Alvin's workshop smelled of burnt herbs and old parchment, the air thick with crackling mana. A chalky magic circle sprawled across the stone floor, drawn in precise lines of pale powder. At its center sat Valerius's worn red handkerchief, fluttering slightly in the drafty room as Alvin chanted, voice low and resonant.
Minutes passed in tense silence, runes around the circle flickering weakly before sputtering out. Alvin slumped back on his heels with a frustrated sigh. "Nothing," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Can't find him. Which means…" He rose with sudden energy, crossing the cluttered room to a rusted drawer. He rifled through its chaotic contents and emerged with a wicked-looking ritual knife.
He turned, eyes glittering. "Well, guess we have no choice," he said, voice far too cheerful as he brandished the blade.
Eryndor arched an eyebrow. "I suspect I shall come to rue this inquiry, but… for what purpose?"
"You wanted my special magic, right?" Alvin shot back, sweeping his hand over the old circle. A gust of conjured wind scattered the powder into the air like crimson snow. "So let's get on with it."
He poured fresh powder in careful lines, etching a new diagram—this time a triangle covered in dense, looping inscriptions that glowed faintly in the gloom. Alvin gestured to the triangle's center. "Sit," he commanded.
Eryndor lowered himself into the center of the triangle, eyes never leaving Alvin's manic grin. Alvin dropped across from him, the flickering blue light of the silence field casting sharp shadows on their faces. He extended his hand. "Give me your hand. You and your brother share blood—that's the strongest connection possible."
Eryndor placed his hand in Alvin's, expression cool and composed. Alvin lifted the ritual knife and pressed it against Eryndor's palm—only for the blade to slide harmlessly off, leaving not even a scratch.
Alvin's smile twitched. He adjusted his grip and slashed harder, eyes narrowing in concentration. The blade skittered across Eryndor's skin with a metallic hiss but left no mark. Alvin's jaw clenched, veins bulging as he drove the knife up and down with frantic precision, biting his lip.
"You are aware," Eryndor remarked dryly, observing him with a flicker of bemused detachment, "that you presently resemble a raving lunatic."
"Shut. Up." Alvin growled through clenched teeth, raising the knife high. With a furious yell, he stabbed downward—only for the blade to stop abruptly on Eryndor's hand like it had struck uncuttable leather.
Alvin stared at the ruined blade, breathing hard, eyes wide with disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he whispered. He grabbed Eryndor's hand, inspecting it closely, fingers tracing the smooth, unblemished skin. "It's soft… just like a normal hand… but it won't cut?!"
His gaze flicked up, eyes gleaming with manic curiosity. "This isn't normal. How are you like this?"
Eryndor shrugged with the casual indifference of one discussing the weather. "I have not the faintest notion. For as long as memory serves, I have never sustained an injury. Not even once." He paused, his eyes growing shadowed. "That is… until I found myself here."
"Here?" Alvin asked sharply. "You mean Zitry?"
Eryndor shook his head. "No… Clanlyor."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of shifting mana. Eryndor took the knife from Alvin's trembling hands, placed the blade against his own palm, and pressed hard. The metal squealed—and then bent, like a toy.
Alvin let out a strangled laugh, hands shaking. "Look at that," he rasped, voice somewhere between awe and hysteria. "Even you… can't hurt yourself."
He staggered to his feet, raking a hand through his wild hair. "If you want me to find your brother," he said hoarsely, eyes flicking to the bent knife, "you'll need to find a way to bleed." He kicked through the red powder, dispersing the triangle's lines like broken glass. "Go to the Augmenters' section," he said, voice returning to its usual flippant tone. "I'm sure someone there can… make you bleed."
Eryndor stepped out into the afternoon air, the doors of the cluttered study swinging shut behind him. A cool breeze stirred his hair as he raised his hand, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. His gaze lingered on the smooth skin, eyes dark with reflection.
My body has always been markedly sturdier than that of my siblings, he mused, memories surfacing—Ziraiah standing beside the mountain face they had once tested their strength upon, her crater carved far deeper and wider than his own during their days in the Unbound hideout. I suppose… the tables have turned.
"Hey—wait up!" Alvin's shrill voice rang out. Eryndor paused as the blue-haired giant bounded after him, breathless and disheveled. Alvin fell into step beside him. "So… who exactly are you planning to ask?"
Eryndor's eyes swept the moonlit courtyard with cool detachment. "Anyone," he replied, voice low and smooth, every syllable precise as cut glass.
They strode across the academy grounds to the Augmenters' Hall—an imposing structure of blackstone, its massive frame easily large enough to house two football fields, rising five stories into the sky. Its grand entrance bore the word AUGMENTERS in burnished bronze letters.
Inside, the hall roared with life. The sparring grounds sprawled like an arena of warriors. Augmenters clashed in titanic duels, weapons singing through the air, every blow reverberating with the promise of devastation. Yet the enchanted floor remained untouched, impervious to destruction.
Alvin's eyes darted over the combatants with gleeful calculation. "Let's see…" he murmured, gaze landing on a towering figure mid-spar. "Ah, there—Steven of House Bekon. He's got the muscle. Let's go with him."
Steven was a giant of a youth with brown hair plastered to his brow, trading furious strikes with Rachel of House Treble, a fierce young woman with cropped hair and a predator's glare. Alvin cupped his hands and shouted, "HEY, STEVEN! GET OVER HERE!"
The two combatants froze, weapons lowering. Rachel gave Steven a sidelong look, brow arched. "Are you friends with that clown?"
Steven's eyes darkened. "No."
Rachel smirked. "Looks like you are."
"I'm not!" Steven snapped, veins bulging.
"Then go see what he wants," Rachel drawled, leaning on her sword.
Steven stalked over, snatching a towel from the bench and wiping sweat from his face with curt, furious motions. He stopped before them, eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" he growled.
Alvin threw an arm around Steven's broad shoulders, voice honey-sweet and poison-sharp. "Look, my friend here"—he gestured lazily to Eryndor—"he said he could break you like a twig any day of the week. Claims you're nothing but hot air."
Steven's face darkened to thundercloud black. "What did you say?" he hissed, muscles tightening.
Alvin's grin widened, eyes alight with wicked amusement. "So how about you prove him wrong?"
Steven rounded on Eryndor, stomping the ground. "You!" he roared, voice carrying over the clash of the arena. "Say it. Say it to my face!"
Eryndor raised a single brow, eyes calm as moonlight on still water. "Pardon me," he intoned, voice silken and unhurried, "but I believe there has been an egregious misunderstanding—"
Steven's fist snapped out like a cannon shot. But to Eryndor, the world slowed: he watched the trajectory of the punch with clinical detachment, every muscle fiber of Steven's arm clear as daylight. With a subtle tilt of his head, he let the strike hiss past.
"I assure you," Eryndor continued smoothly, his voice a study in composed elegance, "this regrettable confusion—"
The second punch came faster, rage-fueled and wild. Steven's knuckles crashed into Eryndor's face with a sound like a battering ram hitting stone. Eryndor flew backward, smashing into the wall with a bone-jarring impact. Dust burst outward in a choking cloud—but the enchanted walls remained pristine, unmarred.
Alvin folded his arms, smirking as he watched Eryndor slump from the impact. Augmenters, he thought with amused derision, all brawn, no brains. So predictable.
Eryndor pushed himself upright, blood trailing from his nose—only for Steven's heavy boot to slam down, grinding his head back into the stone floor. Gasps rippled through the gathered students as the resounding thud echoed across the battle hall.
A girl near the back whispered hoarsely, "Isn't that the new kid…?"
Another hissed, eyes wide, "What's Steven doing? That's a caster—he'll get expelled if he kills him!"
A third voice rose, shrill with disbelief, "Did Steven just stomp a caster? Has he lost his mind?"
Steven loomed above Eryndor, voice dripping with derision as he pressed his heel harder. "Say it to my face," he snarled, veins bulging at his temple.
Rachel darted forward, eyes wild. "Steven, stop it! You'll get yourself expelled!"
But before anyone could react, Eryndor's hand shot out with serpentine speed, gripping Steven's ankle in a vice-like hold. A hush fell over the room as the caster began to rise—lifting Steven's massive foot cleanly from his own face.
Steven's eyes went wide with stunned disbelief, mouth working soundlessly.
A thin trail of blood dripped from Eryndor's nose as he stood, head bowed slightly, voice resonating with quiet, dangerous authority. "You… are inciting within me a most profound ire," he intoned, each word crisp and glacial.
Then, with a whipcrack motion, Eryndor pivoted, dragging Steven's leg behind him and slamming the Augmenter's towering body into the enchanted floor with bone-jarring force. Steven howled as the impact reverberated through the room.
Eryndor placed his foot firmly upon Steven's face, pinning him like a predator with its prey. His eyes were cold, his voice cutting and refined as he looked down upon the struggling Augmenter. "You dare presume to defile my visage with your filthy boot?" he said, voice rising with imperious disdain. "Know this: I have no predilection for violence… yet neither shall I abide such egregious insolence."
Around them, whispers swelled into shocked murmurs.
Did he… just overpower Steven? Rachel thought, heart hammering.
Another student gasped aloud, "How is this possible? Isn't he a caster?"
A boy beside her stammered, "Is he a combat mage?"
A girl near the wall whispered, eyes wide as saucers, "It can't be… combat mages are rarer than dragonfire…"
Eryndor pressed his foot down harder, the sharp crack of pain tearing a scream from Steven's throat. He leaned in, his words smooth and aristocratic, dripping with dark promise. "Mark my words: I will not suffer fools who presume to stand above me—especially not today, when my patience is most perilously thin."
The entire hall fell silent but for Steven's ragged, whimpering breaths—every student watching, eyes wide, as the quiet caster revealed a tempest beneath his composed exterior.
Alvin stood frozen, mind racing as he watched Eryndor's retreating form. Who the hell is Eryndor? he thought wildly. He just easily beat Steven—a bona fide Augmenter—and he did it without even using mana!
Eryndor stepped off Steven's crumpled body with regal poise, his boots silent on the enchanted floor as he approached Alvin. Alvin's eyes flicked to the thin rivulet of blood still trailing from Eryndor's nose. A sharp, toothy grin split Alvin's face. "My plan," he said brightly, "worked perfectly."
Eryndor's cold, cerulean eyes rose to meet Alvin's. His voice was smooth and low, each word enunciated with razor-sharp precision. "You… instigated this ignoble brawl?"
Alvin shrugged grandly, flourishing one hand as a slender glass bottle appeared from his coat. "We needed your blood," he said cheerfully. "I found… a solution."
With a casual flick of his wrist, Alvin guided the slow trickle of Eryndor's nosebleed into the bottle, the crimson liquid swirling as if drawn by an invisible hand.
Eryndor's gaze narrowed, his voice dark and imperious. "You… anticipated this outcome?" he demanded, each syllable a blade of accusation.
Alvin's eyes danced with mischief. "You're barely injured, and we achieved our goal. I call that a resounding success." He turned with a jaunty spin. "Come along!"
They strode through the marble halls, students parting like water before them. Eryndor's steps were silent and precise, his tone clipped with disdain as he spoke softly at Alvin's shoulder. "It becomes abundantly clear to me why your social sphere is so… decidedly barren."
Alvin laughed, unconcerned. "You'll come to appreciate my charm in time."
They reached Alvin's chambers, the cluttered room once again filled with flickering candles, shifting runes, and the faint scent of burned herbs. Alvin swept his hand across the floor, red powder blooming outward as he drew the intricate triangle. His voice dropped as he chanted, the air thickening with shimmering mana. A pale dome of silence fell over the chamber.
Alvin unfurled a detailed map of Yardrad across the triangle's center, placing the bottle before him. He pulled the cork and tipped a single drop of Eryndor's blood onto the map's worn parchment.
They settled just outside the glowing triangle, the red inscriptions pulsing like a heartbeat. Alvin's voice grew low and rhythmic, weaving arcane syllables that resonated with quiet power. The triangle glowed with a deep, sinister crimson—and the blood drop began to writhe across the map like a living thing.
Outside the silence barrier, the world was deathly still—but within, the air thrummed with tense purpose.
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To Be Continued…