Hidden Pieces on the Board
"Eon, Brinda… how many subordinates of yours could be considered mages?"
Victor's question lingered in the chamber like incense smoke after ritual.
For a moment, nobody answered.
Even the torch flames along the stone walls seemed to quiet.
Eon leaned back, black eyes narrowing as if searching old memories buried beneath instinct.
Then he gave a rough snort.
"I don't have anyone like that. If they had the capability to be mages, they wouldn't be in the slums."
He was almost about to spit in contempt at the bitter truth of it, but stopped himself.
Perhaps because Victor sat before him.
Perhaps because old habits no longer fit the man who had just sworn away his life in blood.
His words were crude, but they carried the hard philosophy of the streets.
Magic was privilege.
The slums birthed knives.
Not scholars.
Not spellcasters.
Only survivors.
Victor gave no judgment.
Only a thoughtful hum.
"Hm."
Then his golden gaze shifted.
To Brinda.
