The tower was never truly silent.
Even after Vexar departed that night, the servants patrolling could be felt.
He waited.
He didn't move immediately.
Sitting on his bed, back straight and eyes closed, he extended his senses little by little. He wasn't looking for raw magic, but presences.
Irregular flows. Repetitive movements. Anything that betrayed the activity of the puppet servants.
One in the north hallway.
Another descending the stairs.
Two more patrolling the lower level.
Nothing near his door.
He activated a minimal fraction of the Magic Warrior Aura, just enough to sharpen his reflexes without leaving an obvious trace.
He stood up carefully and opened the door just a few centimeters. The hallway was empty, lit only by the magic torches embedded in the wall.
He stepped out.
He advanced without rushing, stopping every few steps to listen.
The servants followed their usual pattern: fixed routes, mechanical movements. There had been no changes since Vexar's departure.
He realized that without Vexar nearby, the servants only followed pre-established routes.
"Good," he murmured to himself.
His first destination was clear.
Vexar's room.
The journey to the upper level was the most delicate.
Unlike the common areas, that section of the tower was less traveled, but also better protected.
Thiriel hugged the walls, measuring every step, waiting for a servant to pass before advancing.
Several minutes passed like this.
When he arrived in front of Vexar's door, he stopped completely.
The door was made of dark wood, reinforced with runes engraved almost imperceptibly. It didn't radiate power openly, but the magic was there, contained, latent.
Thiriel closed his eyes and analyzed.
There were no explosive barriers.
There were no immediate deadly traps.
But there were alerts.
'If I open it wrong, he will know,' he thought.
He waited for a servant to pass through the lower corridor, just below the staircase. In that brief interval, he placed his hand on the door and channeled a minimal amount of magic, enveloping the lock with care, as if he were caressing it rather than forcing it.
The door yielded with a faint click after some time.
He entered, looking for any trap that might be there.
The interior of the room was surprisingly austere. A simple bed. A shelf with well-ordered books. A wide workbench, covered in parchments, empty vials, and writing tools.
'Too clean,' he thought.
He closed the door behind him and began to search methodically.
First, the books.
Most were basic treatises on elemental magic, refinement theory, core control. Some were annotated, others not. He recognized several of the spells Vexar had taught them and some he hadn't.
Immobilization spells.
More complex barriers.
Variants of magic drainage.
"Interesting," he whispered.
None of that was illegal on its own, but it was too advanced to have never been mentioned.
Then he moved to the table.
There were several drawers. He tried the first one.
Nothing.
The second one neither.
When he reached the third, he stopped.
He felt magic.
It wasn't a physical barrier. It was a signal. A simple but effective enchantment, designed to activate the moment someone touched the contents without proper authorization.
"An alarm," he concluded. "Which likely triggers some mechanism."
He didn't try to force it.
Instead, he leaned over the table and reviewed what was in plain sight. Among the parchments, one caught his attention. It wasn't a spell, but a carefully folded letter.
He opened it slowly.
The content was brief, written in firm, precise calligraphy.
"The Council expects a complete copy of the manual. The delay will not be viewed well. Remember your commitment."
There was no signature. Only a symbol at the end of a caged bird, a mark he didn't recognize, but which clearly belonged to an organization.
"So he doesn't work alone," he murmured.
He placed the letter back in its spot.
It was then that he saw it.
On the table, almost hidden under a pile of parchments, was a small object: a dark metal medallion with a central groove. It didn't look magical at first glance, but when Thiriel concentrated, he perceived a strange echo.
It wasn't active magic.
It was a resonance.
The same sensation he had perceived in the servants. Weak. Artificial.
'A catalyst?' he thought. 'Or something to control…?'
He didn't have time to delve deeper.
A footstep resonated in the hallway.
Thiriel tensed his body immediately. He closed the drawer without touching it and returned the medallion to its exact place. He left the room with the same care he had entered and closed the door just as the servant turned the bottom corner of the stairs.
He waited.
The servant walked past, without stopping.
Only then did he exhale.
"The room isn't the center," he concluded. "Just a facade."
There was one more place he hadn't set foot in before.
The basement.
He descended the internal stairs, each step slower than the last. As he went down, the sensation of surveillance increased. Not from a concrete presence, but from many.
When he reached the lower level, he confirmed it.
There were more servants.
Double, at least.
They patrolled in pairs. Their routes overlapped. There were no obvious blind spots. The magic in the air was denser, heavier, as if something were polluting it.
'It is definitely here,' he thought.
The basement door was at the end of the corridor. It was reinforced iron, with runes engraved clearly and visibly. They didn't bother to hide them.
Thiriel approached with extreme caution.
First, he tried to open it.
It didn't yield.
'Physical and magical lock.'
He crouched down and pressed his ear against the cold metal surface. He closed his eyes and extended his senses to the maximum.
At first, nothing.
Then… he heard something.
A distant echo.
Like a very faint lament.
He opened his eyes slowly.
'What the hell are you doing down there, Vexar…?' Thiriel thought, imagining many things it could be, and none were good.
In that instant, he felt danger.
A servant was approaching. Not with its usual gait, slow and mechanical, but fast. Decisive.
Thiriel reacted instantly.
He propelled himself backward, hiding behind a column just as the servant turned the corner. Its steps resonated loudly, too alive for a simple routine patrol.
The servant stopped in front of the basement door.
It tilted its head.
As if listening.
Thiriel held his breath.
The Magic Warrior Aura was completely suppressed. There was no flow whatsoever that could betray him. His heart beat wildly, but his body remained motionless.
Several eternal seconds passed.
Finally, the servant straightened up and resumed its route, though more alert than before.
Thiriel waited several more minutes before moving.
When he finally withdrew, he ascended the stairs without looking back, returning to his room by indirect routes.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing carefully.
He hadn't obtained definitive proof.
But he no longer had doubts.
The basement was the core of the secret.
The place where Vexar did what he didn't teach.
'Not tonight, but I will return,' he thought.
He sat on the bed, staring into the darkness.
Now he knew where to look.
He just needed the right moment.
And that moment… would come.