Aaron opened his eyes. None of the others had recovered. Aaron felt the air shift before the movement even registered. A whisper of cloth against stone, bodies lowering in near-perfect unison.

  A prayer in motion. No, submission. To him.

  His gut clenched, but his face stayed blank. Everyone but his guards and friends followed. Erais gasped loudly.

  Aaron looked around. Tehron and Rhea failed at keeping grins off their faces. Bug and Shard exchanged tense looks. Maybe I should start spoting pious nonsense in a deep and many-voiced tone whenever people prostrate themselves before me? Aaron shook himself. Someone had already tried to spy on—or kill—him. I need to get out of here.

  He was about to turn tail and run when his new social sense tingled. I can't leave like this. Everyone will talk about my reaction. This moment will define me.

  Aaron inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their gazes settle on his skin. He glanced at Tehron—not for guidance, but confirmation. Then, he stepped forward.

  “I accept your reverence.” His voice carried over the silent group. “May it be matched by your reverence for the Weavers' demands.”

  He walked with purpose he didn’t feel, spine stiff with duty. This was what Champions did—pretend they weren’t terrified. Bug nodded to him as the two guards fell in behind him.

  Before the door closed, Bug spoke up louder than necessary. “Champion, where will you take your lunch?”

  Aaron stroked his chin to buy time. I can’t retreat. I must be seen. As much as I would like to disappear until the tumult is over. He remembered the Grey Parrot. If I am seen as weak, would that invite more danger? He shuddered.

  Aaron straightened up. “Is there a space that is secure but will give us good visibility? Unless you think cover is preferable.” Confidence, but deferring to those around me. Hopefully, this is enough.

  “I know where to go,” Shard said in an even voice.

  Leaving the institute, they sent off two guards toward the dining hall. The group walked out onto an open field, the guards forming a wide cordon around them. Stares were accompanied by pointed fingers and hushed whispers. Aaron shuddered. Part worry, part excitement. Is this how it is going to be from now on?

  Robes parted like water around him. Faces turned up—expectant, hands reaching.

  Aaron leaned toward Bug. “If I acknowledge none, I alienate them. If I acknowledge one, I set a precedent.”

  Bug’s expression flickered—surprised, perhaps. Then approving. Aaron stopped just short of the crowd’s edge and raised his hand in a blessing-like gesture, the way he had seen the temple priests do.

  “I see you.” His voice was even. “Act justly, and the Weaver will see you, too.”

  Then he walked on, leaving behind whispers instead of disappointment. Aaron met his eyes, then nodded. Is this how superstars feel? The denial of attention made him feel… guilty. Powerful. Aloof. I don’t like that part of me that likes this.

  The lunch was tasty—a nutty bread and pieces of cheese, olives, and vegetables in oil. Aaron barely noticed it, with all the attention focused on him. He was the eye of a storm as hundreds of people converged and observed at a distance that the guards maintained with pointed guns.

  The blue and green robes seemed to maintain a great distance naturally. I guess the younger mages are more impatient? Or ambitious?

  The lunch passed in a daze, and soon Aaron found himself approaching the oratory class. Rhea and Tehron had once again hooked themselves into his arms, a welcome set of anchors in this madness.

  He barely noticed the next building. The institutes were arranged in a circle around the spires of magic. Nearby but disconnected, his numb mind noticed. He barely read the letters above the entrance. Institute of Rhetoric.

  This time, the slaves directed them into an open amphitheater behind the cover of a rain-wall. A colorful legion of silk-bound robes followed them, like a swarm of Pyranians chasing down blood.

  Their group settled down in the front rows, where their squadmates already waited. Erais’ red eyes looked as if she had been crying. Lyra observed Aaron with an intrigued expression.

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  On the floor of the theater, a man in lavender robes was busy dismissing another in sapphire ones. The lavender robes were adorned with crystal that broke the light into a myriad of dancing rainbows. The emerald-robed man bowed stiffly at his hips. The Grandmaster only inclined his head a disrespectful bit.

  Tehron tapped Aaron’s shoulder. “No Grandmaster ought to be instructing us. He must be here for you.”

  Aaron exhaled. Not a sigh, just release—his body had forgotten how to hold itself together. I just want—

  A dazzling light washed over the theater. All conversation died as people closed their eyes and squinted. Then the lavender-and-crystal-clad man seemed to absorb the light. He inclined his head fully toward Aaron.

  A sonorous, measured voice rose as the light vanished. “I, Grandmaster Keios Albastis Donia, Full Expert of Radiomancy, and Senior President of the Institute of Rhetoric, greet the Champion of the Weaver, Aaron Hellionis Ultima Melas, in our humble institute with the greatest possible reverence.”

  Aaron used all his willpower to prevent himself from making a sour expression. Or letting his head fall into his hands. He looked around the seats, which were filled to the brim. The audience was packed tight; many were standing. Aaron exhaled slowly through his nose. The masses want a show.

  Aaron got up on shaking legs and inclined his head to the head of the institute. “I am honored to be received by the Senior President for my first class here.”

  The Grandmaster inclined his head again, his face seemingly honest. Aaron’s social engineering guide was silent. Either he’s genuine, or the guide is too low level.

  The President gestured expansively to the audience, his robes glittering like a rainbow. Stroking his jewel studded beard, the Grandmaster took his time in answering. Yes, you are quite the wise patriarch. Get on with it.

  “The role of a Champion carries tremendous weight. Thus, I have decided to explore his mind myself for the benefit of the polis.”

  He paused to let the murmurs of approval die down. Aaron’s face grew into a rigid mask. This was bad. Slowly, he controlled his breathing.

  Quetzies voice whispered in his mind. ‘SomethingIsComingWaiting.’

  The Grandmaster gestured Aaron onto the floor. Each step felt like sinking deeper into a swamp. A trap. How do I escape it? Quetzy, what is going on?

  ‘KnowNot. FeelShield.’

  Before he reached the smiling Grandmaster, Aaron concentrated on his shield. There was a tugging motion. Next to his debate partner, he turned and aligned his head with whatever was pulling on his mind.

  The Grandmaster hooked himself under Aaron’s arm—like a friend would. Aaron stiffened at the silk pressing into his skin. Is this normal for a debate?

  Fists began to thump against chests.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The rhythm aligned—tribal, ritualistic, unnerving.

  Without moving his head or lips, the Grandmaster spoke to him. “I am curious to see if you are worthy of the Polis, Champion. May we find the Bookworm’s Truth together.”

  Aaron nodded as the thumping died down. Is he honest, or is this a setup?

  Then, Aaron’s gaze locked with the mind mage—eyes sharp, knowing, impossible to ignore. A hum filled his skull the moment he met the mind mage’s eyes. The man winked. A voice echoed in Aaron’s mind. ‘Greetings. He is neither friend nor foe. He will test you. Follow my advice if you would not mind.’

  Aaron kept his face neutral. How do I… His thought trailed off, then—

  ‘Subvocalize. Imagine your shield sphere vibrating with the words.’

  The Grandmaster raised Aaron’s arm like he had just won a competition. “Only through dialogue can truth be found. Honored mages, today you will see how the Champion stands on the politics of Pella.”

  Another round of chest-thumping erupted. Aaron stood like a deer in headlights. I’m supposed to debate politics—and I don’t even know the names of the parties. Fuck.

  He spoke in his mind, letting the words vibrate through the magnetic sphere projecting his shield. ‘I ACCEPT GUIDANCE. NOT CONTROL. I WILL ASK FOR HELP IF I NEED IT.’

  The amused voice of the mind mage snickered in his mind.

  ‘Congratulations. You just figured out a basic mental combat technique. If I wasn’t encasing your mind, every sensitive here would have passed out. Now only you will have a headache. Don’t vibrate until the vibrations are visible—focus on a spot and do it invisibly.’

  A dull pressure had already begun to grow behind his temples. Thanks for that, he thought, rubbing his temples.

  Meanwhile, the Grandmaster continued. “We shall keep the subject basic. I shall represent the equalitarians. The Champion will defend the conservationist position.”

  Another round of chest-thumping erupted.

  Aaron’s breath came faster, but he forced himself to slow it. Control the rhythm. Let them think he was thinking, not panicking. He focused on the Grandmaster’s glittering robes. A man who expected to win.He exhaled. Then I’ll make him define the battlefield before I step onto it.

  Aloud, he let curiosity lace his words. “Before we debate, Grandmaster, how do you define equality?”

  He held the silence as the audience shifted, surprised. No one expected him to take the first swing.

  ‘Barks says the terms from your world would be democrats and monarchists.’ Aaron suppressed a smirk. If that was true, the Grandmaster expected a passive, deferential defense for the weaker ideology.

  He subvocalized: ‘Good. Tell me how they define monarchy here. No wasted words.’

  The mind mage gave an amused huff. ‘Crowned rule without a crown—merit-born dynasties rotating through power like gears in a divine clock. Every century, the clock resets.’

  Aaron nodded subtly. Then I can work with this.

  ‘Calm down. Relax, and I will guide you where you need it.’

  Funny, old man. You are not standing in front of five hundred people.

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