"This is nice," Martin murmured, reclining lazily against the cold obsidian wall of the North Tower's confinement chamber. The hexagonal cell was painfully simple—no bed, no furniture, only smooth black stone and thin seams of flickering anti-casting runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. Mana lamps, suspended on rune-tethers, floated overhead in slow circles, drenching him in a sterile, ghostly glow that made his red eyes gleam like coals in a grave.
His coat, tattered from the wargames, lay folded on his lap. He absently traced the scorched edge of its hem, mind adrift.
Outside the sealed door, boots echoed—one pair, deliberate and steady. The anti-casting seals flickered once as they parted just wide enough for a single figure to pass.
"Hello child," Woldamort said, voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to settle deep in the stone itself. He stepped inside like a shadow given shape, his layered black and gray robes flowing behind him like funeral banners caught in a wind that did not exist.
Martin didn't rise. He only shifted his eyes from the rune-lit ceiling to the ancient man's sunken face. "The Council has reached their verdict, I take it?" he asked blandly.
Woldamort inclined his head once, the motion more like a bow of acknowledgment than courtesy. "The verdict is exile."
Martin chuckled softly, a sound more breath than amusement. "Good guess on my part," he said, tapping two fingers on his knee. "Want to hear why?"
Woldamort studied him, that hollow stare as deep and slow as moonlight crossing an ocean. "Tell me."
"It wasn't some grand strategy," Martin said. He rolled his shoulder, feeling the stiff bruise where Diemo had kicked him hours earlier. "They couldn't execute me. Not after what they broadcasted to every province. It'd make them look incompetent—weak. I made a public spectacle of tearing down their darling scions. If they kill me now, the people might actually notice the rot."
Woldamort's lips twitched—whether in annoyance or dark amusement, Martin couldn't tell.
"And they can't keep me here, either," Martin went on. "The nobles won't stand for it. They'd spend every waking moment screaming about their children being corrupted by my 'barbarism' and 'insanity.' So, exile becomes the tidy compromise."
For a moment, the ancient Headmaster's eyes softened, though they did not warm. "It's sad. If not for your behavior, I would have taken you as a disciple," he said, voice low enough to scrape the edges of pity.
Martin's laugh this time was sharp, dry as bones rattling in a desert crypt. "You used an entire country as your private test bed for magical escalation," he said flatly. "I don't think the 'Lord of Despair' should lecture me about behavior."
Woldamort tilted his head slightly, the faintest amusement tugging at the corner of his pale lips. "You are not wrong," he admitted. "My methods are neither moral nor humane. But they are necessary."
"Spoken like every butcher in history," Martin replied, eyes flicking back to the rune-sealed ceiling. "The only difference between you and me is that you made your bargain with the Empire. I didn't."
Woldamort's fingers twitched faintly at his side, as if suppressing an urge to adjust his robes. "For that remark," he said at last, voice bone-dry, "you're forbidden to reclaim anything you left in your quarters."
Martin snorted softly. "Don't worry. I only left the most useless scraps. Old notes, half-finished circles. Things I wanted them to find anyway."
"Brat," Woldamort muttered, the insult so mild it almost sounded like reluctant affection. He sighed, then straightened, the finality in his posture unmistakable. "Do you wish to hear the exact conditions?"
Martin finally pushed himself up, leaning his shoulder against the wall with all the casual ease of a man about to stroll out of a tavern brawl. "Lay it on me."
"You are to leave Varncrest within the next six hours," Woldamort recited, each word edged like a blade dulled by long years of cutting the same wound. "You are forbidden from entering any Imperial educational facility, research tower, or mage fortress under Consortium jurisdiction for a period of three years."
Martin raised an eyebrow. "Not permanent exile, then. I must be worth more alive than they'd care to admit."
"You are far too valuable for permanent exile," Woldamort said, his tone dry as parchment.
"How generous," Martin murmured, voice dripping with a contempt so casual it no longer sounded cruel—only tired.
"Additionally," Woldamort pressed on, "you are forbidden from harming any Imperial citizen within the Empire's heartland for one year. Any breach of this clause will trigger an immediate execution order through the Imperial Black Orders."
Martin's mouth curved into that small, razor-edged smile that made seasoned mages flinch. "So I can't kill nobles for a year. But if they die by misfortune, or consequences of their own idiocy…" He spread his hands, shrugging as if to say, 'Accidents happen.'
Woldamort pinched the bridge of his nose, looking more like a weary grandfather than the living engine of despair whispered about in half a hundred provinces. "Your craziness needs refinement," he muttered.
"Says you," Martin shot back, his grin widening just enough to show teeth.
The Headmaster exhaled a long, ghostly breath that made the mana lamps flicker. He stepped closer, stopping a mere foot away from Martin, their shadows merging on the rune-etched floor. "I wonder," Woldamort said quietly, "if you realize what you have just set in motion."
Martin tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming faintly under the mana glow. "I didn't set anything in motion. I just turned the lights on."
For a heartbeat, the two stood there—monster and myth, mirror and reflection.
Then Woldamort stepped back. With a casual flick of his fingers, the warding runes around the cell flickered and died, the mana lamps winking out one by one. He turned away, his silhouette shrinking into the shadows of the hall beyond.
"Get out of my school," Woldamort said, voice echoing through the dark like a soft verdict delivered at the world's funeral.
Martin watched him leave, the ghost of a smirk lingering on his lips as the chamber door shut with a soft thud. He bent down, brushing the dust from his coat, and murmured to the empty cell,
'Well then. Exile, is it? Let's see who follows me into the dark.'
And with that, Martin Kaiser—monster, heretic, and reluctant prophet—stepped into the silence of his freedom, already tasting the ruin to come.