The stern-faced Magister, his robes the color of a starless night, led Mehandi down a series of labyrinthine corridors. The academy's usual vibrant magical hum faded, replaced by a cold, sterile silence. They descended deep into the mountain, past ancient wards and silent sentinels carved from obsidian. Mehandi felt the institutional power of the Magisterium in every stone, a power that was absolute and unforgiving.
The chamber they entered was circular, its walls a polished, dark stone that absorbed all light. In the center was a single, floating crystal that pulsed with a cold, blue glow. An elderly Magister sat at a table carved from a single piece of petrified wood, his face a mask of detached authority. He gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Mr. Volkov," he said, his voice as dry as dust. "My name is Silas. We have reviewed the reports of your... unusual abilities."
Mehandi sat, his hands resting on the cold stone table. He felt the life in it, the petrified memory of the tree it had once been. "They are a part of me, Magister. They are not unnatural."
Silas gave a short, humorless laugh. "Unnatural? We are told you died and returned. We are told you command a power with no known origin. Your brothers, Leo and Ivan, have petitioned for your exile, claiming you have defiled the sacred laws of magic."
Mehandi's resolve hardened. "My brothers are liars. They poisoned my parents, and they tried to murder me to seize our home. Their magic is of greed and ambition. Mine is of life and restoration."
Silas did not react. He simply placed a parchment on the table, a copy of Ivan's meticulously crafted legal petition. "They have powerful allies, Mr. Volkov. And they have presented evidence from your family's history that you were always the 'weak' one, the one with an affinity for plants, not for power. They claim you sought out a forbidden, primal magic to compensate for your lack."
Mehandi felt a wave of despair. The story of his weakness, so long a source of shame, was now a weapon against him. But a small, quiet thought from the star spirit brought clarity. He would not hide the truth; he would reframe it.
"My weakness was my strength," he said, his voice calm and firm. "My magic is not a product of channeling mana from the atmosphere, but of drawing from the very life of the world. It is a slow, patient magic, born of empathy and harmony. It is the magic of the earth itself, a forgotten, pristine form that my family's legacy of ambition has long since rejected."
He extended his hand, not to conjure a spell, but to show them. He did not create a fire or a bolt of lightning. Instead, a small, shimmering sprout of aether-infused plant life burst forth from the stone table, a tiny, living testament to his power. The sprout was a beacon of pure, concentrated life, a stark contrast to the sterile energy of the chamber.
Silas and the other Magister watched, their cold expressions cracking for a moment. This was not a dark spell. This was creation, a kind of magic they had only read about in ancient texts.
The elder Magister looked at Mehandi, his eyes unreadable. "Your demonstration is... compelling. However, your brothers' petition is not the only matter on our docket. There are whispers of their new allies, of a necromancer and forbidden arts. We cannot act on your behalf until we have a full account of these claims."
He handed Mehandi a small, intricately carved wooden box. "This contains a Veritas Stone. You will return to the Wailing Barrows and gather proof of their deeds. If your claims are true, and if you can demonstrate that your magic is not a threat to the natural order, we will suspend their petition and begin an official inquiry into their actions. Fail, and we will assume the worst."
Mehandi took the box, its weight feeling like a new, final burden. His victory was not the end; it was the beginning of his real trial. He had to go back to the place of his greatest victory to prove his innocence to a world that was primed to condemn him. His true test was not to destroy, but to reveal. He had won the war, but now he had to prove he was worthy of the peace.