Sael stood there.
Silent.
He needed to understand what was happening here first before he asked more questions about the Corruption. The news was still sitting in his mind like a weight but this didn't seem like the appropriate moment to press them on it.
There was clearly some kind of drama unfolding between these three.
Ilsa took a step forward, her hand still on her sword hilt. "What is the meaning of this, Shaye?"
Her tone was sharp in a way it hadn't been when she'd been talking to him earlier, like she was addressing someone who had disappointed her badly and was about to get an earful about it.
Shaye didn't answer. She was staring at the ground with her jaw clenched tight, breathing carefully controlled in the way people did when they were trying very hard not to say something they'd regret. Or possibly trying very hard not to run.
Sael watched the exchange, his expression growing steadily less neutral. This woman had sent a necro-dragon into Gatsby. Into a village full of people who'd been going about their evening. There had been children playing in the streets. Families gathering for dinner. That one couple who'd been so excited to watch the spectacle of the dragon flying overhead, completely unaware it was about to crash into their homes.
The bald florist who'd been tending his shop. The woman making that excellent chicken he'd been planning to get a plate of before all this started.
And Sael Junior.
Sael's jaw tightened slightly.
"A necro-dragon," Ilsa continued, her voice getting louder. "You sent a necro-dragon into a village full of people. What were you thinking?"
Still nothing from Shaye. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides now, knuckles white.
Sael noticed something. The way she was standing. The tension in her shoulders. This wasn't shame. This was fear. The kind that came from knowing you'd been caught and were calculating how bad the consequences were going to be.
Also annoying that she wasn't answering.
"Sir, this is Shaye Haazad. She's a professor at the Academy," Ilsa said suddenly, turning to look at him like this explained something important.
Sael blinked. "What academy?"
"The Mage's Academy in Orlys," Orion said quietly from where he stood beside Ilsa, looking uncertain about whether he should be contributing to this conversation or staying out of it entirely. "Where I study. Professor Haazad teaches ethical necromancy there."
Ethical... necromancy?
Sael paused, turning the phrase over in his mind.
They taught that now? As a subject? With the word "ethical" in front of it?
He tried to think of what part of necromancy could be considered ethical. The practice involved taking a corpse—something that used to be a person with thoughts and feelings and preferences about what happened to their body—and making it move around to do things. Usually things the person wouldn't have wanted to do, like attack villages or carry heavy objects or stand guard in places.
That seemed fundamentally not ethical.
Perhaps it meant asking permission first. Though he wasn't sure how that would work and this was probably not the right time to ask about it. He filed the question away for later and refocused on the situation in front of him.
The ethical necromancy professor.
Well, that explained her skill level at least. She was inexperienced in actual combat situations, but she'd clearly had proper training in the theory and practice of her craft. Enough training to reanimate a dragon and send it flying toward innocent people, apparently.
"She's also my cousin," Ilsa added.
Hmm.
Sael looked at Shaye again, studying her features more carefully this time. Another descendant of Bushy Brows, then? If so, she didn't look like him at all either.
"Where did you get a dragon's body?" Sael asked, keeping his tone conversational despite the growing irritation simmering beneath it. "And why did you direct it toward a village full of people?"
Shaye's jaw worked like she was chewing on words she refused to let out. Her eyes flicked up for just a fraction of a second—not toward him, but past him, toward Ilsa—and then she looked away again with her expression hardening into something defensive and closed-off.
Interesting.
He filed the observation away for now, though his patience for people who refused to take responsibility for endangering innocents was wearing thin. Very thin.
"You were given a Right of Quest," Sael said, turning his attention to Ilsa. "Is that correct?"
Ilsa blinked at the sudden shift in topic, clearly not expecting him to change direction like that. "Yes. I was."
"What did you demand in return?"
"A house in my name. Lands. And enough wealth to maintain them," Ilsa said, her posture shifting into something more formal.
Sael nodded slowly. Establishing an independent household with her own lands and resources, that took considerable drive. Not unreasonable given what a Right of Quest typically involved, but it suggested genuine ambition rather than simple escape.
"Did you have problems with your family?" he asked.
The question came out before he'd fully thought it through, and the moment it was out there he wondered if maybe it was too personal. He wasn't always good at gauging that sort of thing. People had boundaries he didn't always remember to check for.
Ilsa was quiet for a moment, and Sael was just starting to think he should probably move on when she spoke.
"I am the fourth child of my father," she said, her voice measured. "I had my own... reasons for wanting independence. The Right of Quest was my opportunity to establish something of my own—House Veyne, I plan to call it. My own legacy, separate from House Eryndor."
Sael paused.
Those words. The phrasing. The sentiment.
It was remarkably similar to what Bran–her forefather–had said centuries ago, almost word for word. Bushy Brows had been the third son of a king, a prince with no real path to the throne, and he'd wanted to create his own house. His own legacy. Something separate from his father's kingdom.
Was this some sort of genetic thing? Did ambition pass down through bloodlines in specific patterns? The similarity was uncanny.
How odd.
"I see," Sael said, and he did see.
The Right of Quest was an old tradition, one that dated back to the early kingdoms when lords needed ways to motivate people to take on tasks that were dangerous enough that no sane person would attempt them otherwise.
A subject—noble or common, it didn't matter—could approach their lord and request a quest. The quest could be anything. Slay a dragon terrorizing the countryside. Retrieve a stolen artifact from a cursed ruin. Explore an unknown land and map its territories. The more dangerous the task, the more significant the reward the subject could demand in return.
And the reward could be anything as well. Lands, titles, wealth, freedom from service, marriage rights, pardons for crimes—the specifics didn't matter as long as both parties agreed to the terms.
The agreement was made in front of ten witnesses, and it was binding in a way that went beyond simple contracts. It was sacred. Both parties were obligated to honor their vows, and breaking a Right of Quest was considered one of the gravest dishonors a lord or subject could commit.
It wasn't a small matter for Ilsa's father to have granted her one. It meant he believed the danger in Marrix was real and significant enough that he was willing to risk his daughter's life and bind himself to granting her a house and lands if she succeeded in investigating it.
Which meant this was important. And someone had apparently tried to kill her before she could even begin.
Sael's gaze drifted back to Shaye, who was still standing there with her hands clenched into fists and her whole body radiating tension.
A suspicion was forming in his mind, and it wasn't a pleasant one.
Ilsa had been granted a Right of Quest to investigate Corruption in Marrix. She'd been traveling to Gatsby specifically to find him and ask for his help. And now her cousin—a necromancy professor with apparent access to dragon corpses and the skill to turn them into dangerous constructs—had just happened to send a necro-dragon to attack the exact village where Ilsa was looking for him.
That was too much coincidence for Sael to believe it was actually coincidence.
He needed to confirm it, though. Suspicions weren't facts, and acting on assumptions was how you ended up making mistakes you couldn't take back.
Sael stepped forward. Shaye's eyes widened and her whole body went taut like she was preparing to run, but she couldn't run with her mana core still bound and she knew it.
"My apologies," Sael said quietly.
He reached out and pressed his fingers to her forehead before she could pull away.
"Don't—" Shaye's voice came out sharp and panicked. "Don't you dare—"
"[Read]."
The spell took hold immediately, and Shaye's breath hitched as her whole body went rigid. She was trying to resist it—he could feel her will pushing against the spell's structure—but it didn't matter. [Read] didn't care if you wanted your memories examined or not. That was why Sael tried not to use it unless he had a very good reason.
Like endangering a village full of innocent people and then refusing to explain yourself, for instance.
"Were you hired to kill young Ilsa?" Sael asked.
Shaye didn't answer. Her teeth were clenched so hard he could hear them grinding together.
But she didn't need to answer, because Sael could see it now. The memory was rising to the surface of her mind, vivid and clear in the way recent memories always were.
An old man sitting across from her in what looked like a private study. Thin, dignified, dressed in fine robes with the crest of House Eryndor embroidered on the collar. He had a glass of wine in his hand and was speaking to her in the kind of calm, measured tone people used when they were discussing something unpleasant but necessary.
Oh, he also had bushy brows.
"You'll intercept her before she reaches Gatsby," the old man said. "Make it look like an accident. A monster attack, perhaps. Something believable."
Shaye's hands were trembling in the memory. "I don't—I'm not sure I can—"
"You can," the old man interrupted smoothly. "And you will. Unless you'd prefer I inform the Academy about your indiscretions. I'm sure they'd be very interested to hear about the unauthorized experiments you've been conducting in the lower labs."
Shaye had gone pale. "That's—"
"Blackmail?" The old man smiled, though there was nothing warm about it. "Yes. It is. But I'm offering you a choice, Professor. Help me, and I'll ensure those indiscretions remain private. Refuse, and I'll make certain they become very, very public."
Sael let that memory settle, then asked his next question.
"Were you truly going to attack an entire village full of people just to kill one person?"
He felt Shaye's mind flinch away from the question, trying to think about something else—anything else—but it was already too late. The thought had formed, and with it came the memory.
Another scene, more recent. Shaye standing on a hillside overlooking Gatsby, the necro-dragon looming behind her. She was staring down at the village.
Sael watched as she considered her options. Search the small village for Ilsa specifically. Go house to house, ask questions, waste time. Risk being seen, being identified, being stopped.
Or she could just... level it.
The thought was there in her mind, clear and cold. The dragon could sweep through the entire village in seconds. Destroy everything. Ilsa would die along with everyone else, and no one would be able to trace it back to her. A tragic monster attack. These things happened sometimes in remote areas.
Nobody would know.
She'd made her choice. The dragon had swooped down toward Gatsby, and she'd given the command.
The memory faded as Sael withdrew from it.
He removed his hand from Shaye's forehead and stepped back, giving her space. She was breathing hard now, her face flushed with what looked like equal parts anger and fear, her hands shaking at her sides.
Sael looked at Ilsa, then at Orion, then back at Shaye.
Well.
That confirmed it.
"The man who blackmailed her was thin," he said. "Older. Perhaps sixty years or thereabouts. Dignified in appearance. Wore fine robes with House Eryndor's crest upon the collar." He paused, trying to recall other details from the memory. "He had wine. Was seated in what appeared to be a private study."
Ilsa's face went pale.
"Aldric," she said quietly.
Orion's head snapped toward her. "Professor Eryndor? The defensive arts instructor?"
"My cousin," Ilsa said. Her voice had gone flat. "My father's nephew. He teaches at the Academy."
Sael watched her expression shift. Shock, mostly. Disbelief settling in around the edges.
Another descendant of Bushy Brows, then. That explained the eyebrows. The family trait had survived the centuries.
The thought almost put a smile on Sael's face, but he didn't want it to be misunderstood. He tried for a neutral expression instead. It came out as a frown.
The necromancer flinched.
"Why would he want you dead?" Sael asked as he cleared his throat, embarrassed by the failed attempt at a poker face. Perhaps he should dedicate some time to mastering neutral expressions.
Ilsa looked genuinely lost. "I don't—I don't know. We've always been on good terms. He was kind to me when I was younger. Helped me with my swordwork. He even wrote me a recommendation letter for—" She stopped, shaking her head. "There's no bad blood between us. None that I know of."
"He seemed quite certain about wanting you intercepted," Sael said.
"But why?" Orion cut in. He looked almost as shaken as Ilsa did. "Professor Eryndor is—he's respected. Everyone likes him. He's fair. He wouldn't—"
"He did," Sael said.
The words hung there.
Shaye was still standing a few feet away, breathing hard, not looking at any of them. Her hands were now shaking.
Ilsa stared at the ground. Her jaw was tight. "This doesn't make sense."
"Perhaps it's tied to Marrix," Sael said.
Ilsa looked up sharply.
"The Corruption," Sael continued. "Your quest. Someone doesn't want you investigating. Or doesn't want you to find something."
Ilsa's eyes widened slightly, like a thought had just clicked into place. "He was against the quest," she said suddenly. "From the beginning. When I first proposed it to my father, Aldric was there. He argued against it. Said it was too dangerous. That Marrix was too far, barely known lands, and that my father shouldn't risk sending his daughter on a year-long journey for unconfirmed reports."
"Did your father listen?"
"No. He granted the Right of Quest anyway." She paused. "Aldric seemed... upset. More than I'd expected. I thought he was simply worried for me, but—"
"He didn't want you to go," Orion finished.
"Because he didn't want me to find something."
Sael nodded.
The clearing was quiet for a moment. Just wind through the trees and the faint crackling of residual embers from the fires he'd put out earlier.
Then Sael heard it.
Hooves.
Multiple sets. Moving fast through the forest. The rhythm was too coordinated to be travelers. Too purposeful.
Soldiers, by the sound of it.