The cold, gauntleted grip on Elian's wrist was a lifeline and a shackle. The terrifying, seductive power that had threatened to consume him and everyone in the Grand Hall had slammed back into its cage, leaving him hollow, trembling, and horrifyingly exposed. The stranger's growled command – Run with me, or die here. Choose. – echoed in the sudden, ringing silence left by the suppression of his power.
Around them, the scene was a tableau of disintegrating enchantment. Professors blinked, shaking their heads as if emerging from a deep, confusing dream. Students pulled apart, faces flushed with embarrassment and dawning horror at their own lost control. The Headmaster, Lord Bromwell, straightened his robes with jerky movements, his face a mask of fury and shame, his eyes no longer glazed with desire but burning with incandescent rage. They all saw him now. Saw the silver hair, the amethyst eyes, the fading violet marks on his throat – marks no human mage bore. Saw the thing that had just turned their sacred ceremony into a depraved spectacle.
Panic, colder and sharper than the stranger's touch, surged through Elian's veins. Die here. The words weren't an empty threat. He saw the realization dawning in Bromwell's eyes, the gathering storm of righteous fury in the recovering faculty. Guards near the doors, shaking off the lingering effects of his accidental power, were reaching for their staves, their expressions hardening. He saw Professor Lennox, still on his knees, staring at Elian not with worship now, but with a kind of shattered, possessive hatred.
Run.
It was the only option. Survival instinct screamed louder than shame or fear. He met the stranger's molten gold gaze. There was no reassurance there, only grim expectation and an unnerving calm. Elian gave a single, jerky nod.
The armored man didn't hesitate. He pivoted, hauling Elian behind him with terrifying strength, his grip unbreakable. Elian stumbled, his legs still weak, the phantom heat of his suppressed power warring with the icy shock of reality. They plunged towards the grand entrance, the stranger carving a path through the stunned, disoriented crowd. Gasps, shouts of confusion, and Bromwell's enraged bellow – "SEIZE HIM! THE DEMON!" – erupted behind them.
The heavy oak doors groaned as the stranger slammed his shoulder against them. They burst open onto the wide academy steps. Bright afternoon sunlight, harsh and unwelcome after the dim, incense-heavy hall, stabbed at Elian's eyes. The sprawling manicured lawns, the ancient stone buildings – his home for ten years – suddenly looked alien, hostile.
"Move!" The command was a whip-crack. Elian scrambled down the steps, propelled by the relentless pull on his arm. He risked a glance back. Bromwell stood framed in the doorway, staff raised high, his voice amplified by magic, thundering across the quadrangle: "ELIAN SILVERTHORN IS REVEALED! A DEMON SPAWN! A THREAT TO THE EMPIRE! APPREHEND HIM! DEAD OR ALIVE!"
The words struck Elian like physical blows. Demon spawn. The secret his mother had died protecting him from, flung into the open with the Headmaster's authority. The few students and staff milling outside stopped, staring. Whispers turned to shouts. Alarm bells began to clang from the academy watchtowers, a harsh, metallic heartbeat accelerating Elian's panic.
The stranger didn't slow. He veered sharply off the main path, dragging Elian towards a dense thicket of ancient, gnarled oaks bordering the academy grounds. Thorns snatched at Elian's fine graduation robes, tearing the dark fabric. Branches whipped against his face. He could hear the pounding of boots on gravel behind them, the shouts drawing closer. "This way!" "He went into the trees!"
"Faster," the stranger gritted out, his voice tight. He moved with predatory grace, navigating the undergrowth with an ease Elian, gasping for breath, couldn't match. Elian's lungs burned. The suppression of his power felt like a lead weight in his chest, making every step an effort. He could feel the terrifying energy beneath his skin, chafing against its new constraints, a caged beast desperate to break free. The violet marks on his throat prickled.
Suddenly, the stranger yanked him sideways behind the massive trunk of a lightning-struck oak. He pressed Elian flat against the rough bark, his armored body shielding him. Elian froze, trying to stifle his ragged breathing. Through the tangled branches, he saw a squad of academy guards crash past their hiding spot, weapons drawn, scanning the woods frantically. "Spread out! Check the perimeter wall!" Their leader barked.
The stranger remained perfectly still, a statue of dark steel and lethal patience. Elian could feel the hard planes of armor against his back, the heat radiating from the larger man even through the metal. He smelled leather, oiled steel, and something else – a faint, smoky scent, like embers after a fire. It was strangely grounding amidst the terror. The guard squad moved off, their voices fading.
The moment they were out of sight, the stranger was moving again, pulling Elian deeper into the woods, away from the academy walls and towards the wilder, less-patrolled fringes of the Aethelgard estate. The terrain grew rougher, the ground uneven and slick with moss. Elian stumbled constantly, his fine boots offering no purchase. His wrist ached where the gauntlet gripped it, a constant, cold reminder of his captivity.
"Why?" Elian gasped out as they scrambled down a muddy embankment towards the rushing sound of the River Selen. "Why did you help me? What do you want?"
The stranger didn't turn. "Silence," he ordered, his tone flat. "Questions get you killed faster."
They reached the riverbank. The Selen was wide and fast-flowing here, swollen with spring meltwater, its surface churning brown and white. On the far bank lay dense, untamed forest – the beginning of the lawless borderlands. The stranger scanned the river, then looked back the way they'd come. The distant clamor of bells and shouts was intensifying. Search parties were converging.
"Can you swim?" The question was abrupt.
Elian looked at the raging water, then down at his heavy, waterlogged robes. "Not like this," he admitted, despair creeping in. They were trapped.
The stranger's eyes narrowed, assessing. Then, with startling speed, he released Elian's wrist only to seize the back of his ornate graduation robe. There was a brutal tearing sound as the stranger ripped the heavy, sodden fabric from neck to hem with a single, powerful jerk. Elian stumbled back, suddenly clad only in his thin linen under-tunic and trousers, shivering violently in the cool river air, exposed and vulnerable.
"Now you can," the stranger stated, bundling the ruined robe under his arm. Before Elian could protest or even fully register the indignity, the man clamped a hand back on his bicep – avoiding the bare skin of his wrist – and waded into the icy current.
The shock of the water stole Elian's breath. It was freezing, pulling at his legs with surprising strength. He gasped, floundering, but the stranger's grip was like iron, dragging him relentlessly forward. The water rose to their waists, then their chests. Elian kicked frantically, the current threatening to sweep his feet away. He choked as a wave slapped his face. Beside him, the stranger moved with steady, powerful strokes, a dark island of strength in the churning water, hauling Elian along like unwanted baggage.
Halfway across, the shouts reached the bank they'd just left. Torches flickered through the trees. "There! In the river!" A crossbow bolt hissed through the air, splashing harmlessly yards downstream. Another followed, closer. Elian ducked instinctively, the icy water closing over his head for a terrifying second before the stranger hauled him back up, sputtering and blinded.
"Keep moving!" the stranger snarled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water and the shouts from the bank. He increased his pace, his powerful legs churning the water. Elian kicked desperately, terror lending him strength he didn't know he had. He focused on the dark shape of the opposite bank, looming closer through the spray.
They reached the shallows on the far side, staggering onto the muddy, root-tangled bank. Elian collapsed to his knees, retching river water, his body wracked with shivers. The stranger stood over him, scanning the forest edge, his breathing only slightly elevated. He tossed the bundled, dripping robe onto the mud. "Up. They'll send boats."
Elian pushed himself up, his limbs leaden, his thin clothes plastered to his skin, offering no warmth. He looked back across the Selen. Torches clustered on the far bank. He could see Bromwell's distinctive silhouette, gesticulating furiously. The Headmaster's amplified voice, filled with venomous triumph, carried clearly across the water:
"LET IT BE KNOWN! ELIAN SILVERTHORN, FORMERLY OF AETHELGARD, IS REVEALED AS A DEMONIC ABERRATION! A WALKING PESTILENCE! BY ORDER OF THE IMPERIAL MAGUS COUNCIL, HE IS HEREBY DECLARED EXCOMMUNICATUS ET HOSTIS IMPERII – OUTLAW AND ENEMY OF THE EMPIRE! A BOUNTY OF TEN THOUSAND SOLARIS IS PLACED UPON HIS HEAD, DEAD OR ALIVE! HE IS THE FORBIDDEN BLOOD! THE SCARLET SCREAM! BRING HIM DOWN!"
The titles slammed into Elian: Demonic Aberration. Walking Pestilence. The Forbidden Blood. The Scarlet Scream. Each one felt like a brand searing his soul. The bounty – ten thousand Solaris – was a fortune that would turn every peasant, mercenary, and bounty hunter in the realm into his hunter. He was no longer Elian Silverthorn, promising mage. He was prey. A monster to be destroyed.
A fresh wave of despair threatened to drown him. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking violently, the fading violet marks on his throat pulsing with a dull, cold ache. The stranger's gaze, when it finally settled on him, was unreadable in the deepening twilight. There was no pity, only that unnerving, assessing clarity.
"They will hunt you to the ends of the earth," the stranger stated, his voice a low rumble. He picked up the dripping robe again, seemingly unconcerned with the proclamation echoing across the river. "Your choices are few. Come." He turned and strode into the dark embrace of the borderland forest without waiting for a response.
Elian stared after the retreating figure, then back at the torches on the far bank, symbols of everything he'd lost. The icy water dripped from his hair, mingling with the hot tears of shock and fury that finally spilled over. He was alone. Hunted. Branded a monster. The only anchor in this nightmare was the cold, armored man disappearing into the trees, a man who saw him only as a target, a "demon" to be controlled. He had chosen to run. Now, shivering and branded, he had no choice but to follow the only path left – deeper into the darkness, trailing the man who held his leash and his only fragile hope of survival. He stumbled after the retreating shadow, the Headmaster's damning words still ringing in his ears, a death sentence carried on the wind.