Morning light spreads slowly across the city of Conquérac.
The capital of the Palantine Savatier wakes with the steady rhythm of a great living organism stretching itself after the long stillness of night. Pale sunlight glides along rows of stone buildings and settles across the broad streets, where water from the early morning cleaning still glimmers in thin reflective pools. Workers with wooden buckets and brushes finish scrubbing the pavement while the first waves of merchants begin pushing open their shutters.
Voices soon follow.
Shouts from traders echo through narrow avenues as stalls are assembled and goods laid out for the day. The creak of wooden wheels drifts through the air as carts roll slowly over the polished stone roads, their drivers guiding horses through the growing crowd. Conversations ripple outward from plazas and intersections, forming a constant murmur that rises and falls like distant surf.
People move with quiet purpose.
Robes brush softly against the smooth pavement as scholars and clerks pass between the arcades. Sandals tap in quick rhythms along the walkways. The faint clink of metal armor occasionally interrupts the noise as patrol soldiers make their rounds through the markets, their polished helmets catching flashes of sunlight as they walk.
From above, the city reveals its careful design.
Broad avenues radiate outward from central squares like spokes from a wheel. Long rows of arched colonnades frame the streets, casting narrow strips of shade across the crowds below. Fountains stand at major intersections, their basins carved from pale stone and decorated with statues of ancient rulers and mythical guardians. Water spills gently from their mouths, adding a quiet counterpoint to the rising noise of the city.
It is a place that feels old.
Ordered.
Deliberately constructed.
Aldo stands beside a tall window on the upper floor of a private infirmary overlooking one of the larger plazas. The glass is unusually clear—far clearer than the rough panes commonly found in rural towns—and it allows an unobstructed view across the rooftops and streets beyond.
He rests one hand lightly against the frame as he watches the city below.
The architecture reminds him faintly of Roman designs he once studied in old historical texts: open public squares surrounded by symmetrical streets, wide staircases leading to civic halls, and grand buildings lined with white columns that glow softly beneath the morning sun.
Below him, the crowds move like slow currents of water.
Merchants unloading goods.
Laborers carrying tools toward construction sites.
Citizens crossing the plazas on their way to work.
Trade.
Routine.
Ordinary life continuing without interruption.
Inside the infirmary room, the air carries the faint mixed scent of crushed herbs and sharp disinfectant. It lingers quietly in the warm stillness, the kind of smell that settles into wooden floors and linen curtains after hours of treatment. A narrow beam of morning light enters through the tall window, falling across a polished desk and the scattered edges of parchment.
Aldo's clothes are clean now.
The mud and smoke from the raid have been washed away, replaced with a fresh uniform pressed neatly against his shoulders. The wounds he suffered during the explosion have already been treated. Beneath his sleeve, a bandage wraps tightly around one forearm where splinters cut through the skin earlier that morning.
He barely notices it.
A stack of documents rests in his hands. The papers are thick, official sheets marked with seals and careful handwriting. Aldo flips one page slowly, the paper sliding against the others with a soft rustling sound.
He reads.
Then turns another page.
Behind him, seated quietly on a simple wooden chair, Zuwena remains completely still.
Magical rope binds her wrists behind the chair's backrest. The cords glow faintly with a dull blue shimmer, reacting to the lingering traces of magic within her body. Whenever she shifts even slightly, the glow pulses briefly before settling again.
But she does not struggle.
She sits upright, her posture controlled, her eyes lowered toward the floorboards.
Watching nothing.
The silence between them stretches across the room. For Aldo, it feels natural—another quiet moment between reports and orders. For Zuwena, it presses against the air like an unseen weight.
Another page turns.
The document in Aldo's hands lists the full results of the operation in precise bureaucratic language: captured personnel, confiscated magical artifacts, transfer protocols, and supply inventories. Each entry is written in steady script, as if the destruction of an entire enclave were simply another administrative record.
Aldo speaks without turning his head.
"Two days."
His voice is calm, almost casual.
"That's how long the paperwork takes."
He sets the page aside and lifts the next document.
"Transfer of the hag, the druids, and the outcast mages to the city authority."
Another page slides forward beneath his fingers.
"Transfer of staffs and wands to the Magic Academy."
Another.
"Auction of the remaining magical items the Academy refuses to accept."
Another.
"Reward distribution."
A faint breath escapes through his nose as he reads the next line.
"Eighty percent goes to my master in Polihland."
He pauses briefly.
"Palantine Heilop."
His tone remains neutral, almost detached.
"Same arrangement as the mission in Furaberg."
Zuwena does not react.
Her gaze remains fixed on the floor.
Aldo continues turning the pages.
"Treatment of wounded slave-soldiers."
Another document slides into view.
"Escort of prisoner Zuwena…"
This time he glances up slightly.
"To the Magic Academy of Conquérac."
He lowers the paper slowly.
Beyond the window, the city continues to move—crowds crossing plazas, carts rolling through the streets, ordinary life unfolding beneath the morning sun.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Life.
Aldo turns slightly toward her.
"We will meet your old professor."
His voice remains even.
"She will decide what to do with you."
Zuwena scoffs quietly.
Her eyes remain on the floor.
"You could end my life yourself."
A bitter breath escapes her lips.
"No need for so much formality."
Aldo shrugs lightly.
"The law says the Academy owns its students."
He folds the paper neatly.
"You are still listed as one."
His gaze returns to the window briefly.
"So the Academy must deliver the final judgment."
Silence returns.
Zuwena frowns.
But she says nothing.
Her hands tighten slightly against the magical rope.
[Returning…]
[To her.]
Her mind drifts.
Memories flicker.
Lecture halls.
Stone corridors.
The sound of chalk scratching across boards.
A tall woman with stern eyes explaining magical theory.
Her professor.
The one who taught her.
The one who warned her.
The one she admired.
The one she resented.
Fear presses quietly against her chest.
Resentment coils behind it.
And beneath both—
A quiet, long-suppressed admiration.
Aldo notices none of it.
He finishes reviewing the last page.
Then stands.
"Time to go."
He walks toward the door.
Zuwena rises slowly.
The magical rope shifts around her wrists.
They leave the infirmary.
—
The streets outside glow beneath the full rise of the morning sun. By the time Aldo and Zuwena step into the open avenues of Conquérac, the city has fully awakened. Light reflects off pale stone walls and polished paving, and the air vibrates with the layered sounds of trade, movement, and conversation. The noise feels louder here than it did from the infirmary window. Voices echo between the buildings. Vendors call across the street to attract customers. Wooden carts rumble past with heavy wheels grinding against the stone.
People move around them in steady streams.
Robes brush shoulders as citizens hurry between markets and offices. Apprentices carry bundles of parchment under their arms. Servants weave through the crowd with baskets of bread or jars of oil balanced carefully in their hands.
Some notice Zuwena.
Their eyes drift briefly toward the faint glow of the magical rope binding her wrists behind her back. The soft blue shimmer catches the sunlight just enough to draw attention.
But no one interferes.
A soldier escorting a prisoner is not an unusual sight in Conquérac. The city has long grown accustomed to such things. Most people glance only for a moment before continuing with their own errands.
Aldo walks calmly through the crowd.
His pace is steady and controlled, neither rushed nor slow. He moves with the quiet confidence of someone who expects the path before him to remain clear.
Zuwena walks beside him.
For a while.
Then her steps begin to slow.
At first the change is subtle. Her stride shortens slightly as they move deeper into the city. The streets grow wider, the buildings taller, and the crowds thin gradually as they approach the district where the great institutions of learning stand.
The closer they come to the Academy—
The heavier her feet become.
Aldo notices immediately.
He does not stop walking. He simply speaks without turning his head.
"Hurry."
His tone carries mild impatience, nothing more.
Zuwena exhales quietly through her nose. For a moment she considers stopping altogether. But the rope around her wrists reminds her quickly of the futility of that thought.
Reluctantly, she lengthens her stride and matches his pace again.
They soon pass beneath a tall stone gate that marks the entrance to the Academy complex.
Beyond it, the noise of the city fades slightly.
The atmosphere changes.
The air feels quieter here, almost contemplative. The streets narrow into clean walkways bordered by trimmed trees and carefully arranged stone gardens. Tall academic buildings rise around a central courtyard, their pale walls covered in carved inscriptions and intricate decorative patterns.
Students move occasionally along the paths.
Some carry books pressed against their chests. Others walk in pairs, speaking quietly about lectures or research.
A few glance curiously at the approaching pair.
Some recognize Zuwena.
Whispers trail behind them for a few steps before fading again.
She keeps her eyes lowered.
They enter the main corridor of the Academy building.
The hallway stretches long and perfectly straight beneath a high vaulted ceiling. Their footsteps echo softly along the polished floor as they walk deeper inside.
Along the left wall hangs a long series of portraits.
Each painting is framed in dark wood, with names carefully engraved on small plaques beneath them. The women depicted there are famous figures in magical history—scholars, innovators, pioneers whose discoveries shaped entire branches of arcane study.
Zuwena's eyes drift toward them almost unconsciously.
Memories surface.
I admired them.
I studied their discoveries.
I wanted to become one of them.
Her gaze lingers briefly on one portrait in particular—a woman holding an early arcane device whose design had once fascinated Zuwena for months of research.
Then she forces herself to look away.
On the opposite side of the corridor, tall windows stretch from waist height nearly to the ceiling. The glass is perfectly clean, allowing sunlight to pour freely into the hallway.
Bright.
Warm.
The light spills across the polished floor, across Aldo's dark coat, across the warm olive tone of Zuwena's skin.
But it does not seem to reach inside her.
Aldo speaks quietly as they continue walking.
"The professor will decide."
He does not look at her.
"Execution."
Another step echoes across the stone floor.
"Exile."
Another.
"Or usefulness."
They reach the end of the corridor and turn a corner.
Aldo stops in front of a heavy wooden door reinforced with bronze fittings.
He raises his hand and knocks.
From inside, a voice answers almost immediately.
"Come in."
A woman's voice.
Firm.
Unsurprised.
Aldo pushes the door open.
He steps inside and moves to the corner of the room.
Zuwena stops in the doorway.
For several seconds she does not move.
Aldo watches her silently.
His eyes expect her to continue.
Finally—
She walks.
Each step heavy.
The room smells faintly of ink and old parchment.
At the desk sits an elderly woman.
Gray hair tied loosely.
Wrinkles etched deeply across her face.
Her hand continues writing across a page.
She does not look surprised.
She does not even pause at first.
She expected this day.
Finally she sets the pen down.
Her eyes lift.
They settle on Zuwena.
Silence fills the room.
Memories rush quietly through the professor's mind.
The young girl sitting in the front row.
The questions.
The curiosity.
The arguments.
The warnings.
The defiance.
For a long moment after they enter, the room remains quiet.
The professor sits behind a broad wooden desk polished smooth by decades of use. Tall windows behind her allow soft morning light to spill across shelves of old books and instruments arranged with meticulous care. Dust floats faintly in the warm beams of sunlight, turning slowly in the still air.
When she finally looks up at Zuwena, something softer passes through her eyes.
She studies the young woman for several seconds.
Then she speaks gently.
"You've grown."
The words are simple, almost affectionate.
Zuwena stiffens.
She had imagined this moment many times during the walk through the corridors, but the reality feels stranger than the anger she rehearsed in her mind. The professor looks older than she remembers—fine lines now mark the corners of her eyes, and faint threads of gray weave through the dark hair gathered behind her head.
Zuwena's voice comes out colder than she expects.
"You destroyed my home."
The words hang sharply in the air.
The professor does not react with anger. Instead, she slowly shakes her head.
"No."
A small pause follows, quiet but deliberate.
"The army did."
Her gaze flicks briefly toward Aldo standing near the door.
"I merely predicted it."
Zuwena's jaw tightens. Her shoulders rise slightly with tension, and she looks away before the professor can read more from her face.
She refuses to answer.
Aldo shifts forward a step, reaching into his coat to retrieve the report he carried from the infirmary. The paper rustles quietly as he prepares to speak.
But before he can say anything, the professor lifts one hand.
A small gesture.
Silent.
Give it to me.
Aldo stops immediately and hands her the document.
She glances at the first few lines but barely reads them.
"I already know."
A quiet sigh escapes her lips as she sets the report down on the desk.
Her attention returns to Zuwena.
The young woman stands rigid near the center of the room, staring down at the dark pine floorboards as though the grain in the wood might offer some escape from the conversation.
But the anger she has held inside since the swamp finally begins to break through.
She lifts her head.
Her eyes burn.
"You cooperated with the army."
Her voice sharpens with accusation.
"You helped them."
The professor remains composed, her hands folded lightly atop the desk.
Again, she shakes her head.
"No."
Her tone remains calm, almost instructional.
"The mayor of Conquérac commissioned the mission."
"Palantine Heilop accepted it."
Her gaze moves briefly toward Aldo again.
"And the army executed it."
Zuwena's bound hands curl into tight fists behind her back. The magical rope glows faintly as her muscles strain.
"You warned them."
The accusation leaves her mouth before she can stop it.
The professor exhales slowly.
"I warned you."
She leans forward slightly, her elbows resting lightly against the desk.
"I told you the consequences of researching heretical aether."
The words strike Zuwena like a spark against dry tinder.
Her voice rises instantly.
"You taught me curiosity!"
The force of the sentence fills the room, echoing faintly off the bookshelves.
"You told us to explore knowledge!"
She steps forward without thinking, anger pushing past caution.
"And now you tell me the opposite?"
The professor watches her carefully, saying nothing for several seconds. Her expression does not harden, but something heavier settles behind her eyes.
When she finally speaks, her voice is measured.
"Regulation exists for safety."
"For students."
"For the academy."
"For everyone."
Zuwena lets out a bitter laugh.
Her thoughts race through the long arc of intellectual history she once studied with admiration. The words pour out before she can restrain them.
"Oral tradition in primitive times."
Her voice grows steadier, stronger as she speaks.
"Then the Philosophy Halls of early antiquity."
Her eyes remain locked on the professor now.
"Then the Philosophy Universities of middle antiquity."
She pauses only long enough to draw a breath.
"And in the late middle antiquity… the Natural Academies appeared."
Her breathing quickens, but her voice continues.
"They were fringe institutions."
"Outcasts."
Her gaze sharpens.
"Just like the early Science Academies."
She spreads her arms slightly despite the restraints, the rope glowing brighter with the motion.
"And Magic Academies separated from Science Academies as another fringe."
The room feels smaller now, filled with the energy of her anger.
"Every step of knowledge came from people breaking taboos."
"Ignoring bans."
"Exploring what others feared."
The professor nods slowly.
"Yes."
Her acknowledgment is immediate.
"That is true."
For a moment, Zuwena looks almost startled by the agreement.
But then the professor's voice grows firmer.
"But once institutions form… they inherit responsibility."
She gestures lightly toward the towering shelves surrounding them.
"Science Academies."
"Magic Academies."
Her fingers tap softly against the desk.
"They do not recklessly pursue incomplete knowledge."
"They guide research."
"They cooperate with society."
Another soft tap.
"They protect it."
Zuwena's restraint finally shatters.
Her eyes blaze with defiance as she steps forward again.
"I will die pursuing knowledge without constraint!"
The words burst from her like a vow.
Her voice echoes through the office.
The sudden force of it hangs in the air for several seconds, vibrating faintly against the tall bookcases and polished wood panels He had expected defiance. But the raw conviction in Zuwena's words still catches him off guard.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then the professor rises from her chair.
She stands slowly, the wooden legs scraping faintly against the floor. When she straightens fully, her height becomes immediately apparent.
She is tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Her presence fills the space behind the desk with quiet authority. Her dark academic robe drapes heavily over her frame, embroidered along the sleeves with subtle silver threads marking her rank within the Academy. Age has added weight to her figure, but not weakness. She stands like someone accustomed to commanding lecture halls and councils alike.
Her face is strong and composed. High cheekbones frame a mouth that rarely shows its full emotion. Lines at the corners of her eyes speak of long years spent reading, thinking, and arguing over difficult ideas.
Those eyes now rest on Zuwena.
Below her stands a very different figure.
Zuwena is small by comparison.
Slim.
Petite enough that the professor seems almost imposing beside her. Her olive-toned skin catches the morning light from the tall windows, and strands of dark hair have slipped loose around her face during the argument. Her wrists remain bound behind her back with the faintly glowing rope, forcing her shoulders slightly backward.
But despite her smaller frame, the energy in her posture burns fiercely.
Her eyes are bright with stubborn defiance.
The professor studies her for several seconds.
Something softer passes briefly through her expression.
Sadness.
"Your dedication is admirable."
Her voice has lost its earlier firmness. Now it carries the quieter tone of a teacher speaking to a student she once believed in.
"But society is not prepared for that freedom."
The words settle heavily into the room.
Silence follows.
Then the professor straightens her shoulders again, her authority returning like a mantle.
"You will be expelled from Mikhland."
Zuwena's eyes widen slightly.
The word lands with unexpected weight.
Exile.
Not execution.
For a moment she simply stares at the professor, trying to process the decision.
The professor leans forward slightly across the desk. Her movement is subtle enough that Aldo cannot hear what follows.
Her voice drops into a low murmur meant only for Zuwena.
"Do not abandon your passion."
Zuwena blinks.
Then the professor steps back and resumes her upright posture.
Her gaze shifts toward Aldo.
"The judgment is complete."
Aldo nods once, accepting the decision without question.
He steps toward Zuwena and lightly takes hold of her arm to guide her toward the door.
She does not resist.
Together they walk out of the office.
Behind them, the professor remains standing in the quiet room, watching silently.
Her eyes follow her former student one last time before the door closes.
—
Outside the Academy gates, soldiers wait.
They take custody of Zuwena.
She walks with them.
Leaving the city.
Aldo remains behind for a moment.
He stands in the central square.
At its center rises a stone monument bearing the Coronet symbol of authority.
He gazes at it quietly.
Zuwena's words echo in his mind.
"I will die for pursuit of knowledge without restriction."
The thought lingers.
A strange warmth begins to grow in his chest.
Like a small ember.
He watches the symbol of power in the square.
Then wonders quietly—
[What will I die for?]