Ray took the seat at the far end of the table.

  The servants brought out the first course, a delicate, clear soup with floating herbs.

  Landa ate slowly. The only sound in the room was the clink of his spoon against the fine china. Clink. Sip. Clink. Sip. He let the silence stretch until it was physical weight pressing down on their chests.

  Finally, Landa wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He ignored Andrade. He ignored the other masters present. He looked straight down the long table at Ray.

  “So, Novie Croft,”

  Landa said pleasantly.

  “‘Special Research Fellow.’ A grand title for a First Circle Novice with no family name.”

  He rested his chin on his clasped hands.

  “Tell me… what exactly do you research?”

  Ray put down his spoon, his hand trembling just enough to ripple the soup.

  Instead of shrinking away, he leaned forward, activating the Eccentric Scholar’s ‘Intellectual Hegemony’ and ‘Theoretical Authority’ skills. His eyes lit up with a manic, obsessive energy.

  “Aetheric Science, my lord,”

  Ray blurted out, speaking a little too fast.

  “Specifically, the intersection of chaotic resonance and bio-thaumaturgy. I’ve been trying to map the fractal patterns of waste radiation when it passes through organic filters.”

  He didn't wait for Landa to respond. He kept talking, rambling with the passion of a nerd who rarely got to share his hobby.

  “You see, most people think radiation is linear, but it’s actually a spiral! If you use the Ashvane theorem, minus the heretical bits, of course, you can actually inverse the polarity of the decay. That’s why the ferns are silver! It’s not pigment; it’s trapped light!”

  He grabbed a salt shaker and a pepper grinder to demonstrate, moving them around the tablecloth like models.

  “The salt is the mana, and the pepper is the Aether. If you rotate the pepper…”

  Andrade looked like she wanted to die. She stared at Ray, silently begging him to shut up.

  Landa watched him, his expression unreadable.

  Then, suddenly, Landa interrupted.

  “Ignis aurum probat, sed silentium veritatem.”

  The words were spoken in High Draconic, a dead language used only in ancient legal texts and rituals. It meant: Fire tests gold, but silence tests truth.

  The table froze. Andrade didn't speak Draconic. Elias knew a few words but looked confused.

  Landa stared at Ray, waiting. It was a trap. If Ray answered fluently, he was too educated to be a street rat. If he didn't answer at all, he was ignorant.

  Ray paused. He blinked, looking confused for a second, then his face dawned with recognition. He replied in broken, academic Draconic, his pronunciation clunky and accented.

  “Timor… non est… in igne, dominus.” (Fear… is not… in the fire, lord.)

  Ray swallowed, searching for the word.

  “Ego timeo… rubigo.” (I fear… the rust.)

  Landa stared at him for a second.

  Then, he threw his head back and laughed. He slapped the table, making the silverware jump.

  “The rust!”

  Landa crowed, delighted.

  “He fears the rust! Oh, that is witty. Broken syntax, terrible accent, but witty!”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He looked at Andrade, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye.

  “He is a clever one, Headmaster. Rough as a badger’s arse, but clever.”

  The mood shifted with the arrival of dessert.

  The servants cleared the plates and brought out a vintage bottle of Elven wine. Landa waved the server away. He stood up and walked around the table to Ray’s side.

  He poured the wine into Ray’s glass personally. The deep red liquid swirled. Landa didn't return to his seat. He stood behind Ray, leaning against the chair. He lowered his voice, dropping the loud, boisterous persona.

  “You know, Croft…”

  Landa murmured, his voice soft and dangerous.

  “I was curious about you. A boy who is involved in the stabilization of the Genesis Crystal.”

  He took a sip of his own wine.

  “So I checked the Kingdom Census. I wanted to see if House Croft had a history of high-mana births.”

  Landa leaned down, his lips inches from Ray’s ear.

  “I found this entry in your family records, it is a petition from twelve years ago. From your father, Lord Alistair.”

  Ray frowned, his confusion genuine. He looked at Master Malin, then back to his glass.

  “My father? Petitioning the Capital? For what?”

  “Yes…”

  Landa said, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

  “It is embarrassing for a Lord to beg.”

  Landa pulled a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket, a copy of the record. He placed it on the tablecloth next to Ray’s wine glass.

  “Your father asked the Royal College of Physicians for help. He described a son with a ‘void’ in his soul. A child who was cold to the touch.”

  Ray stared at the paper. He knew about his sickness, he had not only survived it, he even cured it! He also knew about the deal with the Argent Hand years ago in his father’s study. But he never knew his father had tried the legitimate path first.

  “Do you know what they replied, Ray?”

  Landa whispered.

  Ray shook his head slowly. This wasn't acting. This was Alex Chen learning how much Alistair Croft had suffered.

  “They rejected the request,”

  Landa recited from memory.

  “They deemed you ‘terminal and non-contagious.’ They recommended palliative care.”

  Landa paused, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.

  “They called you a ‘resource allocation issue.’ Not of National Strategic Interest. They told your father to let you die.”

  Ray felt a physical blow to his chest. He realized, with a sudden, crushing clarity, why the Argent Hand was involved. Alistair hadn't gone to the criminals because he was greedy. He went because the Kingdom’s own doctors had thrown his son in the trash.

  Ray’s hand trembled. He didn't have to fake the emotion. The tears that welled in his eyes were real, tears of rage on behalf of the father who had sacrificed his honor for a ‘broken tool.’

  “I… I didn't know,”

  Ray whispered, his voice cracking.

  Landa watched him. He saw the shock. He saw the genuine hurt.

  “So here is the puzzle, Novice Croft,”

  Landa said, his voice tightening.

  “The Royal Physicians are the best in the world. If they said you were a cracked cup that couldn't be filled… how are you sitting here drinking my wine?”

  Landa leaned in closer.

  “How does a boy who was written off by the Kingdom survive to become… this?”

  Ray gripped the stem of the glass. He had to pivot. He had to use this real pain to cover the dark truth.

  “Because my father didn't listen,”

  Ray said, his voice fierce and quiet. He looked up at Landa, his eyes wet but burning.

  “The Crown saw a resource. My father saw a son.”

  Ray took a shaky breath.

  “I did not know about the petition. My father did everything. He sold the lands, the horses, the family heirlooms. He used all the coins he earned to buy tonics, even questionable hedge-witch brews. Anything to keep me warm.”

  Ray wiped his eyes, looking at the Masters. They were watching him with profound pity.

  “He never told me the Kingdom has declared me dead. He just made sure I lived.”

  Landa studied Ray’s face. He saw the resentment toward the Kingdom. He saw the love for the father. It was a perfect, consistent narrative. A desperate minor lord trying everything to cure and save a rejected son. It explained the poverty of House Croft and the survival of the boy.

  Landa straightened up. He did not suspect a father’s desperate love, which, while touching, was typical and boring for him.

  “Stubbornness,”

  Landa murmured.

  “A trait of the minor nobility. Sometimes it ruins them. Sometimes… it produces a miracle.”

  He patted Ray’s shoulder.

  “Keep the letter, Ray. It’s a good reminder of what the Kingdom thought you were worth.”

  Later that night. Nexus Gateway Hall.

  Landa stood on the platform, adjusting his gloves. He nodded to Headmaster Andrade. He did not waste time after dinner; he opted to leave right away.

  “A productive visit. Do fix that railing.”

  He turned to Ray. Ray looked tired. The revelation from the night before still hung over him.

  Landa walked over.

  “I despise mistakes, Novice Croft,”

  Landa said, his voice carrying over the hum of the portal.

  “Sir?”

  “The Kingdom declared you a waste of resources,”

  Landa said.

  “They were wrong. That annoys me. I despise this type of mistake.”

  Landa smiled, a sharp, predatory expression.

  “You shouldn't be alive, Novice Croft. By all laws of medicine and magic, you are a statistical impossibility. I don't believe in miracles. I believe in… undeclared variables.”

  Ray went still. Landa leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper so only Ray could hear.

  “Your father’s ‘hedge-witch brews’ must have been very potent to fix a void in the soul. Perhaps one day, you’ll tell me the real recipe.”

  Ray’s heart hammered. Landa knew the ‘scraps’ story was thin. He knew there was something more, maybe something darker, that had saved him. But he had no proof.

  Landa pressed a black card into Ray’s hand.

  “The Kingdom declared you dead. I am infinitely more curious to see what you do with your second life.”

  He stepped onto the platform.

  “Do not disappoint me, Novice Croft. The ‘resource allocation’ can always be reassessed.”

  The Nexus Gateway flared. Auditor Zenus Landa together with this Inquisitor Vanguard’s vanished.

  Ray stood alone in the hall. He looked at the card. Landa hadn't arrested him. But he had made it clear: Ray was now under audit. And unlike the Royal Physicians, Zenus Landa wouldn't just write a letter. He would keep watching until he found the crack in the cup.