Chapter 545

The Masters’ Chamber was the highest room in the Magic Tower, a space reserved for the most solemn conclaves. It was rarely used, and even then, few were privileged to attend.

Today, it was full.

Every Master Mage and Archmage in Alluria stood in concentric circles around the central dais. They wore their formal robes, a sea of deep blues splashed with crimson, silver, and gold, the cream of the crop, the West's most powerful casters.

The silence was thick with the concentrated mana of dozens of true monsters gathered in one place, and their intent hung heavy in the air, even without a clear purpose.

Despite the pressure, Nick walked down the central aisle, unbothered. He kept his posture straight, his expression schooled into blank neutrality. To his left and right, familiar faces watched him. He caught sight of Master Battera, smiling with pride. Further back, near the arched entryways where senior apprentices like Raphael were permitted to observe, Eona and Bellamy stood with proud smiles.

This is as much a celebration as a performance, Nick thought, keeping his eyes fixed on the dais. A demonstration of unity for the rest of the Tower and a message to the factions beyond these walls.

At the center of the dais stood the Tower Master, flanked by Archmage Tholm and Archmage Iona. Bluetear wore midnight-blue robes threaded with silver, the fabric shifting like liquid in an unseen wind. His face was a mask of serene authority. Tholm looked composed, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a way Nick recognized as suppressed amusement. Iona’s gaze was sharp, watching his approach as if he were a particularly interesting bug.

Nick stopped at the base of the dais and knelt on one knee.

“Apprentice Nicholas Crowley," Bluetear’s voice echoed through the chamber, magically amplified to reach the farthest alcoves. "You stand before the conclave, having surpassed the bounds of your apprenticeship. You have demonstrated mastery of the arcane, resilience in the face of the World’s trials, and the wisdom necessary to wield the power of Prestige.”

He extended his hands, and a lacquered wooden box appeared in his palms. Tholm stepped forward and opened the lid.

"By the authority vested in me as Tower Master of Alluria, I declare you no longer an Apprentice," Bluetear declared. "I elevate you to the rank of Graduate Mage, and name you Mage Errant. You are unbound from this institution's hierarchy, yet you carry our name. Where you walk, Alluria’s Tower walks. Your actions will reflect on us.”

A reminder that it’s a leash, Nick noted, keeping his head bowed. A very prestigious, very visible leash. I get the authority, and they get the credit for my actions and a claim on my allegiance. But it’s fine; the protection the title affords is worth it, and I have no intention of being drawn back here anytime soon. By the time they tug on it, they’ll find me a bit too heavy to move.

Bluetear reached into the box and withdrew a rectangular plate of gleaming metal, the Silver Writ. He stepped down from the dais and held it out.

At Tholm’s nod, Nick took the plate. It was cold to the touch, its surface etched with complex runic arrays that thrummed with power.

Even with a cursory examination, he could tell it was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, designed to be impossible to forge, and likely crafted by his own Master.

Yet it also felt a bit too small for something that granted him diplomatic immunity in minor disputes, the right to requisition resources from allied guilds, and the authority to serve as an emissary of the Tower.

Next, Bluetear withdrew a chain of interlocking dark metal links, from which hung a medal. Forged from star-metal, it caught the light in strange flashes.

“With this, you shall always carry a piece of the Tower with you,” he instructed.

Nick bowed lower, letting the Tower Master drape the chain around his neck. The star-metal settled against his collarbone. As soon as it made contact, a dormant enchantment flared to life. Nick felt a chill run down his spine, then pressure wrapped around his flesh. He’d known it was a protective artifact, designed to absorb and deflect lethal magics and subtle curses alike, but this felt stronger than he’d expected.

It might even withstand a full-power blow from a Prestige rank.

Not that he intended to use it as casual protection. Its worth was more in what it represented than in any active effect, but it was good to know he had another trump card if he ever needed it.

It will also make things like charm magic useless, which is worth much more than a one-time shield. Again, I don’t really need it, but people won’t even try me with it in sight.

More enchantments were etched into the medal, so subtle he couldn’t discern them at a glance, but he didn’t have time to study them, and he trusted [Blasphemy] to protect him from anything nefarious.

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Not that he expected to need it. This, too, bore Tholm's signature, and his mentor had no reason to wish him harm.

"Rise, Nicholas Crowley, Mage Errant of Alluria’s Magic Tower,” Bluetear said, his voice dropping to a normal volume now that the formal vows were complete.

And Nick stood. The assembled mages stamped their staffs against the floor in unison. The sound cracked through the chamber like rolling thunder, vibrating the air in unnatural ways and reaching all the way to the bottom floor. Three strikes served as a traditional salute to a newly elevated peer, and the Tower shook thrice in acknowledgment.

Tholm stepped forward, a genuine smile breaking through his formal facade. He clasped Nick’s forearm. “I’m proud of you, my boy. Well done.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Master,” he replied, and was surprised to find he meant it. Though much of his growth had stemmed from his unnatural origin, without Tholm’s support, he would have faced a much harsher path.

Iona scoffed, though there was no real venom in her voice. "You have the Writ now. Do not squander the authority it grants, and do not make us regret giving it to you.”

"I will keep the Tower's reputation in mind, Archmage," Nick said smoothly, trying to hide his urge to roll his eyes. The old woman really was too stuck-up.

The ceremony gave way to a formal reception. Nick spent the next hour navigating a labyrinth of polite conversation, accepting congratulations from Master Mages who had barely acknowledged his existence a few months earlier. He smiled, offered noncommittal platitudes, and committed names and faces to memory. He found Raphael and his friends near the exit, exchanged a few words, and promised to send word when he reached the capital, having already celebrated his results the previous evening.

Lastly, he exchanged a few quiet words with Lasazar.

When he finally stepped out of the Tower and into Alluria's streets, the midday sun warmed his shoulders. He pulled his coat tight, tucking the star-metal medal beneath the fabric, cold and reassuring against his chest. He had one final stop to make before he could leave this city behind.

He navigated the winding streets, moving away from the merchant districts and toward the noble estates. He approached a compound surrounded by high stone walls topped with wrought iron. The gates stood open, unguarded, a testament to the confidence of the man who lived within.

As Nick walked in, the sounds of the city faded into a dull, distant hum, then were swallowed by the training courtyard.

Xander sat cross-legged on a raised wooden platform.

He wore loose, dark linen trousers and a simple gray tunic. A plain longsword rested across his knees. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and measured, his chest barely rising. The air around him felt utterly devoid of stray mana. It was a perfect, contained vacuum of energy, a physical manifestation of absolute discipline.

Nick stopped at the edge of the gravel, unwilling to disturb the meditation, and waited.

A long minute passed. The wind rustled the trees.

Finally, Xander opened his eyes. They were sharp, clear, and focused. He did not move his head, but his gaze snapped to Nick with predatory precision.

“I see you’ve made it,” he rumbled.

“I was given the Silver Writ this morning,” Nick replied. If it were up to him, the Grandmaster would have attended the ceremony with his family, but the Tower’s traditions required only mages to be present.

Xander nodded slowly. "A useful tool and a dangerous crutch, but you do not need me to tell you that. You are leaving for Siderea.”

"By the end of the day. I wanted to thank you for your guidance, Grandmaster. Your lessons were instrumental to my growth, and without your guidance in the arena, I wouldn’t have found a path forward.”

Perhaps it was a bit of an exaggeration, since he’d already been working toward Saga-spells on his own, but facing an Ascended had accelerated things considerably.

“Bah, you did everything yourself,” Xander corrected, scoffing. "I only provided the perspective you lacked." The older man shifted, rising smoothly to his feet, then picked up the longsword and slid it through the sash at his waist. "You are walking into a different kind of arena now, Nicholas. A much more dangerous one.”

“I was warned by several people,” Nick agreed. In fact, that was all anyone had to say about Siderea: it was a snake pit. It made him curious.

"The information broker sees the surface," Xander said with uncanny insight, stepping off the platform and walking slowly along the gravel's edge. "Poison and daggers are the tools of the desperate and the clumsy. The true danger of the capital lies in how they wage war on your perception.”

He stopped and turned to face Nick. "You are a Prestige mage. On the frontier, if a man opposes you, you may burn him to ash. The conflict is physical and direct. In Siderea, power struggles are woven into the very bedrock. They will not draw steel against you. They will ensnare you in obligations. They will force you to make choices in which every outcome serves their interests. They will attack your intent.”

Nick frowned, processing the words. "My intent.”

“Aye. The foundation of your magic," Xander explained. "The Court will try to erode that conviction. They will show you that your power is useless against bureaucratic inertia, societal expectations, and the weight of a thousand-year-old dynasty, until you no longer believe you can face them. They will have won without spilling a single drop of blood.”

A strange bitterness laced his voice, and Nick wondered whether he spoke from personal experience. It felt almost sacrilegious to think that of the Grandmaster, yet he couldn’t shake the thought.

Unheeding his realization, Xander pointed a finger at his chest. "They will try to make you doubt your right to act. The moment you hesitate, the moment you question whether you have the authority or the political capital to strike, your intent fractures. And a mage with a fractured intent is just a scholar with parlor tricks.”

Protect the mind to protect the magic, Nick realized, the idea resonating with his recent focus on Saga-spells. His new magic relied entirely on anchoring his will to concrete concepts. If he allowed the capital to make him second-guess his own reality, his spells would weaken significantly.

It was insidious, yet it fit with what he knew of the Kingdom.

"How do I fight that?" Nick asked.

"By knowing exactly who you are and refusing to let them define you," Xander replied. "Be the Mage Errant when it suits you. Be the boy from Floria when it disarms them. But never forget that beneath the titles, you are a force of nature. You do not need to bow to them, only to their appearance.”

There was a beat of silence as Nick digested that, and then Xander spoke again. "When you reach Siderea, seek out Lotharia Balthazaar," he instructed. "She is a Knight Captain in the Royal Guard and learned the blade in this very courtyard many years ago, before the Court claimed her talents.”

"Is she a reliable ally?" Nick asked, wondering how many more people he’d have to visit upon arrival.

"She is an honorable woman," Xander said carefully. "She will offer you shelter and understands the city’s currents better than most. She can guide you through the initial pleasantries. But she is a Knight of the Realm. The King pays her wages, and that goes a long way. Trust her advice, but guard your secrets. Everyone in Siderea serves a master.”

"I will be careful," Nick promised.

Xander offered a rare, grim smile. "Careful men die old and frustrated, Nicholas. Be decisive. The road east is long. Use the time to temper your spirit. I expect to hear of your next misadventures before the year is out.”

Nick opened his mouth to refute his words, but found himself unable to. It was, after all, very likely.