The door to the archmage’s chambers groaned open like a dying thing.

  Xavert stood in the hall for a moment longer than necessary, silhouetted in its frame. The hallway behind him was empty—quiet as a sealed crypt. He had dismissed the steward and the apprentice guards with a flick of charm and suggestion, reinforced with coin, should their obedience waver. None would disturb them now. He had searched for the boy as well, but saw no sign of the little bastard.

  None could hear what was to come.

  He stepped into the chamber, black robes whispering over the floor, his silhouette tall and regal, though hunched just enough to pass as deferential. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The old warding runes—copper set into stone—briefly shimmered with exhausted light. The protections were decaying, like everything else in this cursed room.

  A wave of heat struck him. Clammy and sick-sweet. A room trying too hard to fight the cold. It stank of medicinal oils, dried piss, scorched herbs, and something heavier. Mortality. The sickroom had all the trappings of a man clinging to life—charms above the bed, amulets scattered across tables, melted candles, scrolls of healing wisdom rolled half-open beside untouched potions.

  It would not save him.

  The man in the bed was a husk of what he’d once been: Archmage Stewart Spendal. The giant of the Citadel. The Thunder-Wit of the Western March. The last Arcanist of the Ivory Pact. The man who had brought down the Demon King Talisar and rebuilt half the Council with words and warding alone.

  Now he looked like a parchment left out in the rain.

  Hair thin and tangled. Skin like smoked glass—mottled, translucent, clinging desperately to bone. His hands trembled where they lay atop the coverlet, every movement slow and uncertain. A man undone. A monument cracked through its base.

  “Master,” Xavert said, stepping quietly across the cold floor, head bowed just so. “Forgive my delay. The outer gates were crowded. A petition from the southern provinces.”

  Stewart’s eyes were open. Watching. Cloudy but still aware. The kind of gaze that could make a man confess just by being looked upon.

  “Tardiness is not your usual sin,” the old man rasped. His voice had the quality of dry leaves. “I hope the southern nobles bowed properly before their lecture began.”

  Xavert smiled. He always smiled around Stewart. “Of course, Archmage.”

  He approached the side table without waiting to be asked, taking up the silver goblet and the bottle, he brought daily white wine, sweet, from the vineyards near Dellevar. He uncorked it, humming softly, and poured with practiced grace.

  He had done this for nearly a year.

  Eleven months, nine days, and—he glanced at the hourglass near the window—three hours.

  The wine splashed into the goblet with the quiet of rain. He stirred the sediment with a flick of his wrist. He made no show of offering it for tasting. He never did.

  “Here, Master. You must drink. Keep your strength.”

  Stewart accepted it without thanks, as he always had. Xavert brought it to his lips with gentle care, as he always had. A performance well-rehearsed. The archmage drank—two sips, a third, then a long pause where he stared into the depths of the goblet like it might answer him.

  Xavert returned to the chair beside the bed and sat. He folded his hands in his lap and inclined his head with that same familiar humility. Silent. Patient.

  The perfect image of a devoted student.

  Except for the three spells pressing hot beneath his fingernails—one for pain, one for flame, one for silence. He had no intention of using them… unless forced. But he had not come this far on charm alone. He was prepared.

  Silence passed between them like a windless dusk.

  What troubles you, master? Speak, and I shall see it done.”

  The voice was smooth, almost servile, but Xavert knew better. The archmage laughed—a dry, wheezing thing that cracked apart mid-breath into a fit of coughing. When he finally steadied himself, he leaned back against the heap of furs with a weary smile.

  “Could it be so easy, I wonder?”

  There was something behind those rheumy eyes. Xavert saw it at once and hated the sight of it—a gleam like winter steel, calm and cutting. His pulse quickened, a rush of blood beneath his skin. His mouth opened slowly.

  “Master?” he said again, feigning ignorance, the picture of bland concern. Let the old wretch make the first move.

  “You call me master, Xavert,” the archmage murmured, “yet you despise me.”

  There it is, Xavert thought. At last. The end to masks, to feints and whispered threats. No more riddles. No more illusions. The game was collapsing.

  A black tide welled inside him. Still, he kept his face neutral, his eyes lowered, calm. Within, he brought a trio of spells to the front of his mind—one for silence, one for fire, one for pain.

  “We both know my time has come,” he said aloud, letting the words fall like stones. “Let us do away with false pleasantries and colorful lies.”

  The old man studied him, unblinking.

  “As you wish, old one,” Xavert said, the last veil falling. His voice changed—fuller now, iron where silk had been. He would not pretend anymore. No more false humility. No more groveling.

  “There you are,” the archmage said softly. “There’s the voice I always knew was hiding behind that forked tongue. I’ve seen through your veil for years, boy. Did you truly think I would name you heir to the Council? That I would turn our future over to the likes of you?”

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  Xavert didn’t answer. He merely shifted the spells in his mind to something… less merciful.

  The archmage went on, unafraid. “My bones may be brittle, and my flesh may hang from me like rags, but my mind is still keener than yours will ever be. You were clever to gather allies in the Council, I’ll grant you that. But when I fall, your flock will scatter. Draumbean will see to it when he returns.”

  The name struck like a lash. Xavert flinched, lips curling before he could stop himself.

  “Draumbean…” he hissed.

  He was pacing now, back and forth before the old man’s bed, fists clenched tight behind his back. He wanted to break something, to scream, to burn this chamber to the stones. The archmage let the silence stretch, as if savoring the fury.

  “He is the reason I spared you. The only one. He believed you could change. Be of use. But now, even he sees your rot for what it is. Your heart is as black as the robes you wear, Xavert. You shall be exiled—to some cold rock where your poison can’t spread.”

  Silence once more passed between them like a windless dusk.

  Then the archmage spoke.

  “Something’s changed.”

  Xavert didn’t move. “Yeah?”

  “You walk differently today,” Stewart said. “You try to hide your breath, but your chest heaves. Not with fear. With anticipation. The room tenses when you enter. It listens with you.”

  A pause.

  “I’ve taught you too well,” he added softly.

  Xavert said nothing at first.

  He had dreamed of this moment for years. Rehearsed it a hundred ways—each version cleaner than the last. A moment of victory. Of brutal triumph. The old man wheezing, weak, needing his cup held like a child, no longer able to write his own name, let alone cast a ward.

  But this—this was worse.

  The eyes were too knowing. The voice too certain.

  Xavert felt a small crack split somewhere beneath his ribs.

  “You think too much of me, Master,” he said smoothly. “I am your faithful servant still. You told me once I was your sword and your steward.”

  Stewart studied him. “That was before the venom took root.”

  Xavert’s head tilted. His mask remained.

  “Venom?”

  “You’ve been poisoning me,” the old man said, without fire, without accusation. Just fact. Cold and calm as dawn frost.

  Xavert did not answer. Could not.

  Because there was no point.

  The words fell between them like a blade.

  Stewart watched him, his eyelids fluttering slightly with the effort of holding them open.

  “I didn’t know it was you at first,” he said. “It took time. The mandrake in the tea. The night honey trace on the goblet. You changed the method just enough. Clever. Very clever. And cowardly.”

  Xavert felt his mouth dry. Still he smiled.

  “I am many things,” he said, “but not a coward.”

  “No,” Stewart agreed. “You’re worse.”

  He tried to sit upright and failed. The attempt sent a shudder through his limbs. Xavert did not help him. He had done so every other day. But now he simply watched.

  “Do you truly think,” Stewart murmured, “you are worthy to lead the Council?”

  “I am the only one who can,” Xavert said. The mask slipped slightly now. He let a thread of iron wind through his words. “The others—children in robes. Arcane parasites. Weak, sentimental fools.”

  “And Draumbean?” the archmage asked, watching for the flinch.

  It came.

  Xavert’s jaw tightened. “Draumbean is a dreamer. Brilliant. But not built for war. He still believes the world bends to good intention. He would trust a viper because it once played the flute.”

  “Draumbean believed you might be saved.”

  “He was wrong,” Xavert growled.

  And then it was gone.

  The mask. The tone. The whole of the lie.

  He stood, casting the chair aside with a harsh scrape. He paced once, twice. His robe swirled with each turn like storm clouds.

  “I waited. I earned. I endured your petty condescension's, your lectures, your flaccid lectures on restraint and balance. I bowed. I kissed your cursed ring. I served the realm. And when the moment came—when the world needed a true Archmage—you chose silence.”

  “I chose hope.”

  “You chose cowardice!”

  The fire behind Xavert’s eyes blazed now. The veil burned away. He was beautiful in his rage—a prince of flame, a god of ash.

  “I did what I had to,” he hissed. “I broke no oaths. I spilled no blood. I merely… helped nature along. A grain of poison at a time. A whisper. A smudge.”

  “You think this makes you worthy?”

  Xavert leaned close.

  “It makes me inevitable.”

  The old man did not move. His breath was faint now. But his gaze did not waver.

  “You’ll kill me,” he said. “And then what? Forge a writ of succession? Tell the Council I named you in secret?”

  Xavert smiled.

  Stewart sighed.

  “The silence ward is already cast.”

  Xavert blinked.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t notice?” Stewart rasped. “You cast the same three spells every day when you walk through the door. I designed this room to swallow sound. No words you speak can be heard beyond the hearth.”

  Xavert’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

  A moment of dread flickered across his face.

  Then it twisted into pleasure.

  “So be it.”

  He reached behind the old man’s head, took the pillow in both hands, and pressed.

  There was no struggle.

  Only the flutter of one hand—faint as a dying moth.

  When it was done, Xavert stood over the body and straightened the sheets with slow, reverent hands. He folded the hands atop the chest. Adjusted the robes.

  He stepped back.

  “Rest, old man,” he said. “Rest knowing your time has passed. And mine begins.”

  A voice behind him.

  “Such care. One would think you mourned him.”

  Xavert spun. A dagger slid free from the folds of his robe, and he scanned the gloom. His eyes found the speaker—five feet to his left, standing in the half-light like some grinning shade.

  “What are you doing here?” Xavert demanded.

  “Fear not, mage,” the boy said. His smile showed too many teeth. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  It was not the words that chilled Xavert, but the eyes. That grin, all wrong. Too wide. Too knowing. He swallowed.

  “How did you get past the guards?” he said, attempting sternness. It sounded brittle, even to him.

  “Relax,” said Lukle, his tone oily. “I am not without… talents.”

  Xavert didn’t doubt that. The imp had always made his skin crawl.

  “Then stop standing there and help me find the archmage’s quill and ink,” Xavert snapped. “He named me his successor with his last breath.”

  “Of course he did,” said Lukle, smirking. “Must’ve happened between his final gasps.”

  Xavert stepped toward him. “Do as I say—or you’ll be the one needing a successor.”

  Lukle bowed with a mocking flourish, his sharp eyes never leaving Xavert’s face.

  “But of course, master.”

  He turned and glided toward the desk, the bells on his cuffs silent. Xavert exhaled through his nose and returned to the bed, fussing with the blankets and pose. The corpse would look peaceful. Natural. Untroubled.

  The boy could be dealt with later. There were too many eyes in the tower, too many ears. But soon.

  Soon.

  The boy now stood near the hearth, grinning. His shadow too long.

  “You're not helping,” Xavert said.

  “Me,” Lukle answered cheerfully. “I do so love an intimate performance.”

  Xavert’s fingers twitched.

  The boy's smile widened.

  “No need for spells, my friend,” he said. “I saw nothing. I heard nothing. And I certainly won’t tell anyone.”

  Xavert stared.

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “Terrified,” Lukle said. “But curious. Very curious. I wonder—when you wear the Archmage’s crown, will you still pretend to serve the Light? Or will you show your true colors?”

  “I will remake the Council.”

  “Oh, I believe you. But remaking often requires… breaking.”

  Xavert stepped forward. “Why are you here?”

  Lukle's grin turned sharklike.

  “Same as you. To watch an era die.”

  He turned to go. At the door, he paused.

  “One last thing,” he said. “You may want to use Stewart’s ring. There’s a scroll hidden behind the chimney stones. His will. Might need revising.”

  He left.

  And Xavert, alone now, stepped toward the fire. He stared into the flames. Then at the corpse. Then at the goblet.

  He took the archmage’s ring from his finger, slid it onto his own, and turned to the desk.

  He glanced back once more, but the boy was gone. No not a boy he mused. Something else.