The hall to the upper tower was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that came from peace, but the kind that waited to break. Even Callum's footsteps on the stone floor came back to him too softly, like the sound didn't want to exist here.
He hadn't spoken since leaving 9-Z's wing.
Elly had watched him go with a rare moment of silence, her usual upside-down grin absent. Harlan just handed him a plain, unmarked blade. "For luck," he said. "And in case luck fails."
Callum didn't know if it was meant to comfort him. It didn't.
He climbed the last stair and found a door of pale iron.
There was no handle. No inscription. Just a single sigil at eye level—an unblinking eye wrapped in flame. Not carved. Not painted. Burned directly into the metal.
Callum raised a hand. Before he could knock, the door swung open without a sound.
The chamber beyond was round. High. Too high. The walls faded into shadow far above, but he could feel the height pressing down on him like a weight.
Torches burned without fuel, each flame a different color—sea green, deep red, blue as a dying star. They cast no heat. Only strange shadows.
In the center, a circle of etched silver surrounded a single high-backed chair.
The man in the chair didn't rise when Callum entered.
"Callum," said the Archmage.
The voice was soft. Deep. Not cruel, but the kind of calm that made cruelty unnecessary. Callum had heard whispers about Verrin. That he was immortal. That he'd rewritten his own memory to stop feeling guilt. That he once turned an entire class of necromancers into statues, and used them to decorate his greenhouse.
The man before him didn't look terrifying. He wore plain robes. His face was lined, but not ancient. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers curled loosely.
But his eyes...
They were not eyes. Not really.
Twin spheres of mirrored glass stared from the Archmage's face, reflecting everything—and nothing.
Callum stood straighter. "You summoned me."
"I did."
A pause.
Callum waited. Silence stretched. The air tasted of copper.
"I'm told you lied to a student in a duel," Verrin said. "And that he believed you. That, for several seconds, you caused a time dilation effect without temporal magic."
"I didn't—" Callum started, then stopped.
The Archmage tilted his head slightly. "Didn't what?"
"I didn't intend to deceive the Academy."
Verrin raised a hand. Not to stop him. Just a gesture. "Intent matters less than outcome."
Another pause.
"What is your Skill?" Verrin asked.
Callum swallowed. "Lie."
"Say it clearly."
He hesitated. Then: "My Skill is called [Lie]. If someone believes what I say, even for a moment, it becomes true."
There was a pause. And then—very softly—Verrin laughed.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't kind, either. Just dry.
"How delicate," he said. "And how catastrophically dangerous."
Callum opened his mouth. Verrin raised a finger.
"You will not speak unless asked."
The command didn't feel like power. It didn't pulse with mana or pressure. But Callum felt it in his bones.
He nodded.
Verrin stood. The movement was slow, but something in the room shifted when he did.
The torchlight bent around him.
"Do you know why this Skill is forbidden?" Verrin asked.
Callum blinked. Forbidden?
"No record of [Lie] exists in any sanctioned academy," Verrin continued. "Not in twelve countries. Not in any volume of binding. Do you know why?"
Callum said nothing.
Verrin stepped closer. His presence didn't press down—it unraveled space around him, like reality was shy in his presence.
"Because it violates trust," Verrin said. "Because it makes power subjective. And subjectivity is an enemy of order."
Callum felt a chill crawl up his back.
"You didn't earn your victory," Verrin continued. "You stole it. Not through force or knowledge, but belief. A whisper in a system built on logic."
He circled.
"You can lie about healing. Lie about summoning. Lie about divinity. And if the world around you buys it, it happens."
"I didn't ask for this Skill," Callum said quietly.
"No one asks for warheads, either," Verrin replied.
He stopped. Looked directly at Callum.
"You are a truth-eater," he said. "And every word you speak makes the world less certain."
The Archmage extended a hand.
A thin sliver of light formed in his palm—solid, sharp. A blade, not made of steel, but of written glyphs. Each one shimmered, unreadable.
"I have the right to erase you," Verrin said. "Before this power spreads. Before it teaches others to doubt what they see. What they know."
Callum's breath caught.
But Verrin didn't move.
Instead, he said, "Convince me not to."
Callum blinked.
"What?"
"Convince me," Verrin said again. "Lie, if you must. But if I believe you—truly believe—I will let you live."
He said it as if offering a cup of tea.
Callum stood in silence.
His heart was pounding too hard to think clearly. His body wanted to run. His mind wanted to freeze.
Lie. That was the demand. Not argue. Not plead.
He had to lie well enough that a man who saw through nations—through souls—believed him.
He thought fast.
If he said I'm already dead, Verrin would see the bluff.
If he said I'm your apprentice, it would be seen as arrogance.
No. The lie had to be real enough that it bent reality toward him. Something Verrin wanted to believe.
So he said—very slowly—"You've already decided not to kill me."
Verrin tilted his head.
[Lie] activated.
Target: Archmage Verrin
Belief Level: Unstable
Effect: Predictive thought cascade
Duration: pending
Callum stepped forward.
"You could have erased me the moment I walked in. You could've done it without words. But you asked. You lectured. You waited."
He took another step.
"Because you're curious. Because you've never seen this before."
Belief Level: Shifting
Reality thread: splitting
"You won't destroy me, because I'm a question you don't have the answer to yet."
He stopped within arm's reach.
"Let me be your question. Just a little longer."
The blade of glyphs pulsed once.
Then vanished.
Verrin stared at him for a long moment.
Then—barely audible—he said, "Interesting."
He turned and walked back to the chair.
"You will remain in 9-Z," he said, sitting again. "You will not use your Skill without explicit permission, unless your life is threatened."
Callum nodded, not daring to speak.
"You will write a full report—unfiltered—of every time your ability activates."
Callum nodded again.
"And if you lie to me, I will know."
A long silence passed.
"Go."
Callum bowed slightly and turned to leave.
As he stepped through the iron door, Verrin's voice followed him like a blade at his neck.
"Callum."
He froze.
"One last question," Verrin said. "When you said I'd already decided to spare you…"
"Yes?"
"Was it true?"
Callum smiled without turning.
"Does it matter?"