Ilsa stood in the square, hand still resting on her sword hilt, staring at the spot where the Archmage had been standing three seconds ago.
Had been. Past tense. Because now he was simply gone.
The cobblestones were empty. The monument still stood behind them, solid and unchanged. The morning air still smelled of fresh bread from the bakery across the street. Everything was exactly as it had been, except for the small detail that a man who'd just been shot in the head had folded space like laundry and vanished.
She wasn't used to this. People disappearing in the blink of an eye. Vanishing into thin air like they'd never been there at all. It wasn't natural. Wasn't normal. Even for someone who'd grown up around mages and spent her entire life in Orlys where magic was as common as rainfall.
"My lady, did that young man just... teleport?"
Ilsa turned to find a middle-aged merchant standing a few feet away, his hands frozen mid-gesture as if he'd been in the middle of haggling with someone. His eyes were fixed on the empty space where Lord Archmage Sael had been standing moments ago.
"He did, yes," she said.
The merchant's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Truly? I thought I'd imagined it. One moment he was there, and then—" He made a small popping gesture with his fingers. "Gone. Just like that."
"Just like that," Ilsa confirmed.
A woman carrying a basket of vegetables had stopped beside the merchant now, craning her neck to look at the empty cobblestones. "Teleportation? Here? In the middle of the square?"
"Apparently so," the merchant said, still sounding slightly dazed.
"Did you see who it was?" A younger man—an apprentice of some kind, judging by the ink stains on his fingers—had drifted over, curiosity overtaking whatever errand he'd been running. "That's not just high-circle work. That's... I don't even know what circle that is. There's maybe a handful of people alive who can do that."
"He had silver hair," the vegetable woman said, frowning in thought. "White, almost. I caught a glimpse before he vanished."
A brief silence fell over the small group. The merchant and the apprentice exchanged glances.
"Could be Archmage Thessara," the merchant said slowly, as if testing the words. "She's one of the few who's mastered spatial magic, isn't she? They say her master's master learned from Sael the Great himself."
"Archmage Thessara is a woman," the apprentice pointed out. "And she's ancient. This fellow looked young. Moved young, too."
"Glamour, perhaps?"
"A glamour to walk around a market square? Why would she bother?"
The vegetable woman shook her head. "What about High Magister Aldros? He's supposed to be able to fold space. I heard he once teleported an entire ship across the Narrow Sea."
"Aldros has black hair," the apprentice said. "And a beard down to his chest. Hard to disguise that, even with illusion magic."
"Could have shaved."
"No one shaves a thirty-year beard to go shopping."
The merchant turned to Ilsa, apparently having decided she was the most reliable witness. "You were standing right next to him, my lady. Did you get a good look? Did he give a name?"
Ilsa opened her mouth to deflect, and found she couldn't.
She'd never been able to lie. Not even small lies. Not even polite ones. The words simply refused to form, getting stuck somewhere between her brain and her tongue like water trying to flow uphill. It was inconvenient at dinner parties and absolutely insufferable during diplomatic functions, and right now it meant she couldn't simply say "I don't know" when she very clearly did.
"I think," she said carefully, "that if he wanted people to know who he was, he would have introduced himself."
The merchant blinked. "So you do know."
"I think it's his business to share, not mine."
The apprentice's eyes went wide. "You know him? Personally?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"I implied that it wasn't my place to speak for him." Ilsa kept her voice pleasant, her expression neutral. "Which it isn't."
The merchant and the vegetable woman exchanged glances. The apprentice looked like he wanted to press further, but something in Ilsa's tone apparently discouraged him.
"Mysterious," the vegetable woman said finally. She was still staring at the empty cobblestones, but her expression had shifted. Calculating now, almost wistful. "Whoever it was... and I just stood here like a fool. Didn't even think to ask if he needed directions, or a meal, or..."
"Or anything," the merchant finished quietly. He looked genuinely pained. "I had a healing question. My daughter—her lungs, you know, the winter sickness that never quite left—and a mage of that caliber could have been of help..."
He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Damn..." The apprentice was practically vibrating with regret. "I should have spoken to him and asked if he needed an assistant. Even carrying his bags for a day, do you know what that could have meant? A recommendation from someone like that? My entire career, just—" He made a frustrated gesture.
Ilsa understood their reaction. Mages of this caliber were rarely seen in public. They had no need to be. They had towers and estates and entire staffs dedicated to handling their affairs. When they did venture out, it was usually for a purpose, and being useful to that purpose, being remembered favorably, could change a family's fortunes for generations.
A healer who could cure the incurable. A spatial mage who could move your goods across large spaces in an instant. An artificer who could craft you a single enchanted tool worth more than your entire livelihood. These were not just powerful people. They were forces of nature wearing human faces, and their goodwill was worth more than gold.
And one had just been standing in this square, approachable, unguarded, and they had all been too stunned to do anything about it.
"You said he seemed in a hurry," the merchant said slowly, turning back to Ilsa. "But he might come back, yes? If you know him..."
"We could wait," the vegetable woman added, her basket already lowering to the ground as if she was preparing to settle in. "Just in case. It wouldn't be any trouble."
The apprentice nodded eagerly. "I don't have anywhere to be. Not really. If there's a chance he might return—"
Ilsa hesitated.
She thought of Lord Archmage Sael. He did not seem like a man who enjoyed crowds. Or attention. Or being waited for.
"I think," Ilsa said carefully, "it would be best if you didn't."
The merchant's face fell. "My lady?"
"He's a private person." That much was true. "And I don't think he would appreciate returning to find people gathered here expecting something from him. If he wishes to be found, he'll make himself known. But that should be his choice. Not something forced upon him."
The vegetable woman opened her mouth as if to argue, then stopped. She glanced at the merchant, then at the apprentice. They all knew who they were speaking to. Ilsa of House Eryndor. She grew up among these people, and knew them enough to be familiar, but still, her word carried weight in this city, and her requests were not made lightly.
"Of course, my lady," the merchant said, inclining his head. There was reluctance in his voice, but also resignation. "We meant no intrusion. We'll be on our way."
The vegetable woman picked up her basket with a small sigh. The apprentice cast one last longing look at the empty cobblestones before someone shouted his name from across the square and he hurried off, glancing back twice.
Within a minute, the small crowd had dispersed entirely. The square returned to its usual rhythm: merchants hawking wares, children darting between legs, the smell of fresh bread still drifting from the bakery. As if nothing remarkable had happened at all.
Ilsa turned to find Orion standing a few feet behind her, arms crossed, expression distant. He'd been so quiet during the whole exchange that she'd almost forgotten he was there.
She crossed the distance between them and nudged him with her elbow. Not gently.
"Ow." He rubbed his arm, shooting her an indignant look. "What was that for?"
"You've been awfully quiet."
"I didn't have much to say." He shrugged, still rubbing the spot where her elbow had connected. "They were asking you questions, not me. And besides, I'm still trying to process the fact that we actually found him."
"We did."
"Damn." Orion shook his head slowly, like he was trying to dislodge water from his ears. "How much constitution must a person have to take a bullet to the skull like it was nothing? I mean, it didn't even break the skin. The thing just... flattened against his head and fell off."
"Maybe he had a protection spell active?"
"That's what I thought at first, but..." Orion shook his head again. "I didn't feel anything. No barrier, no ward, no enchantment. And I was standing right next to him. If there'd been any kind of active spell, I would have sensed it." He paused, a look of mild disbelief crossing his face. "Which means that was just... him. His body. Taking a direct headshot like a normal person takes a light breeze."
"He's not exactly a normal person."
"Clearly not." Orion let out a short breath. "I knew the stories talked about his endurance, but I always assumed they were exaggerated. You know how legends get embellished over the centuries. But if anything, they might have been underselling it."
She smiled at that, but the smile faded as her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
"How do you think your grandmother will react?" Orion asked, as if reading her thoughts.
Ilsa let out a slow breath.
Grandmother Margaret. Though "grandmother" was a simplification, there were several "greats" in between them that Ilsa had stopped counting years ago. The woman who'd told Ilsa, before she left for Marrix, to look for Sael the Great in Gatsby, and that if she was lucky, she might find him there.
As far as Ilsa knew, Margaret was the only human alive from a time when Sael the Great had still been known to be alive. She was Bran the Brave's granddaughter and her father had been Sael's godson. By all accounts, she and Sael had been close. Family, in every way that mattered.
Hers was a strange story, stranger than most in a family that had no shortage of them.
When she was in her thirties, she'd vanished into the Fey Realms during an adventuring expedition. Sael had already been presumed dead by then. Everyone had assumed she was gone too. But decades later, she'd returned, aged only a few years while decades had passed in the mortal world, blessed with an unnatural longevity by the Fey King himself for services she'd never fully explained. She looked seventy now, silver-haired and blind, her eyes clouded over with a milky white.
Ilsa hadn't told Lord Archmage Sael about her. She'd wanted it to be a surprise.
But now she wondered if that was the right choice. How would he react? Finding out that someone from his time was still alive, still here, after everyone else he'd known had turned to dust? Would it be a gift, or would it be cruel? Should she warn him first, give him time to prepare?
She didn't know. She couldn't know.
No. She shook the thought away. Let them meet. Let it be real and unscripted. If anyone deserved that reunion, it was Margaret.
"I don't know," Ilsa said finally. "This might be a lot for her. She grew up around him. He was family."
"I think she'll be fine," Orion said, his voice gentle. "She's tougher than she looks. And she was the one who encouraged us to go looking for him in the first place. That has to mean something."
Ilsa considered that. "You really think she suspected he was alive?"
"I think she hoped." Orion shrugged. "And hope like that doesn't come from nowhere. Some part of her must have believed he was still out there. Otherwise, why encourage us?"
That was a fair point. Grandmother Margaret wasn't the type to waste effort on impossibilities. If she'd sent them to find Sael, it was because she'd calculated, on some level, that there was a real chance of success.
"She's going to be happy to see him," Ilsa said quietly.
"Definitely."
Ilsa nudged him again, lighter this time. "You're being very agreeable."
"I'm being supportive. There's a difference." But a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I'm still processing. Give me a few more minutes and I'll be back to my usual self."
"I look forward to it."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the square return to its normal bustle.
"You know," Orion said slowly, "when we left Orlys, I wasn't even sure—maybe one percent sure—that what the journal said was true. That we'd actually find him in Gatsby. It was a theory. A really, really unlikely theory that probably wouldn't pan out because these things never do."
"I remember being there, yes."
"And now he's here. Walking around. Talking to us like we're normal people." Orion's voice had taken on a slightly breathless quality. "Just yesterday, he disintegrated a necro dragon. He pierced the sky with a spear made of solid light. He called someone a bellend right to their face while we were standing there listening."
"He did do that."
"I was skeptical at first, you know I was. Because he seemed a bit odd. But legends aren't normal people. They're not supposed to be normal." Orion's hands came up in an emphatic gesture. "And this is—Ilsa, this is a legend among legends. The man who fought the Beast of the Heavens and won. The Son of Wrath during the Age of Ash."
Ilsa raised an eyebrow. "You're fanboying."
His face went red. "I am not—"
"You absolutely are. You're standing here reciting his titles like you're writing a thesis."
"That's not fanboying, that's historical context—"
"It's fanboying, Orion."
His jaw worked soundlessly. "Okay, fine. Maybe a little. But you're just as bad, so I don't want to hear it."
Ilsa's grin widened. "The difference is I have tact. I don't stand around in public gawking like a student who just met his favorite professor."
"It's Sael the Great! Ho–"
"Orion."
Something in Ilsa's tone made him stop mid-sentence. His mouth closed. The manic energy that had been building in his voice dissipated like steam.
She looked at him. "Why didn't you ask him?"
The silence that followed was immediate and total. Orion's face went blank, then carefully neutral in that way people did when they were trying very hard not to show what they were feeling. He looked away, focusing on a spot somewhere over her shoulder.
"Ilsa—"
"You had the chance," she pressed. "Yesterday. This morning. You were standing right there. You could have asked."
"I couldn't just—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You can't just walk up to someone like that and ask them to teach you. It's not... you don't understand. The presumption alone would be too much." He made a frustrated gesture. "And besides, I've been thinking about it. Maybe I should just…I don't know. Become a baker instead. Open a shop somewhere. It's honest work."
Ilsa stared at him.
A baker.
Orion wanted to become a baker.
Not that there was anything wrong with being a baker. It was honest work, good work, the sort that fed people and required skill and early mornings and dedication. She respected that.
But Orion?
She knew Orion. Knew what magic meant to him. And that this wasn't him finding a new dream, it was him giving up on the old one.
The anger came slowly, building from somewhere deep in her chest.
She crossed the remaining distance between them in one stride.
"Look at me."
He didn't.
"Orion. Look at me."
Reluctantly, his eyes met hers.
"This is literally a once-in-a-millennium opportunity," she said, keeping her voice level through sheer force of will. "Do you understand that? To meet someone like Sael the Great. To have access to him the way we do. He's as famous as Gandoruil, the High King of the Elves. As the Immortal Jade Emperor. More, even. I don't doubt for a second that he's the most powerful being in the world right now. And he's here. Walking around Orlys. Talking to us like we're actual people worth his time."
"I know that—"
"Do you?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but she didn't take them back. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're throwing away the only real chance you'll ever get."
Orion flinched. It was a small thing, barely visible, but she saw it. The way his shoulders drew in just slightly, how his gaze tried to slide away from hers again.
She should probably soften her approach. Reformulate. Find gentler words.
But she didn't.
"Your mana core is defective," she said, and watched him wince again, harder this time. "You were expelled from the Academy because you couldn't cast spells. Basic spells that first-years manage in their sleep. They told you that you'd never be a mage. That you should give up. Find something else to do with your life. And you're going to let it go just like that?"
"Ilsa, I don't need to hear—"
"Yes, you do." She took a breath, forcing herself to stay calm. "If anyone in this world can help you become a proper mage, it's him. Sael the Great. The man who's seen everything there is to see about how magic works." She gestured vaguely back toward where the Archmage had been standing. "You already have everything else a mage needs. The intellect. The hunger for learning. The grit to keep going even when everyone told you that you couldn't."
Orion's jaw worked, but no sound came out.
"Do you still want it?" she asked. "To be a mage? Or was that just talk? Because if you actually want it—if you still have the will to pursue it—then you need to stop being a coward and ask him."
"You don't understand what you're asking—"
"The worst he can say is no." She held his gaze, refusing to let him look away. "And it's not like he's never taken students before. Most of them went on to become some of the greatest names in the history of magic. The whole Council of Seven trained under him at some point or another."
She couldn't understand it. Couldn't comprehend how Orion could stand here, with this opportunity literally within arm's reach, and talk about opening a bakery. How he could look at Sael the Great and decide that asking for help was too presumptuous.
Orion's hands had curled into fists at his sides. His face was doing something complicated, cycling through emotions too quickly for her to track. Shame, anger, fear, hope—all of it tangled together.
"What if he says no?" The words came out barely above a whisper.
"Then at least you'll know you tried," Ilsa said. "At least, you won't spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you'd just been brave enough to ask."
Orion was silent at that.
A woman in a merchant's coat walked past, nodding politely. "Lady Eryndor."
"Good morning, Mistress Carvel," Ilsa replied, returning the nod.
A few seconds later, an older man with a cane shuffled by. "Lady Eryndor. Lovely day."
"It is, Master Therris. Take care of that knee."
"Always do, always do."
Ilsa glanced back at Orion. He was still staring at the cobblestones like they held the secrets of the universe written in the gaps between stones.
"Are you not going to talk?"
He looked up. His jaw worked for a moment, then he let out a breath. "Fine."
Relief washed over her. Finally. She was about to reach out, maybe shake him by the shoulders a bit—celebratory, not violent—when he continued.
"But don't tell him."
She paused. "What?"
"I want to be the one to ask him," Orion said. "When the time feels right. When I've—I don't know. Figured out how to say it without sounding like an idiot."
Ilsa studied his face. He looked serious. Determined, even, in that quiet way he got when he'd actually made up his mind about something.
"That's fine by me," she said.
Just as the words left her mouth, she caught movement in the distance. Two figures approaching from the direction of the eastern district. One was unmistakably Lord Archmage Sael—you couldn't miss that white hair even from this far away. The other was shorter, slimmer, with what looked like fox ears perched atop their head.
A feytouched.
They seemed to be talking. The feytouched gestured at something, and sir Sael's head tilted slightly, like he was listening.
He spotted them and their hands came up in a casual wave.
He waved back automatically.
"Don't tell me that's the guy who tried to kill him," Orion muttered, "and now he's having a friendly chat with him."
Ilsa didn't think it was. The build was all wrong, for one thing. But if it was...
She glanced at Orion, fighting back a smile. "You said it yourself. Legends aren't normal people."
They both chuckled at that, settling in to wait.
***
Sael heard everything the children said.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Well, he had, but only because they'd seemed to be arguing, and he'd thought it would be prudent to understand what the argument was about so he could think of what to say to calm them down by the time he arrived. Social situations required preparation. Planning. You couldn't just walk into a conversation blind and expect it to go well.
They were waving at him now. So he waved back.
The walk across the square took longer than it should have, mostly because Sael's mind kept circling back to what he'd overheard. It was a delicate situation. Orion clearly needed to be the one to ask. Needed to work up the courage himself, or it wouldn't mean anything. If Sael just offered outright, it would rob the boy of something important.
So he would wait. Let Orion come to him when he was ready.
Sael was still crossing the square with Robin at his side when someone collided with him.
It happened fast. One moment the path ahead was clear, the next a woman was stumbling into his chest, her basket of vegetables tilting dangerously. He caught her by the elbow before she could fall, steadying her with his other hand on her shoulder.
The basket stayed upright. Not a single vegetable shifted.
"Oh!" She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide. "Oh my goodness. How clumsy of me. I'm so terribly sorry, young sir, I don't know what came over me!"
"Are you hurt?" Sael asked.
"No, no, not at all. Thanks to you." She beamed up at him, and the warmth in her expression seemed genuine. She was perhaps fifty, with work-roughened hands and the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent outdoors. "Such quick reflexes! And such a gentle touch. You must be very kind, to catch a foolish old woman like that."
"You're not old," Sael said, because she wasn't. Fifty was nothing. He'd known people who'd started new careers at fifty. New lives at seventy. "And it was no trouble."
Her smile widened even further. "You're too generous, young sir. Too generous by half."
She made no move to leave. Her hand was still resting on his arm where he'd steadied her, a light touch that lingered just a moment longer than necessary.
Something about the whole thing felt... off.
The stumble had come from nowhere. He could have sworn the path had been clear a second ago. And the way she'd fallen—directly into him, at exactly the right angle to require catching—seemed almost rehearsed.
But he had no proof of that. And accusing a stranger of faking a stumble seemed rude.
"Remarkable reflexes indeed," a man's voice said from behind him.
Sael turned. A middle-aged man in a well-tailored coat had appeared—seemingly from nowhere, though he must have simply walked up while Sael was distracted. He had a neatly trimmed beard and warm eyes, and he was smiling with the sort of ease that suggested he smiled often.
"Not everyone would have reacted so quickly," the man continued, giving a small bow. "And such presence of mind. Truly admirable."
"It wasn't particularly quick," Sael said.
"Modest, too!" The woman with the basket laughed, delighted. "Did you hear that? Modest!"
The man nodded sagely. "A rare quality in one so gifted. It speaks well of your character, young sir."
Now there was a third person. A young man with ink stains covering his fingers, hovering at the edge of the conversation like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to join. He'd appeared just as suddenly as the other man, materializing out of the crowd as if summoned.
Sael glanced between the three of them.
He didn't recognize any of them. He was fairly certain he'd never seen them before in his life. And yet here they were, treating him like an old friend.
It was strange.
"Forgive me," he said. "Have we met?"
The man and the woman exchanged a quick glance. Something passed between them, a silent communication Sael couldn't quite parse.
"Not formally, no," the man said smoothly. "But we couldn't help noticing you earlier. Before you left the square. Such remarkable magic! Truly extraordinary."
Ah.
So they'd seen him teleport.
That explained the attention, at least. High-level magic tended to draw interest. People were curious by nature, and spatial manipulation was rare enough to be noteworthy.
"It was just teleportation," he said.
"Just teleportation, he says!" The woman laughed again, shaking her head. "As if that's something anyone can do! Young sir, I've lived in this city my whole life, and I've never seen anything like it. Not once."
"Truly exceptional," the man agreed. He reached into his coat and produced a small card, holding it out with both hands. "I hope you don't think me forward, but I couldn't help noticing your attire. Fine quality, to be sure—very fine—but perhaps not suited to our local climate? The winters here can be harsh."
Sael looked down at himself. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on for the past several years. They were clean—he'd seen to that with a minor cantrip—but the man wasn't wrong. The fabric was light. Suited for warmer weather.
"My shop is in the textile district," the man continued. "Carvel and Sons. We've been clothing the finest families in Orlys for four generations. If you ever find yourself in need of new garments—a winter coat, perhaps, or formal wear for any occasions you might attend—I would be deeply honored to serve you."
A merchant, then. That explained the tailored coat and the practiced smile.
He pressed the card forward with an expectant look.
Sael took it, because it seemed rude not to. The paper was good quality, with the shop's name embossed in elegant script.
"That's very kind of you," he said.
"Not at all, not at all." The merchant bowed. "I could arrange for delivery, if you prefer. Measurements taken at your convenience, at whatever location suits you. No need to visit the shop yourself if that's inconvenient."
"That's... very accommodating."
"It would be my privilege, young sir. My absolute privilege."
The young man with the ink-stained hands had been hovering at the edge of the conversation, practically vibrating with restrained energy. Now he stepped forward, his hands twisting together nervously.
"Sir," he said, and his voice cracked on the word. "Sir, I just wanted to say—that is, if you ever need—" He swallowed hard. "I'm studying at the Academy. The Scribing Department. If you ever require copying work, or transcription, or research assistance—I have very steady hands. Everyone says so. And I can work long hours without making errors. Complete discretion, I swear. I would never breathe a word of anything I saw."
He said all of this very fast, barely pausing for breath.
A scribe's apprentice. That explained the ink stains.
"I see," Sael said.
"I know it's presumptuous. I know you probably have dozens of people offering. But if there's ever anything—anything at all—it would be the honor of my life, sir. The absolute honor."
Robin's ear twitched. He was watching the apprentice with an expression Sael couldn't quite read. Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition of something familiar.
Sael looked at the three of them.
They were all being exceptionally nice to him.
Extraordinarily nice.
He'd encountered kindness before. Genuine kindness, freely given, with no expectation of return. It existed. He'd seen it. But this felt different. There was an edge to it. A wanting. They were circling around something, approaching it sideways rather than directly.
They wanted something from him.
That was fine. People wanted things. That was how the world worked. But the indirect approach was starting to make him uncomfortable. All this flattery and bowing and card-giving, when they could simply tell him what they needed and he could decide whether or not to help.
It would be so much more efficient.
He was about to say exactly that—to ask them, plainly and directly, what they wanted so they could skip the pleasantries—when a familiar voice cut through the conversation.
"Mistress Harwen. Master Carvel. Journeyman Tommen."
Ilsa had appeared beside him.
The three townsfolk stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"Lady Eryndor," the merchant said, inclining his head. "We were just—"
"Welcoming our guest to Orlys. Yes. Very thoughtful of you." Ilsa's smile was pleasant, her tone warm. But something in her posture had shifted. She stood slightly in front of Sael now, not blocking him exactly, but interposing. "However, we have urgent business to attend to, and I'm afraid we can't linger."
The woman—Mistress Harwen, apparently—clutched her basket a little tighter. "Of course, my lady. We meant no intrusion. We simply wanted to express our—"
"Your admiration. Yes. Very kind." Ilsa's hand found Sael's elbow, a light touch that was nonetheless clearly a signal. "I'll be sure to pass along how welcoming everyone has been. Master Carvel, I may stop by your shop next week. My winter cloak is looking rather worn."
The merchant's face lit up. "It would be my honor, Lady Eryndor. I'll set aside some of our finest—"
"That won't be necessary. But thank you." She was already moving, and Sael found himself moving with her. "Good day to you all. Journeyman Tommen, don't you have afternoon lectures?"
The apprentice's eyes went wide. "I—yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady." He bowed hastily and began backing away. "Good day, sir. Good day."
Within seconds, all three of them had scattered. The merchant headed off with quick, purposeful strides. The woman melted back into the market crowd. The apprentice practically ran in the opposite direction, glancing back twice before disappearing around a corner.
Robin watched them go, his ears still tracking their movements even after they'd vanished from sight.
"That was interesting," the foxkin said.
Sael was still holding the merchant's card. He tucked it into his pocket—it seemed wasteful to throw it away—and looked at Ilsa.
"You know them?"
"I know everyone. I've lived in this city my whole life." She released his elbow now that they were clear. "They saw you teleport earlier. Word travels fast in market squares."
"They seemed very... enthusiastic."
"They were trying to curry favor. A mage of your apparent caliber could change their lives. A single recommendation, a small favor, a moment of your time—these things have value."
Sael considered this. "I was going to ask them what they wanted. It would have been simpler."
Ilsa made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Sir, you don't want to open that door. Mistress Harwen has three nephews, two nieces, and a cousin twice removed, all of whom have promising futures that could benefit from patronage. Master Carvel would have measured you for a coat on the spot and spent an hour discussing fabric weights. And Journeyman Tommen..." She shook her head. "He's a sweet boy, but he would have followed you home like a lost puppy."
"Ah." Sael glanced back toward where the apprentice had disappeared. "That does sound tedious."
"Incredibly tedious. You have a professor to speak with. That seems more important."
She wasn't wrong.
Robin had fallen into step beside them, quiet but alert.
"Children, meet Robin," Sael said, gesturing to the foxkin. "He's the one who shot me. Robin, this is Ilsa and Orion."
All three of them stared at him.
The children looked confused, their eyes darting between Sael and Robin. Robin, for his part, had gone slightly red, his ears flattening against his head in what Sael recognized as embarrassment.
Right.
Yes.
That had been an odd way to introduce people, hadn't it.
He should probably explain.
"In his defense," Sael added, "he was working to feed his poor little sister and had no idea who I was."
Robin's head snapped toward him. "Actually, my sister is not poor. In fact, we're very rich."
There was a pause where everyone just stared at the foxkin, who maintained his deadpan expression.
"What?" Sael said.
"I was an adventurer, you see," Robin continued in that same flat tone. "And then I got injured in the leg, which ended my career. But I made enough to not need money for a few years, so we're not poor exactly. I still work to give us a proper quality of life."
Another pause.
He'd just... completely undermined the sympathetic narrative Sael had been trying to build for him. Unprompted. With witnesses.
"You could have not said that," said Sael.
"I was afraid Sir Mage would be testing me," Robin said immediately, ears twitching forward now, somehow even more alert. "And think I tried to deceive him by giving him false information. So I will only tell the truth. My sister and I are financially stable. I simply wanted the extra income."
The honesty was so blunt it was almost aggressive, but Sael had to admit the reasoning was sound. Being cautious about potential deception tests was exactly the sort of paranoid thinking that kept people alive when dealing with powerful mages, and he was about to say as much when he remembered why he was standing here in the first place.
Sael let out a long, slow breath and turned to look at Ilsa and Orion.
"This time," he said, "let us go straight to that professor of yours. I have a few words for him."