Chapter 30 – The Tower's Judgment
The great hall of Baron Tyreth's manor in Drenwick was silent save for the sound of rain dripping against the stained glass. Nobles of the surrounding region had gathered—minor lords, a knightly cousin of the Valebridge family, two merchant-patrons who had bankrolled raids against Goldbear caravans.
All of them leaned forward anxiously as Tyreth's steward stumbled into the chamber, soaked from travel.
"Well?" Tyreth demanded. His heavy frame leaned against the carved chair like a vulture. "What word from the Tower envoy? Did Marlek expose the fraud?"
The steward swallowed. His voice came out trembling.
"My lord… Wizard Marlek met with the Viscount… and left peacefully."
The room erupted.
"Impossible!" one noble shouted. "A mere apprentice cannot face a 4-ring wizard!"
"Marlek is incorruptible," another snarled. "He cannot be bribed!"
"Then… what happened?"
Tyreth's face darkened. "Explain. Every detail."
The steward bowed low. "The envoy questioned Viscount Goldbear directly. Rumors of strange artifacts, of the dungeon—everything. The Viscount answered with calm. Then… Marlek demanded he show strength. The boy struck, and… Marlek laughed."
He trembled as he repeated the words spoken in the manor:
> "You wield spells as tools, not crutches. You have potential."
The chamber fell silent again. The nobles looked to one another, their schemes unraveling before their eyes.
It was Ser Alaric of Valebridge who broke the quiet, voice sharp with disbelief. "So instead of condemnation, the Tower has given him recognition?"
The steward nodded miserably.
Tyreth slammed a fist against the table, splintering the wood. "Damn it all! That brat was supposed to be crushed under the Tower's heel, not lifted up like some rising star!"
Spittle flew as he shouted, his face red. "Do you not see what this means? The Tower will watch him, yes—but they will not hinder him. That leaves us exposed. The merchants flock to him, the militia wears enchanted arms, and now he has the Tower's shadow as shield!"
One noblewoman wrung her hands. "Then what do we do? Already caravans bypass our routes to deal with the Goldbear Fusion Company. Our tariffs shrink by the day."
Another hissed, "If we strike directly, the Tower may see us as the threat."
Tyreth snarled. "Then we strike indirectly. If the Tower will not bury him, we will make him drown in enemies. Bandits, mercenaries, debts, slander—whatever it takes."
But Ser Alaric, armored even at the council table, shook his head. His eyes were cool, pragmatic.
"You do not understand Marlek," he said. "That man is no politician. If he saw merit in Goldbear, then he will not tolerate underhanded sabotage in his shadow. Should he sniff our hand behind some 'banditry,' he would grind our bones into mortar."
Tyreth glared. "Then what do you suggest? Sit idle while a merchant viscount rises above us?"
Alaric's jaw tightened. "I suggest patience. The boy has talent, yes, but no apprentice can leap to the heavens overnight. His growth will slow. His enemies will grow naturally. If we wait, he will stumble without our intervention."
Tyreth spat. "Patience? While our coffers bleed?"
Alaric leaned close, lowering his voice. "Better empty coffers than empty graves. Remember: Marlek may be gone, but the Tower still watches. If you move too rashly, it is not Goldbear you will fight—it is the Tower itself."
The council broke into factions. Some agreed with Tyreth—demanding swift, brutal action. Others sided with Alaric, preferring to wait, to watch, to strangle Goldbear with politics rather than blades.
Tyreth's rage smoldered. His pride as Baron of Drenwick, the official overseer of the region, could not accept being outshone by a mere viscount.
As the nobles argued, his steward leaned close and whispered, "My lord, perhaps… there are allies beyond Fae Wood. Allies who would not care for the Tower's gaze."
Tyreth's eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"There are whispers from the north. Crimson Alliance mercenaries displaced after their last defeat… Frost Elf sellswords eager for coin… and perhaps even agents of the Dark Fae Market, who resent Goldbear's growing share."
For the first time that evening, Tyreth's lips curved into a smile. "Yes… If the Tower shields him from within, then we shall invite pressure from without."
While the nobles plotted, Glic sat in his underground chamber, quill scratching across parchment.
The System hummed around him, recording data from his latest merges:
Dire Wolf + Bless → Wolf Vanguard. Emits aura that increases ally morale and bite force.
Giant Frog + Thunderclap → Stun Toad. Croak creates concussive shockwave within 15 feet.
Kobold + Catapult + Sword Burst → Living Ballista. Fires volleys of spinning blades with terrifying precision.
His army grew stranger, stronger, more versatile with each experiment.
But even as he wrote notes, he remembered Marlek's amber eyes boring into him.
You have potential.
It was not praise. It was a warning.
Potential drew predators.
The System flickered, text scrolling across his vision.
> [Alert: Regional Political Pressure Increasing.]
[Baron Tyreth Faction Hostility Level: Elevated.]
[Recommendation: Establish Political Cover or Stronger External Alliance.]
Glic leaned back, fingers steepled. "So. The game begins."
In Tyreth's hall, nobles whispered of mercenaries, foreign allies, and hidden daggers.
In Goldbear's manor, spells merged and monsters grew ever stronger.
And high above, in the crystalline spire of the Wizard Tower, silver-haired eyes watched both sides with quiet amusement.
The Faerie King's voice was faint, but certain:
"Pieces are moving. Let us see which falls first—ambition, or restraint."