Martin walked slowly toward the northern teleportation terminal under a sky that looked ready to split open and swallow the world whole. Storm clouds brewed low and heavy, dragging their shadows across the sprawling marble terraces and needle-spired towers of Varncrest like bruises creeping across pale skin. The wind smelled sharp with rain and distant lightning, an electric scent that made the wards carved into the stone pathways flicker with residual charge.
His boots made soft sounds against the runic tiles, each step echoing in the vast, wind-haunted courtyard. He carried nothing—no satchel, no tomes, no relics. Just himself and the thin, battered coat that still bore half-burnt sigils and blackened seams.
'Finally, freedom again,' Martin thought as he squinted into the rising wind, 'A quiet end to a noisy chapter.'
But quiet, of course, was too much to hope for.
He saw them before he heard them—an inconvenient cluster of colors and crests waiting beneath the glowing white arch of the teleportation gate. Roen leaned against a support pillar, hands in his pockets, hair whipping about like a banner. Belisarius stood nearby, wearing his formal armor and his favorite scowl. Bellarine was next to him, slim fingers tapping her clipboard with an audible click-click-click. Fenice, dressed in travel leathers rather than his usual dueling coat, met Martin's gaze with that infuriating calm.
And standing a little apart, clustered together like the world's most wounded peacocks, were the twelve surviving CLL scions, their house sigils gleaming even under the dull stormlight. Diemo, arms folded, rested against a crate of arcane transponders, a faint grin tugging at her lips.
Martin stopped just shy of the group. He eyed them all as if inspecting a plague. "A farewell parade, really?"
"You could try gratitude," Fenice said gently.
Martin tilted his head, the wind tugging his hair across his eyes. "What kind?"
"The promise of rematch," came another voice—Leon Fargus stepped forward from the group of scions, cobalt hair tied back, house sigil stitched bright against his breastplate.
Martin looked at him for one heartbeat. Then another. Then he barked out a dry, mirthless laugh. "What?"
"They want one too," Diemo drawled lazily, nodding at the other scions. "They insisted."
Leon met Martin's eyes without flinching. "Don't get us wrong, Kaiser. We're not here to make friends. We know what you did to us. We know why you did it. But we'll do whatever it takes to reclaim our pride. To stand against you again properly—no council strings, no formation puppetry, no hidden knives."
Martin raised a brow, voice dipping into a soft, cold drawl. "You're asking for another beating?"
Leon didn't flinch. "We're asking for a real battle. No half-measures, no safety glyphs. When we come for you next time, it'll be on our terms."
Martin's eyes flicked to Iven, who nodded once, chin lifting defiantly. "We underestimated you once. We won't do it again. Next time, we see you properly."
"Equals?" Martin repeated, tone dry as cracked stone. "You think it's just a matter of strategy and courage?"
"That's what we intend to find out," Iven shot back. There was no anger in his voice now—only something sharper and far more dangerous. Resolve.
Martin's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile—or the echo of one. "Fine. I'm open. Just make sure next time your pride doesn't drag a whole Empire's worth of fools into another fallout."
"Where's the fun in that?" Iven quipped, a ghost of a grin flickering across his bruised face.
Martin stared at him flatly. "Bastard."
"Monster," Iven shot back. It almost sounded fond. Almost.
Roen pushed off his pillar and stepped forward, hands shoved into his coat pockets. "Martin."
Martin's entire posture shifted. He gave Roen a look so venomously disgusted it would have made a basilisk flinch.
"Don't look like that," Roen said dryly. "You let me into your quarters. You let me sit on your bed. You even let me finish your stolen sweets stash. That makes me your friend, whether you like it or not."
Martin managed, somehow, to make an even more disgusted face. It was a small miracle the wind didn't freeze in place in protest.
"Just… don't get yourself killed out there," Roen said, shrugging. His tone tried for casual but didn't quite stick the landing. "Try to— I don't know—come back someday with your head still attached to the rest of you."
Martin blinked slowly. Then he muttered, "I hate sentiment."
"Good," Roen shot back, grinning like a devil in a chapel. "Means you heard me."
Bellarine stepped forward then, producing a roll of parchment inked with looping glyphwork that shimmered faintly under the teleportation gate's hum. She held it out like an offering to a wolf. "You need to sign this."
Martin plucked it from her fingers, eyes flicking across the tight script. "Soul contract?"
"Clause of non-retaliation, non-disclosure on Academy internal security wards, and a formal acknowledgment that you leave of your own volition," Bellarine explained flatly. "It's more for the Council's ego than any real binding. But they insisted."
Martin hummed, dipping his thumb into the shallow ink seal on the scroll's edge and pressing it against the signature rune. "Done."
Bellarine snatched it back with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon harvesting an organ. "Good. Now go. Belisarius will lose what's left of his hair if you linger."
Belisarius snorted faintly but said nothing. He stepped closer, looking Martin dead in the eye. His voice was soft but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "Six hours are almost over. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
Martin looked at him for a long moment. He saw the subtle tremor in the old gauntlet at Belisarius's side—Compliance, the lie-hunter that had been forced to stand down for once in its long service. He saw the regret. The anger. The faint, lingering pride that made his stomach twist with something he refused to name.
He shrugged. "Tell the Council they should pick better monsters next time."
Belisarius gave a humorless half-smile. "I'll be sure to pass that along."
Martin turned at last to the gate, feeling the humming mana lines begin to resonate under his feet. Fenice stepped forward one last time, boots scraping softly against the marble.
"Martin."
"What now?" Martin asked, voice soft.
Fenice reached out, hesitated, then let his hand drop. "Stay alive."
Martin tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. Then, with all the warmth of a closing tomb, he said, "Try to keep the next batch alive for me, swordsman."
The teleportation gate flared. Light swallowed him whole.
A heartbeat later, the courtyard was empty. Just the storm, the wind, and the ghosts of all the ruin left behind.