Solday morning passed like any other, with an exception towards the end. As Master Jerome dismissed him from his duty in the workshop, he passed on the message that the overseer wanted to speak with the novice. Always feeling a little uncomfortable, worrying about the reason, Martel did not delay but made his way to her chamber straightaway.

"Enter," came the reply to his knocking.

The room looked as always, and Martel took a seat. He placed one hand in his pocket, playing with the rune token that Regnar had given him so long ago, which helped him remain calm.

Mistress Juliana finished writing something, put her feather pen away, and looked at Martel. "How are you navigating the Imperial court?"

"Fine, I suppose. Just one more night, and it's over."

"I heard you spoke to the duke of Cheval. Has he taken an interest in you?"

"He's offered me a position," Martel explained.

"He is a shrewd man with an eye for opportunity. He would certainly make for a powerful patron. Well worth considering," she told him.

Martel hesitated, unsure whether he should reveal the reason for his apprehension. But even if she intimidated him, Mistress Juliana seemed to have his best interests at heart. "I don't want to work for him. I've heard him speak, and you said he leads the faction that wants war." He vividly remembered how the current war caused the riots, spilling onto the streets of Morcaster.

She regarded him for what felt like a long time. "If those are your principles, I will not dissuade you with cold counsel. Though you may find that the Empire is no different as a benefactor."

"There is one thing." Cold or not, Martel could use some counsel. "Tonight, the emperor's nephew wants to see me and Maximilian."

"Prince Flavius?" she asked sharply.

"Could be," he stammered. Nobody had told him the prince's name. "I only heard his title."

"Thin boy, big eyes, little older than you? Probably not quite as tall."

"That sounds like him, yes."

She nodded slowly. "He is the emperor's heir. Tread most carefully, and do not upset him. If possible, give him no reason to remember you."

Martel had a sinking feeling that such depended on Maximilian and what he had planned.

~

Wearing the last set of his fine clothes, Martel joined Maximilian to take yet another ride in the carriage. Once inside the transport and alone, he asked the question that had been on his mind all day. "Max, what's going to happen tonight with the prince?"

"We shall regale him with a tale or two of our exploits, that is all."

"But why have you involved me? I don't have to be present for that."

The viscount shot him a look. "He is our future emperor. I would have thought you thrilled to meet him. Barely anyone at the school has had this honour."

"I'm not like you," Martel mumbled. "Attention just means trouble for me."

"Buckle your breeches, man. I guarantee you, it will all be fine."

The novice did not feel reassured.

~

Entertainment for the final night of the feast came in the form of a play. Martel was reminded of his friends, who had left Morcaster rather hastily; he doubted they would be invited to the Imperial palace to perform. In any case, it did not matter. Even before the play began, Maximilian and Martel were summoned to join Prince Flavius.

The servant sent to fetch them walked a path that led outside. Not the extensive grounds that surrounded the palace, but a smaller garden inside the complex. The weather seemed foreboding with dark clouds on the horizon, and Martel hoped it was not some portent of how the night would develop.

The garden was full of flowers and colours, trees and bushes that spoke of skilled gardeners. Beautifully carved statues adorned different places, and a pavilion stood in the centre. Martel found it difficult to enjoy the surroundings, though, as he recognised the prince standing ahead with others.

Martel did not know them save one; as the son of a duke, it was understandable that Cheval would be part of the prince's circle. Still annoying to see his smirking face. The others were likewise sons of high nobility, Martel guessed. No girls invited to this little gathering, he noticed. It would have made him feel a lot better to have Eleanor present.

Maximilian gave a small bow to the prince, and Martel followed suit. He noticed that Flavius wore heavy golden jewellery, coincidentally keeping him safe from magic.

The prince scrutinised them both, and the novice felt compelled to look away. He pretended to study those present, standing a few paces behind the Imperial heir. Four of them, all around the same age as the prince with brightly embroidered insignias on their chests.

"I am told that Tyrian berserkers are near invincible in combat," Flavius spoke. "A match even for our mageknights."

"Yes, your Highness." Maximilian could not hide the satisfaction from his face.

"And yet the pair of you bested one. Two acolytes." The prince's voice turned cold.

Martel felt alarmed, but he dared not speak; he had no idea what he might say to avert the trouble brewing.

"We did," Maximilian growled.

"That one is not even an acolyte," Cheval interjected with obvious delight. "He is a novice. He has not even studied magic for a year."

Thunder could be heard in the distance, making one of the youths flinch. "Should we go inside?"

"Go hide inside the pavilion if rain frightens you," the prince spoke with derision. Still he scrutinised the two young mages in front of him.

"I was just thinking about the possibility of a lightning strike," came the mumbled reply.

"The pavilion has a lightning rod, coward," another of the group told him.

"It must have been an impressive display of magic when you defeated such a fearsome enemy," Flavius spoke again. Still, he looked at Martel and Maximilian as if calculating their worth.

"It was, Your Highness," the viscount replied. "He wails on me with a great hammer, costing me all my power just to keep him at bay. Meanwhile, Martel took him down with an attack from behind. A classic partnership between a mageknight and an elemental mage."

"Cheval tells me this is impossible. Two acolytes, or rather, one acolyte and the novice, could never have the strength to defeat a real berserker."

"Well we did," Maximilian growled. "In fact, I watched the barbarian defeat a mageknight in a prize fight some months prior. Trust me, his hammer hit as hard as any could, and I took those blows!"

"We used gold," Martel quickly added. "To weaken him."

The prince's big eyes turned from the viscount to the novice. "So he was powerless?"

"Only at the end," Maximilian protested. "I had to take plenty of hits before that. Not to mention, Martel dealt with all his henchmen, sending them into flight."

"You must be powerful mages," Flavius considered, speaking in his monotone voice as he looked back at Maximilian. "If this is true. I do not like being lied to. Prove to me you are as capable as you claim."

"Fine," the viscount assented. "How? I will gladly beat up Cheval as many times as you want."

"No, that would prove little. He is not a good mage," the prince spoke, and despite how anxious Martel felt, he enjoyed hearing that. "I want you to fight each other."

Martel did not enjoy hearing that. "What?" he exclaimed, forgetting himself.

Once again, the prince's eerie gaze turned on the novice. "Show me how powerful you both are. Fight each other until I am convinced."

The novice swallowed, wondering how to get out of this. Next to him, Maximilian slowly turned around to face him.