time," he'd said when Kalyon had approached him through intermediaries. "The empire has weathered storms worse than this." No imagination. No understanding of what was truly at stake.

Now those eyes stared at him with the same infuriating detachment, and Kalyon felt a surge of bitter satisfaction. So be it. Lord Lionheart would fall with all the rest of them, his precious traditions and noble lineage meaning nothing when the new order rose from the ashes.

Emperor Rayhan, sat motionless on his throne, face impassive, eyes cold.

To the right, his siblings.

Something broke inside Kalyon. Something that had been cracking for months in his prison cell.

He began to laugh.

It started small—a chuckle that built into a full-throated laugh that echoed off the marble walls. Blood from his wounded brow trickled into his eye, but he couldn't be bothered to wipe it away.

The chamber fell utterly silent except for his laughter.

"The accused will compose himself," the Chief Judge commanded.

Kalyon's laughter died away, but his smile remained, bright and terrible.

"Is something amusing you, traitor?" asked the Judge representing Strength, his deep voice rumbling with displeasure.

"Oh, yes," Kalyon said, his voice clear and strong despite his battered state. "I find it amusing to be asked how I plead by men in masks, serving a court that decided my guilt the moment I was arrested."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"You will answer the charge," the Chief Judge insisted.

"You want an answer?" Kalyon's voice rose, all pretense of deference abandoned. "Fine. I'm guilty."

The murmurs grew louder.

"I did it all," he continued, gaining momentum. "Every single thing you accuse me of. I built the Dragon's Breath. I stole the knowledge needed to create it. I worked with foreign powers to acquire the materials. I DID IT ALL!"

He turned, addressing the entire hall now, chains rattling with his movements.

"But I didn't do it to destroy the empire. I did it to save it."

"The accused will—" began the Judge of Loyalty.

"I wanted to save us from hypocrites," Kalyon cut him off, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "From cowards who profit from the very crimes they claim to condemn."

Lord Caldris half-rose from his seat. "You will not—"

"I will speak!" Kalyon's voice thundered through the chamber, drowning out protests. "You remember the village of Millbrook, don't you, Lord Caldris? Your nephew commanded that garrison when the orcs came."

The hall erupted in uncomfortable murmurs, but Kalyon pressed on, his voice rising above them.

"Every woman over twelve was raped repeatedly until they bled to death. Children under that age were chained like animals and sold to goblin slavers. The men were crucified along the village walls, their guts hanging out, left to scream for hours before they died."

"Stop this at once!" the Chief Judge commanded.

"WHY?" Kalyon roared, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "Does the truth make you uncomfortable? Does it disturb your delicate sensibilities?"

Several nobles were on their feet now, shouting protests, but Kalyon's voice cut through them all.

"The orcs had maps! Detailed garrison schedules! They knew exactly when to strike because someone sold them that information!" His chains rattled as he gestured wildly. "Slavery is forbidden in the empire, but you've found a way around that, haven't you? Let the raids happen, let the slaves be taken, then take your cut when they're sold in foreign markets!"

Lady Blackwater's face had gone white. "These accusations are—"

"TRUE!" Kalyon screamed. "Every word! Your banks processed the payments! Lord Athen's ships moved the cargo! Count Aldren's guards were paid to look the other way!"

The chamber descended into chaos, nobles shouting denials, guards stepping forward uncertainly.

"Forty-seven children from Millbrook alone!" Kalyon's voice cracked but didn't break. "Sold like livestock! And you know what happened to the ones too young to work? The goblins cut their throats and fed them to their war hounds!"

He turned toward his father. "Tell them, father. Tell them about the investigation you ordered stopped. Tell them about the noble houses you refused to prosecute because it would be 'destabilizing to imperial unity.'"

"SILENCE!" Emperor Rayhan finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tumult.

"Silence, huh? Like you silenced Uncle Soren when he tried to stop this?"

Gasps echoed through the hall. Several nobles sat down heavily.

"Oh, forgive me," Kalyon's voice dripped with venom. "General Soren 'rebelled' against the empire, didn't he? That's the official story. A decorated war hero who spent fifteen years defending the realm suddenly turned traitor overnight."

He looked directly at his father. "He discovered the slave trafficking. The shipping manifests. The payment records. He was going to expose it all. So you branded him a rebel and had him executed."

The hall erupted. Nobles leaped to their feet, shouting denials and demands for order.

"They burned his daughter, Morgana, alive. Found her charred beyond recognition. The boys had their throats cut just like his wife."

"These are lies!" Lord Redbrook shouted.

"ARE THEY?" Kalyon whirled toward him. "Then explain why the 'rebellion' evidence was sealed! Explain why his loyal officers were all reassigned to distant posts! Explain why his family had to die with him!"

His gaze swept the chamber. "You all know Soren wasn't a traitor! Every single one of you knew him personally. You all knew his personality, his honor!"

Kalyon's eyes found Archmage Gaius among the mages' section. "And you! The high and mighty Magisterium! Too pure to interfere in 'non-mage' affairs!"

The archmage's face remained impassive.

"Your precious neutrality," Kalyon spat. "You could end these wars with a thought! You could teleport our armies anywhere! You could burn our enemies' capitals to ash! But no—that would compromise your political detachment!"

Several mages shifted uncomfortably as Kalyon continued. "You sit in your towers while the empire bleeds because you've decided magic is too important to waste on protecting people!"

"The Magisterium maintains--" Gaius began.

"The Magisterium maintains nothing!" Kalyon cut him off. "You watch our people die and call it wisdom!"

Gaius stood slowly, his expression unchanged. When he spoke, his voice carried the patience of someone explaining a fundamental truth to a child.

"Prince Kalyon, we have battle mages on every front. They heal your wounded, shield your soldiers, and yes, they kill your enemies. But they do so within carefully negotiated limits that every major power respects."

He gestured calmly toward the hall. "You speak of teleporting armies and burning capitals. Do you imagine the Elven Consortium lacks mages capable of the same? That the Dwarven Holds have no earth-shapers who could collapse our cities into sinkholes? That the Tirajin Federation's storm-callers couldn't drown our coastal provinces beneath tsunamis?"

Kalyon's jaw tightened, but Gaius continued in the same measured tone.

"Magic is a tool of creation, Prince. We build your roads, purify your water, grow your crops in barren soil. We extend lives, cure plagues, light your cities. This is what magic should serve. Life, not death."

"Yet people die while you debate philosophy." Kalyon snarled.

"People die, yes. But not civilizations." Gaius's voice never wavered. "The moment one nation unleashes unrestricted magical warfare like you were about to do, every other power will respond in kind. Not because they wish to, but because they must, or face annihilation."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"Tell me, Prince. When mages begin reshaping continents as weapons and turn entire populations into mind-controlled slaves, when necromancers raise armies of the dead numbered in millions, how many of your precious subjects will survive that conflict?"

"You're describing fantasy," Kalyon shot back. "Scare tactics."

"I'm describing Tuesday," Gaius replied with devastating calm. "Any Tuesday, in a world where magical restraint has collapsed. We regulate our power precisely as other nations regulate theirs. Not from cowardice, but from the understanding that this world would not exist in a hundred years if we did otherwise."

Kalyon leaned forward against his chains. "Then strike first. Destroy them before they can respond! Show such overwhelming force that—"

"That what? That survivors spend the next century developing weapons specifically designed to kill mages? That we prove to every non-magical population that we are indeed the threat they've always feared?" Gaius shook his head. "You think like a boy, not like someone who must live with the consequences of power."

The archmage's voice remained infuriatingly steady. "The empire has endured for centuries, Prince Kalyon. It has survived wars, plagues, famines, and rebellions. It will survive these current troubles as well, if we do not destroy the very foundations of civilization in our haste to 'save' it. We are not weak, we are restrained."

"Tell that to my mother," Kalyon's voice cracked with emotion, "the Empress of Sundar, was killed by a handful of centaur raiders. For gold. They ambushed the Imperial convoy like common bandits because they knew—THEY KNEW—that there would be no consequences."

Gaius sat back down, silent.

The prince turned to his father, tears of rage streaming down his face. "Three guards! Three guards for the mother of your heir! Because our military is so stretched, so weakened, that we can't even protect our own family!"

"The centaurs calculated the risk," Kalyon continued relentlessly. "They weighed the bounty on her head against the empire's ability to retaliate. And you know what they concluded? That killing an empress was worth the risk because Sundar has become toothless!"

He turned back to the nobles, his voice rising to a scream. "This is what we've become! An empire so weak that bandits kill our empress! So pathetic that miserable orcs raid our villages! So toothless that our own allies mock us behind closed doors!"

"Silence!" the Judge of Loyalty commanded. "This is not the time for speeches!"

"When is the time, then?" Kalyon demanded, his eyes blazing. "When the northern provinces fall to the goblin hordes? When the eastern ports burn under the orc raiders? When the treasury is so depleted that you're conscripting children into the war effort?"

His gaze fixed on Professor Kim. "Amadeus. Tell them what I said when I first approached you about creating a weapon. Before you refused. Tell them about the reports of the empire's failed campaigns, the territories lost, the cities burned while our forces were stretched too thin."

Kim shrank in his seat, unable to meet Kalyon's eyes.

"The accused will address only the bench," the Chief Judge warned.

"Fine!" Kalyon turned to the judges, but his voice still carried to every corner. "I'll tell you what I told the council. That the empire is dying. That we cannot win these wars on multiple fronts. That we need a weapon so terrible, so devastating, that our enemies would not dare attack us again."

One minute to 11:45.

"And these old fucks, they denied me," he continued, voice rising. "Called it dishonorable. Called it excessive. While our enemies develop their own weapons, while our soldiers die, while our cities burn!"

He gestured toward his father with his bound hands. "He denied me because he would rather lose the empire piece by piece than win it with a single, decisive blow."

Emperor Rayhan's face darkened, but he remained silent.

"You speak of treason?" Kalyon laughed again. "What greater treason is there than to watch your empire crumble when you have the power to save it?"

"This outburst only confirms your guilt," the Judge of Truth declared.

"FUCK YOU! Of course it does," Kalyon sneered. "Because truth is whatever the emperor decides it is. Just as it was when he ordered Aledia burned. Just as it was when he had his own brother, niece and nephews executed. Just as it has always been for the great Emperor Rayhan!"

He turned to face his father directly now. "Tell me, father, how many more cities are you willing to sacrifice? How many more subjects will you watch die for your precious honor?"

The emperor's jaw tightened. "You forget yourself, Kalyon."

"No, I remember myself. I remember who I am. The prince who tried to save an empire while its emperor played at dignity."

Thirty seconds to 11:45.

Kalyon's gaze moved to his siblings. "And you two. One too ambitious to see beyond court politics, the other too cowardly to stand for anything. What fine rulers you'll make when father finally falls."

Marene's face flushed with anger. Ghorin looked as if he might be sick.

"You all deserve what's coming," Kalyon said, his voice dropping to an almost intimate tone. "All of you who sit in judgment while refusing to see the empire bleeding out before your eyes."

His eyes swept the chamber again, noting how Lord Darrow had straightened in his seat, how Lady Crestfall's hand had slipped into her pocket, how several other nobles were shifting, preparing.

Twenty seconds.

"I would have built a better empire from the ashes of the old," Kalyon continued, addressing the entire hall now. "I would have created something that could withstand any enemy, any threat."

Ten seconds.

"Instead, you'll die clinging to your outdated notions of honor while the empire burns around you."

Five seconds.

Kalyon's smile widened, teeth bright against his bloodied face. "And that, my dear father, honored judges, noble lords and ladies, is something I would very much like to see."

11:45.

"Goodbye."

The chamber erupted into motion.

Lord Darrow surged to his feet, crystal in hand. Lady Crestfall and three other nobles followed suit, reaching for their transportation crystals. Guards turned, confused by the sudden movement.

Kalyon's head swiveled toward the exits, ears straining for the explosions that should be rocking the building.

Nothing.

No explosions. No screams from outside. No trembling walls.

Lord Darrow's face contorted with confusion as he frantically activated his crystal. Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

"What...?" Lady Crestfall whispered, staring at her useless crystal.

Silence fell across the hall as comprehension dawned. Then, from his position among the mages, Archmage Gaius stood. His face was calm, his voice steady.

"Men," he said simply. "Seize the traitors."

In an instant, the chamber transformed. Mages shimmered into visibility throughout the hall—they had been there all along, hidden by invisibility spells. Imperial guards moved toward the nobles who had revealed themselves.

"No," Kalyon whispered, understanding crashing over him like ice water. "No, no, no..."

Lord Darrow tried to run but was tackled by two guards. Lady Crestfall stood frozen, crystal still clutched uselessly in her hand as a mage in silver robes bound her arms with magical restraints.

"Your conspirators throughout the city have been apprehended," the Archmage announced, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Your Devoted, as you call them, have been neutralized. Your explosives, disarmed."

The realization hit Kalyon like a physical blow. Everything—his plans, his allies, his future—all shattered in an instant.

"No," he whispered, then louder, "NO!"

He lunged forward with sudden, manic strength, the chains between his ankles snapping taut. His eyes locked on the sword at the nearest guard's hip.

"I will not be your puppet!" he screamed, voice cracking. "I will not be your spectacle!"

The guard reacted too slowly. Kalyon's bound hands grasped the hilt, half-drawing the blade before others could respond.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall as Gaius gestured sharply. Kalyon's leg twisted at an unnatural angle with a sickening snap. He collapsed, the sword clattering to the marble floor.

Kalyon's screamed. He clawed at the marble, fingernails breaking against stone as he dragged himself toward the fallen sword.

"Kill me!" he shrieked, spittle and blood spraying from his lips. "If you have any mercy left, kill me now!"

The hall fell silent, horrified by the spectacle.

"Father!" Kalyon's voice cracked as he turned his bloodshot eyes to the emperor. "You've taken everything else. Take my life too. I beg you!"

Emperor Rayhan stood motionless, his face carved from stone.

Kalyon laughed, a terrible sound that held no humor. "The great emperor, too cowardly even for this mercy."

He dragged himself another inch toward the sword. A guard moved to retrieve it, but Gaius held up a hand, stopping him.

"Look at them," Kalyon snarled, gesturing wildly at his co-conspirators being rounded up. Lord Darrow was already naming names, his voice high with panic. Lady Crestfall had collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

"Your noble houses," Kalyon spat. "Your loyal subjects. See how quickly they turn on each other."

He managed to grasp the sword's edge, cutting his own palm. Blood welled between his fingers as he tried to turn the blade toward his own chest.

"My prince, stop this," one of the older guards pleaded, distress in his voice.

"I AM NO PRINCE!" Kalyon roared, eyes wild. "I am nothing! Nothing but your entertainment for today. So let me finish the performance!"

The sword was pulled from his grasp. Kalyon howled in frustration, then collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. His body convulsed with each breath, broken leg twisted beneath him.

"Kill me," he begged, voice now a hoarse whisper. "Please. Please kill me."

The silence that followed was worse than any jeering could have been. Hundreds of eyes watched his complete disintegration with a mixture of horror, pity, and fascination.

"I can't," he moaned, curling into himself. "I can't go back to that cell. I can't live with this..."

His eyes found his father's again, tears streaming unchecked down his face. "Father. Please."

For a moment—just a moment—something flickered in Emperor Rayhan's eyes. Then it was gone.

"Take him away," the emperor commanded.

As guards moved to lift him, Kalyon's eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp in their arms—consciousness finally, mercifully deserting him.

Suddenly, a sound unlike anything they'd ever heard tore through the Hall of Justice. It wasn't quite an explosion—more like a scream, but impossibly loud, impossibly deep. A sound no human throat could produce.

The marble floor vibrated beneath their feet. Dust sifted down from the domed ceiling.

Everyone froze.

The sound tapered off, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. For three heartbeats, nobody moved.

Then Gaius's communication crystal pulsed. He plucked it from his robe calmly, though his face had gone pale.

"Report," he commanded.

A panicked voice erupted from the crystal, loud enough for those nearby to hear.

"Sir! It's the boy! He apprehended the leader, just as planned, but then—" The voice broke off, replaced by sounds of chaos in the background.

"Speak clearly," Gaius ordered.

"The man... he changed, sir. His body—it just erupted. Grew three times his size in seconds. Bones breaking, reforming. Like nothing I've ever seen."

The archmage's knuckles whitened around the crystal. "Where?"

"The boy used a transportation crystal. Took the fight away from the city. They're over the ocean now, eastern quadrant. We can see the flashes of magic from the harbor wall."

Emperor Rayhan had descended from his throne, standing now at Gaius's shoulder. "What manner of magic is this?" he demanded.

Gaius shook his head once, sharply. Into the crystal, he said, "Casualties?"

"None, sir. Could have been the entire square if the boy hadn't reacted so quickly."

The archmage closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, they burned with cold fire.

"I'm coming."