“Oh, the western language ? Piece of cake ! ...Or so I wish. Again, a language that made me eat my own nails. I've even lost a phalanx once, when I was working on a particularly difficult text. If the Dragon tongue is overly vague and very dependant on context, the western language has a knack for overly complicated words and long, heavy lists of lexical groups that are putting said complicated words that have nothing to do with each other in the same bag. There's so much vocabulary, and most of it is almost identical, and there's no apparent roots or logic. I'll take a random example : 'epopoliutil' means 'fruit', but 'epopoliutol' means 'ear'. Why ? Who knows. So that means you have to learn everything by heart to understand it because nothing is deducible, which is awful, because we only have access to maybe a thousandth of the whole language. Would you have fun learning that ? I know I don't.

-Anonymous depressed linguist”

* * *

Anton

“Still nothing ?”

The moustached professor looked up from the heavy book he had been burying his nose into. The man sighed, staring at the pile of similar looking tomes on his desk. He closed the leather-bound book with a clap and tossed it on the top of the pile. Anton glanced at the cover that read 'Ancient history of the continent, volume 8'.

Only, the contents were in Dragon tongue. The Academy's librarians just decided to put the covers in Common because it was too much of a hassle to decipher even the titles of the books you went through.

“What do you expect... You might even have more chances to find what you're looking for in one of those stone tablets Nathaniel keeps in his room.”

I hadn't thought of that. Might as well give it a try, you never know.

“I see. Sorry to trouble you, but could you keep looking in here ?

The man grumbled and stroke his moustache. “I will, but I can almost guarantee you that there won't be any mention of it. We both know the Empire doesn't keep a proper track of its history. Be it deliberate or not...”

Anton shrugged and took one of the books, flapping its pages with the thumb. “I still hope that in an era where people were smart enough to speak this thing everyday, there were also some people smart enough to properly record the events of their time.”

Seeing the many creepy symbols and characters winding made him drowsy. He grimaced and put the book back onto the pile.

“Well,” Anton carried on. “I'm counting on you, tell me if you find-”

“Anything related to a Rahal clan or a faraway island to the east, I know,” The moustached scholar finished. “You hammered it into my mind enough already.”

Anton nodded and left the eastern tower, now heading for Nathaniel's study. Azcheron had finally told him, albeit briefly, about his quest for truth of whatever that was. He didn't seem like he intended to confess at first, but a slip of the tongue regarding his chat with a dragon incited Anton to press the Saint about the matter. Was it a slip, though ? Careless babble wasn't in Azcheron's habits, so maybe Anton had been, in a way, tricked into getting a confession out of him ?

Ugh, this convoluted idea will give me a headache. Why can't this brat just say things as they are instead of relying on cunning and tricking ? We're supposed to be friends, god-damnit !

In any case, the fact was that now Anton had his suspicions confirmed. Azcheron's mother had already mentioned a few things, but the old scholar didn't really act on it, nor did he try to pry any deeper.

Of course, it only served to make Anton worry even more. Azcheron trying to make his name known was concerning in its own, but now it was obvious he had an underlying goal, which could be either inconsequential or catastrophic. And, from what the dragon said, this whole venture would probably leaning toward the catastrophic side.

'Prove yourself worthy' or whatever, but please don't do anything stupid. Don't misinterpret proving yourself with summoning a kraken on the Palace's roof, for example. That kind of things impresses only you. Regular people will just be horrified.

Anton kept walking through the black-bricked corridors of the Academy, and eventually stopped in front of Nathaniel's study.

It's worth a shot. Be it from draconic or western sources, anything old might hint at the Rahal clan.

Anton was acting somewhat desperately, since he'd much rather learn of the truth with books before Azcheron caused an uproar to impress the dragons. He knocked on Nathaniel's door and entered.

The forty-odd year old scholar turned away from the stone tablet he was gazing at, raising a brow as he saw Anton. “Professor Vardt ?”

“Hello there, Nathaniel.”

“Is there an issue with my report ? How did the brass react ?”

“Nothing's wrong, don't worry.” They were referring to Nathaniel's newest finding, which Anton passed to their backers, the houses Ravilna and Farril.

The youngest scholar sighed in relief, his shoulders relaxing. “I see.”

“I'm here for a personal matter this time.” Anton waited for him to nod. “It's fine if you can't answer, but in your studies, have you ever come across anything alluding to an island in the far east, or a clan bearing the name Rahal ?”

The western language researcher squinted his eyes. “Rahal... The name seems familiar ?” His face lit up for a second. “Does it have something to do with Azcheron ?”

“Yes,” Anton replied flatly.

Nathaniel muttered something, and finally answered in a resigned tone. “On top of my head, I don't remember anything, but I'll look into it and see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Well, don't lose any sleep on it. It's just a race against Azcheron. We'd want to avoid losing, though,” he said, purposely hinting at possible consequences.

“Err... I'll regret asking but, why ?” He seemed wary of Anton's smiling eyes.

“What's the worst that could happen, according to you ?”

“I don't know, the fall of the Empire ?”

Professor Vardt scratched his chin. “Hmm, well it's a possibility. Consider something like that as the price of defeat,” he said as he left the room.

Anton chuckled as he now walked toward his office.

Is this how Azcheron feels when he torments people with his words and mysteries ? I get why he keeps doing it.

His glee came to an abrupt stop when he entered his office. Who else than Azcheron waiting in your own office to put you in the most grumpy of the moods ?

WHY is he here ? I didn't expect to see him again until evening.

Azcheron was peeking at the training grounds through the window of Anton's office. The sound of wooden swords clashing and the cheers of the small crowd seemed to enthral him.

Might as well tell him about that other thing.

“I've got news for you,” the old mage said.

The Saint turned back to look at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Countess Ravilna and Lord Farril are preparing something in your honour. I believe they now very much appreciate betting on your success.”

“Of course. Though I imagine this means Nathaniel made progress ?”

In the five days since their return to the capital, Azcheron, Erin and Anton had time to spread back the news and the group began to work on the second part of the expedition : making the results known. In addition to the official report that told of the expedition's success, rumours about Azcheron speaking with dragons and fighting Oscar were spread. Azcheron would keep avoiding questions, that way the rumours would prove much more noisy and powerful. Babbling about a few scandalous things and maintaining an enigmatic behaviour, was what they believed he should be doing.

Regarding the public information, Anton had informed the nobility, which in turn informed whoever else they felt like informing – some important people in this case, it appeared –, while Nathaniel started to decipher the writings now that he had access to his study and the library. Hector Talir was, of course, supervising Nathaniel's research, but he seemed mostly satisfied with the venture. Anton felt somewhat uneasy regarding Yorl's death, yet the headmaster wasn't bothered one bit. He must have only cared about the notoriety it would bring to him and his school, which would, in all likelihood, greatly compensate the loss of a scholar such as Yorl.

“He confirmed that the golems were none other than weaponry. Well I don't now whether he really confirmed it or not, but that's what he claims. That is enough to catch the attention of a few chancellors. These people from high-up are more interested in the military gains than the cultural ones. Not surprising.”

Azcheron's expression darkened. “As expected of them. The situation in the north looks bad so I can see why they'd want to get a hold on these things.”

Anton understood the Saint's concerns, since the latter shared his theories. This could very well be the beginning of a catastrophe. It can't be that it started that way in the west, eons ago ?

The blonde youth turned his gaze back to the training grounds.

Anton sighed. “Why don't you go there instead of spying like that ?”

“Inappropriate. It would disturb her,” he replied in a calm, soothing tone. “And I'm not as rude as to just stand around a woman sharpening her body.”

“Huh ? And peeking isn't rude ?” the old mage scoffed. “What's with the erotic undertones anyway ?”

“What on earth are you talking about ?” Azcheron asked, frowning.

“No, what are you saying ? Oh, I don't even care.” Anton waved away his confusion and Azcheron shrugged.

Down there, Erin was training with professor Karlos. She insisted she needed more experience against people of Oscar's level. Anton was surprised when he heard they had faced that man. And survived, moreover. Well, it seemed the fight got her thinking. There was no way to know if or when Azcheron and Erin would meet him again, but apparently the Verald knight wouldn't take any chance. And they probably were many other people as dangerous as him so her training wouldn't be a waste of time, the old mage concluded. Since Azcheron clearly didn't care about staying away from danger, and had a tendency to drag Erin into his mess.

Azcheron was still looking through the window, behaving like an obsessed madman. Anton paid no heed to and began to do some paperwork. He still felt uneasy, having Azcheron bizarrely laying around in his office, so the scholar gave stealthy glances once in a while.

Obviously Azcheron was all for this training thing, and curiously Karlos didn't oppose it. On the contrary, once she mentioned the name of Oscar, the bald teacher's cold attitude immediately changed. He was then enthusiast and eager to train her. Perhaps there was bad blood between these two.

How could there not be bad blood between Oscar and anyone in the entire world, though ?

Azcheron kept watching the training session with smiling eyes as he grabbed a pencil from Anton's desk with raw mana, magically mimicking stances and wielding it as if it was a sword.

What's this now ? Trying out things now that you got yourself crippled ? The old man mocked in his mind, referring to the dressed wounds he knew to be hidden under Azcheron's sleeve.

Well, regardless of his motivations, Karlos looked like he intended to groom Erin into a master spellblade or something. In that case, Azcheron would have a lot of work to do if they wanted her to do some magic, but hey, goals were important. Ah, youth, Anton sighed. With her current sword skills, she could surely do without complicated and fancy enchants anyway. Anton only had the extravagant bits from Azcheron, but from what he heard, she managed to stood her ground alone against Oscar.

The Saint had been silent for a while now. Just as Anton noticed his unfocused gaze, he let out some kind of giggle. It was creepy and eerie.

“What's with the smirk and the nefarious chuckle ?” Anton pulled him from his thoughts. Azcheron's head tilted.

“Ever met someone planning something noble when acting nefarious ? Well that'd never be me.”

The old scholar laid back in his chair. “Hah, you're scheming.”

“Always. When am I not ?”

Anton gave a wry smile. Then someone barged into the room without knocking. “How rude,” Azcheron muttered. Yes, rude it was, to burst in here like that. Students couldn't hope to get away with that without getting a couple of fingers snapped. This time the intruder didn't look like a student, though. She seemed familiar.

“Tania ?” Anton inquired.

It was indeed his maid. Unrecognisable, as she was drenched, dishevelled and exhausted, breathing loudly as if she had been running. Well, it was obvious she had been running. But why ?

“P-... Professor... I...”

“Alright, sit down and rest for a bit. What is it ? It's unusual for you to come here, moreover in this state.”

She took a moment to catch her breath. Azcheron still hadn't moved from the window. He stood here, arms stylishly crossed, probably also pondering on what to make of Tania's frenzied state.

He kept muttering, sharing his thoughts with Anton as he stared at him. “Something happened. Thieves... Or assassins, perhaps. Whose ?”

For some reason, Azcheron gazed again at Erin. Eventually, Tania spoke.

“A lot of people came to the house, earlier.” She rummaged through her belongings. “I think... they were from the Palace ? There were Imperial guards and the messenger had beautiful clothes.”

Oh ?

Anton glanced at Azcheron, who shook his head. No idea either ? They waited for Tania to continue.

“They gave me this letter.” She finally found the paper and handed it out to Anton.

His eyes widened as he read the message. When he was finished, he consecutively went through feelings of awe, curiosity, worry, horror and finally dread.

“Well, spit it out, dear friend. What do they want ?” Azcheron questioned.

“Nnnng... Well, to make things short. Seems like the Ravilna and Farril passed the word about you. You and Erin are summoned to the Imperial Palace and being granted an audience with the Emperor...”

Here we go. You're grinning, I don't like this.

“Why the grim face, Anton ? We should be rejoicing. It's wonderful news.”

Anton must have looked like someone about to witness the doom of all things – because that was actually how he felt. “I'm not sure. Maybe... you should decline ? I have a bad feeling.”

“Not because of me, I hope,” Azcheron replied with his best grin.

You know fully what I mean !

Not bothering to answer, the professor only gave a weak smile as he casted his anxious eyes onto the letter he was holding.