The sky above the battlefield was stained with the yellow-white hues of early noon as the final runic glyphs of the Wargames flickered out like dying embers. The floating sigils unraveled into drifting mana wisps, weaving themselves back into the invisible latticework that powered Varncrest's infrastructure. The air felt strangely hollow in their absence—like the silence left behind when an orchestra stops mid-note.
Fenice did not budge from Martin's side, his hand still lightly gripping Martin's shoulder as if the slightest wrong movement might ignite the smoldering ruin that clung to him like an aura.
Seeing that, Martin simply unsummoned the scepter, the metal dissolving into motes of black-and-silver light that vanished into his sleeve. His eyes stayed blank, dull crimson irises catching the drifting ambient mana with the indifference of a wolf watching snowfall.
"So," Diemo said, planting her hands on her hips as she rocked back on her heels, boots crunching ash and bone underfoot, "what now?"
"They're probably calling for my execution already," Martin replied, tone so dry it might have been a joke—if any of them had been foolish enough to laugh.
Fenice's hand tightened, just barely. "You look like you'll kill them if they speak wrong," he said, golden eyes searching Martin's for some trace of softness.
"Yes," Martin confirmed, without a hint of bravado. Just fact.
"Don't," Fenice said, his voice catching ever so slightly on the word, "I beg you."
"Shut up," Martin said, turning his head just enough to glare at him sidelong.
"Don't try pity with him," Diemo said, stepping closer with a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes, "He reacts like a wild cat cornered in its own den."
From the sky, glowing runes began to spiral downward—massive, intricate sigils of blue and gold that shimmered with official sanction. The teleport array for compulsory retrieval. Authority inscribed in light.
"Here comes the welcome party," Diemo said lightly, rolling her eyes as the runes folded around them.
"It's definitely not a party," Fenice murmured back, tone flat, "He's in serious trouble. This is a bloodletting in a nice robe."
Light enveloped them—and with a wrenching twist that prickled across skin and bone, the three reappeared on the central landing platform atop Varncrest's main administrative spire.
Waiting for them were three familiar figures—Belisarius, arms crossed and jaw tense; Bellarine, tablet in hand, her eyes flicking over them with clinical precision; and Roen, half-slouched with the resigned calm of a man watching a bonfire creep toward his house.
As Martin stepped forward, Diemo only hummed under her breath, "Well. Look at that. A hero's welcome."
"Hardly heroic," Fenice countered, voice quiet. He stepped slightly in front of Martin, subtly shielding him from the council's line of sight, though Martin simply sidestepped him with an irritated click of his teeth.
"You have been summoned by the Interim Council of Seven for immediate disciplinary hearing," Bellarine said, not even waiting for a greeting. Her voice was precise enough to carve marble. She held out a slip of rune-etched parchment, its edges still glowing with fresh authorization glyphs.
"Did they skip lunch?" Martin asked, tone so deadpan that even Diemo snorted.
"Don't test them," Belisarius warned, his tone deceptively soft but underpinned with an iron note that made even Diemo straighten slightly, "They are barely holding back full execution orders. The only reason you're standing here and not chained in suppression bindings is because the Headmaster insisted on a direct testimony—unfiltered. He believes if they see your mind for what it is, they might understand the purpose behind the chaos."
"Headmaster Woldamort is personally involved?" Diemo raised an eyebrow, a spark of intrigue sliding across her grin.
"The entire Empire saw the Wargames broadcast," Roen said, his eyes drifting from Martin to the massive glass observation spire that loomed overhead, "The Houses are screaming treason. War crimes. Madness. The usual noblespeak for, 'He humiliated our pampered spawn on live mana-stream and made them soil their silk undergarments.'"
Fenice exhaled through his nose, his hand still hovering near Martin's shoulder as though to remind him that some ties, however frail, still bound him to civility. "Don't provoke them," he said softly, tone gentle but threaded with genuine urgency, "You've proven enough today. You have nothing left to prove."
Martin turned his head, red eyes half-lidded and weary but gleaming with that same glacial resolve that made lesser mages break eye contact. "I was brought here against my will because he," Martin jabbed a finger lazily at Belisarius, "thought I would be a good pick for raising academic standards. Am I raising them yet?"
Belisarius said nothing, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the twitch of guilt he was too proud to name.
Roen stifled a small laugh but coughed it away into his fist when Bellarine shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
"Martin Kaiser," Bellarine cut in, voice crisp enough to hush the wind around them, "You will stand before the Council. You will not interrupt. You will not bait them. And you will not speak unless questioned directly. Do you understand?"
Martin raised a single brow, eyes drifting between the three faculty like a cat studying a locked door. "Do they want an apology?"
"They want your head," Roen supplied, unhelpful but honest.
"Then we're already at an impasse," Martin said, tone oddly flat. He brushed Fenice's lingering hand off his shoulder. "Let's get this circus over with. I have manuscripts to read."
As they turned toward the arched entrance of the spire, the ornate doors opened without a sound. Beyond lay the Council chamber: a cavernous hall lined with pillars of spell-forged crystal, each inscribed with protective runes that could bind a dragon in mid-roar. At its center rose a semi-circular dais, where seven robed figures waited behind layered illusions of veiled mana, their faces blurred, identities hidden even from one another.
Martin stepped forward, boots echoing like iron gongs across the marble floor. He moved past Fenice, past Diemo's amused smirk, past Roen's muttered, "Don't kill anyone, please," and stopped at the edge of the Council's rune-circle.
Belisarius lingered at his side, just within whispering distance.
"This is where you either survive, or they make you a martyr," Belisarius murmured, voice low enough that only Martin caught it.
Martin didn't respond. He didn't nod. He didn't breathe out some glib quip. He just smiled—thin, tired, and razor-edged as the day he arrived at Varncrest with nothing but a pack of stolen cult secrets and a grin no executioner's blade could cut out of him.
Above him, the Council's lead figure leaned forward, his voice echoing out like thunder wrapped in velvet.
"Martin Kaiser," the figure intoned, each syllable soaked in mana-forged authority, "You stand accused of excessive force, reckless endangerment of noble heirs, destabilization of sanctioned combat zones, psychological warfare unbecoming of a student of Varncrest—"
Martin lifted his eyes, dead red meeting the blurred visage above.
And he smiled wider.