“The Lord Zaal, here to see you, Lord Solarix,” the servant said, introducing the Lord Inquisitor’s next appointment.

Professor Zaal walked into the room, giving his friend a nod as the busy man finished signing yet another form on his desk. The Lord Inquisitor’s office was massive, a far cry from what Zaal’s used to be, with a space designated for office work with an opulent desk, shelves, and more gold-illuminated books than he suspected the Lord Inquisitor had read in his entire life. A separate section of the room was occupied by a couch, arm chairs, and a low table – for less formal meetings.

“Thank the gods,” the Lord Inquisitor said, rising from his enormous, mahogany desk and walking around it to greet his friend, “Nivil, it’s good to see you.”

The Lord Inquisitor was Nivil’s opposite in many ways: built like a stout warrior rather than Nivil’s lanky academic build; a pure-blood of Astorian descent rather than Nivil’s mixed heritage; scarred where Nivil had nary a callous on his hands; and dressed in a practical – if fashionable – suit while Nivil favoured layered robes.

“And you, Vycal,” Nivil replied, shaking his friend's offered hand, “thank you for making the time to see me earlier than our usual meeting.”

“Don’t thank me,” Vycal laughed, “thank Orda, I’d be lost without her managing my schedule.”

“Of course,” a thin smile crossed Nivil’s face, “I well remember.”

“Speaking of,” Vycal said, gesturing for Nivil to be seated in an arm chair and turning to his servant, “Orda, please ensure refreshments are delivered at once.”

“They’ll be here shortly, Lord Inquisitor,” she replied with a bow, “the usual.”

“You’re a gods-send, dear,” he said, giving her a fatherly smile.

Nivil caught the twinge of displeasure in Orda’s eyes at the nickname, knowing that his friend had caught the same. Vycal shook his head as he joined Nivil at the couches, falling into it like an exhausted warrior after a battle.

“Vynderwynd preserve my faculties,” Vycal muttered, “I feel addled these days, unable to keep up with the proper forms of address of the times.”

“The curse of immortality,” Nivil said with a smile, spreading his hands to the sides.

“In part,” Vycal scoffed, “the curse of all this paperwork. Is your pet project nearly complete? I must say, I dearly regret accepting this position.”

“She is doing well, a diamond in the rough as we expected,” Nivil replied, leaning back into the arm chair and crossing his legs, “I sense that she’s already had a run-in with your people.”

“Hm?” Vycal’s brow wrinkled for a moment, “Ah, yes. The merchant vessel she was on was attacked by an apostate and their apprentice, attempting to sink the ship and its food shipment. She helped put them down, but witnessed the apostate allowing their esper to possess their body. We couldn’t let her speak of it further.”

“Interesting,” Nivil said, stroking his beard, “she does seem to attract trouble, like her mothers.”

“Not too much like them, I hope,” Vycal’s eyes darkened.

“No,” Nivil dismissed the concern with a wave, “but I’m more concerned about your son.”

“Which one?” Vycal sighed, “Is it Azreon again?”

“Indeed.”

“What did he do this time?”

“Vycal,” Nivil sighed and shook his head, “I had to suspend him almost a month ago. Two severe accounts of dereliction of duty in his first deployment. And that’s not to mention his poor conduct elsewhere: he walks around like Luceri reborn, thinking he’s immune to reprisal and trying to lord over other students and even professors.”

A dark look crossed Vycal’s features as he listened, “How public was the suspension?”

“I had him carried away by his own sycophantic professor,” Nivil replied evenly.

“Gods,” Vycal’s hands tightened on the arms of the couch, the fabric straining under his strong grip, “he continues to be an embarrassment to the family. Is there no saving him?”

“Perhaps you could speak with him, Vycal?” Nivil suggested as gently as he could, “He is your son, after all. Or one of your spouses could?”

His friend snorted at the suggestions. “No, they’ve abandoned all responsibility for him, I’m afraid.” He looked over at the stack of paperwork still on his desk and shook his head, “We've done what we can to temper his ambitions, tried to raise him to appreciate the world and his place in it...but no, you are probably all too correct when you say he thinks himself Luceri reborn. He craves acknowledgement more than any of our other children, more than we can give – or care to, since he refuses to listen to constructive criticism and even beating the whelp fails to steer him right. It only grew worse after the... incident with the Lakael family.”

They paused their conversation as Orda returned with a tray of steaming hot tea and an array of Arcadia’s finest pastries. How Vycal kept his trim, muscular physique in spite of his sweet tooth was beyond Nivil, who had to assume the involvement of heretical magic. Both men thanked her as she exited with another bow, and Vycal poured two cups of tea ceremoniously for them – straining against his desire to quash his anger through desserts.

“Now that he’s been made an example of,” Vycal continued, around a mouthful of jelly-filled pastry, “can we shorten his suspension and spare my family name some embarrassment?”

Nivil shook his head, expecting this, “I thought you’d reach out well before this... Allowing him to return without steering him in a new direction will not help, Vycal. He’s a capable warrior, but a fool that does not belong on the battlefield.”

“Impossible,” Vycal glared, “he will become a commander of Zothiri’s armies, and must become a capable one. He must have inherited at least that much from me or his mother.”

Just your stubborn pride, Nivil thought to himself, and perhaps sadistic streak, old friend.

“The Academy cannot shape that which refuses to bend, Vycal,” Nivil insisted, “it’s not our job to correct problem children.”

“It’s not your job at all Nivil!” Vycal snapped, “We entertained your ‘sabbatical’ because of your prior service, but it’s high time you return to your true duties!”

“I believe you were the one looking to continue fighting after the line of Astoria won the Throne,” Nivil countered, tone still level as he picked up a light, fluffy pastry, “and that I wished to step away from hunting through shadows for threats to our Archon. Are there insufficient threats to the Empire for you to be entertained?”

Vycal glowered, in one of his moods that Nivil was all too familiar with, “The threats may be overt enough that I can trade this thrice-damned desk for a war table again, Nivil. Despite reports from our aethermancers that the ley lines aren’t overflowing, reports of spawn attacks – led by Ur, no less – are on the rise in each Kingdom. There’s been enough rumours that spawn from different Titans are co-existing in close proximity that we’re looking into it further. Something is stirring Nivil, we don’t have time for you to keep playing games – we need you leading the Inquisition.”

Nivil crossed his arms and smiled, “Are you suggesting that I’m better at the job than you are?”

Vycal rolled his eyes, fury abating somewhat at the friendly barb, “I’m suggesting that my skills are needed elsewhere.”

“I’ll consider it,” Nivil said, “do you think the dissidents will strike against the Academy again any time soon?”

“No, we’re not sure how they got onto campus, but they’ve since gone to ground. A number of our leads and contacts vanished afterward... but we suspect they’re going to bide their time before striking again. The food shortages are being corrected, slowly but surely; it will be more difficult to operate without agitated peasants to use as a shield.”

“That’s good, it gives me time to train our students faster and harder than before, to be ready for whatever is coming. As to the matter of your son: I’m willing to lift the suspension so he can still participate in mid-terms. I’m sure he’ll still do well, despite his poor showing in his first deployment.”

“Thank you,” Vycal said, deflating further as he sipped his tea.

“We can’t tolerate his disruptive behaviour, however,” Nivil warned, “we cannot have other noble children thinking they can get away with murder because of their station. Any such behaviour from him will be dealt with harshly, Vycal. It could reflect poorly on your house, and on the Academy.”

“I’ll speak with him.”

The dark look in his friend’s eyes told Nivil that Azreon would not walk away from the conversation unscathed.

He only hoped it would be the last time such a conversation took place, for all their sakes.

+++++

Shaya and her friends stood at the back of the large hall, it’s bright, white stone walls and glorious banners a sharp contrast to the miasma cast by the huge crowd of students that pressed towards the boards at the front. Running the gauntlet looked dangerous, with some students cutting through the tide of their peers with agility, others with charisma, and others yet with force of will and the occasional elbow.

Many made their way to the front only to have their hopes shattered, more than a few of them crying out in dismay or disbelief – or both. Friends consoled one another after reading the boards, while more dysfunctional lances blamed each other for personal failures.

“I can’t believe it,” Bri said, gaping at the display before them, “I’ve seen better behaved hooligans at sporting events.”

“And over their grades, no less,” Samorn sniffed, “there is still plenty of time to correct course and seize the top spot, if they work hard.”

“Yeah...” Ren drawled, “I don’t think most people share your view, Samorn.”

She looked up at her friend in mock offense.

“I agree with Samorn,” Apricot said, studying the crowd like they were some puzzle to solve.

Oraeus did the same, then sighed. “I know I’m the one who suggested we wait for things to die down, but some of us have plans today.”

Shaya caught Apricot’s shy smile and was happy for her friend, hoping that whatever plans they had worked out. “Well then,” she said, eying the crowd and pushing up her sleeves like she meant business, “we should get in there and make sure those plans get executed smoothly.”

Then Azreon and his lance entered the hall.

Shaya stiffened as they walked past, Lan shooting Galo a dark look. Sensing the daggers aimed at their backs, Azreon looked their way. A moment later, his head snapped forward as if slapped and they moved on without a word or another glance.

Shaya blinked.

“I guess the suspension really got to him,” Ralus theorized.

Shaya doubted that greatly, but he had avoided her ever since his return. As the crowd parted before the noble and his lance – if reluctantly and with no shortage of dirty glances – a plan hatched. “Quick, follow in their wake! Bri, with me in the front to make sure the crowd doesn’t close in around us too fast!”

“Genius!” Ren stated, falling into step behind them.

“So, Shaya,” Bri asked as they hustled up behind Azreon’s group, “how do you think you did?”

"I dunno,” she replied with a haunted expression, remembering the practical and theoretical portions of her exams with a shudder.

I just hope Auric and Rea keep me around...