The portal chamber sat three levels beneath the palace's eastern wing. Stone walls, two guards, a circular frame of carved metal that hummed with dormant power. Charles descended the stairs in traveling clothes—dark grey, unadorned. Nothing imperial about them.
The guards saluted. Charles nodded back and stepped through.
The air folded. His stomach lurched.
Then sunlight. Warm wind. Salt smell mixed with something electric that made his teeth ache slightly.
Charles blinked. Stepped forward onto stone so smooth it felt like glass under his boots.
Kairo.
He'd been here a dozen times. It still made him stop and stare.
The city climbed upward in white stone and glass—buildings that curved instead of cornered, their surfaces throwing back sunlight in colors that shouldn't exist. Bridges connected towers without touching the ground. Gardens floated mid-air, water flowing upward through them before cascading down in patterns too perfect to be natural.
People filled the streets. Humans, elves, dwarves. Beastkin haggling with vendors. A Saurian in merchant colors examining fruit. Nobody stared. Nobody marked anyone as different.
Charles's shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Enough that he noticed.
No court watching. No Werner three steps behind every decision. No weight.
He rolled his neck. Kept walking.
Magic hummed everywhere—not controlled applications like Grishan's wards, but woven into everything. Street lamps adjusting brightness on their own. Fountains where water danced without mages present. A child's toy zipped overhead, the girl chasing it laughing hard enough that she nearly ran into Charles.
"Careful," he said.
She looked up. Didn't recognize him. Just grinned and kept running.
When was the last time that happened?
"You look almost human when you smile like that."
Charles turned.
Darwin Enzel approached with his usual organized chaos—thin frame, dark hair to his shoulders, spectacles sliding down his nose. Blue robes rumpled like he'd slept in them. Books under one arm. Satchel bulging with more.
Charles hadn't realized he'd been smiling.
"You said noon," he replied.
"I said around noon. Which is a flexible concept." Darwin pushed his spectacles up. They immediately slid back down. "You brought them?"
Charles lifted the package—brown paper, string, heavy enough to make his shoulder ache. "All twelve. First editions."
Darwin's eyes went wide. Actually wide. "You found the Tessarian Fragments? I've been hunting those for three years."
"Werner's archives. He doesn't read them." Charles held it out. "You will."
Darwin took the package like it was made of glass. "These are foundational texts. Pre-Unification magical theory. The annotations alone—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Thank you. Genuinely."
They started walking. Up through the market district where smells layered over each other—bread, spices, something floral Charles couldn't identify. A weapons merchant called out prices in three languages. An old woman sold charms that actually glowed.
"How's the position?" Charles asked.
"I have forty-three students who think they're gods because they can freeze water." Darwin didn't sound annoyed. Just tired. "Half will quit. The other half might actually become dangerous." He glanced at Charles. "At that school."
"The Academy."
"You can say its name. Your father isn't here."
Charles felt his shoulders loosen another degree. "How's the Academy, Professor Enzel?"
"Brutal. Brilliant. Will chew you up if you're not ready." Darwin adjusted his satchel. "Also the only place that actually matters if you want real power. Not court tricks. Not military applications. Real mastery."
They reached the upper district where buildings grew taller, more elaborate. Glass and stone merging seamlessly. Darwin led him into a spire—through doors that opened at their approach, up stairs that curved along the exterior with views of the city dropping away below them.
Third floor. Hallway lined with closed doors. Muffled voices discussing theory.
Darwin's office was exactly what Charles expected: books everywhere. Shelves overflowing. Stacks on the floor. Papers covering his desk. A blackboard filled with equations that made Charles's eyes water if he looked too long.
"Home," Darwin said. He set Charles's package on the one clear corner of his desk. Unwrapped it with the care of someone defusing a bomb.
Pulled out the first volume. Opened it. His fingers traced text. His mouth moved silently.
Charles waited.
"These are perfect," Darwin finally said. "I mean it. Thank you."
"That's the third time you've said it."
"I'll say it ten more." Darwin closed the book gently. "Lunch. Then you tell me why you're actually here."
—
The cafe had a harbor view. Ships below—some sailing on water, one on what looked like solid light. They sat by the window. Food arrived: fish that actually tasted fresh, bread still warm, something called cloudberry tart that was better than it had any right to be.
Charles ate. Actually tasted it. Not just fuel.
Darwin watched him with an expression Charles couldn't quite read. "You're different here."
"Different how?"
"Less rigid. Like you remember you're twenty-four instead of forty." Darwin broke his bread. "It's good to see."
Charles didn't know what to say to that. Changed the subject instead.
"How long until the next cycle?"
Darwin's expression shifted. Back to business. "One year. Applications open in eight months."
"Students enter at thirteen?"
"Usually. Some younger if they're exceptional. Some older if they bloomed late." Darwin set down his fork. Looked at Charles directly. "You're asking about Viktor."
Not a question.
Charles didn't confirm or deny. "Would it be good for him?"
Darwin was quiet for a moment. "Define good."
"Would it make him stronger? More capable? Better able to—" Charles stopped. "Would it help him?"
"The Academy doesn't help anyone." Darwin's voice went flat. "It breaks you down and sees what's left. Some students die. Not many, but it happens. Others burn out trying to keep up. It's survival-of-the-fittest wearing academic robes." He paused. "It's also the only place to become a mage who actually matters. Real power. The kind that changes things."
"He's been training under Marius for two years."
"Physical conditioning?"
"And discipline. Combat fundamentals. Marius doesn't go easy."
"That's good. He'll need it." Darwin picked up his fork. Didn't eat. "But I'd have to meet him. Evaluate his state. See if he's psychologically ready for that kind of pressure." His eyes met Charles's. "You're asking me to tell you if your brother can survive the meat grinder."
"I'm asking if it's worth considering."
"Everything's worth considering." Darwin's tone went careful. "But you should understand what you'd be sending him into. The Academy doesn't care about bloodlines. Only competence. If he's not ready, it'll destroy him. If he is—" He shrugged. "He might become something extraordinary."
Outside, the street exploded with noise.
Not violence. Excitement. A wave of people flooding toward something Charles couldn't see. The crowd thickened in seconds—dozens becoming hundreds, all pressing forward.
"What's that?" Charles stood. Moved to the window.
Darwin joined him. Looked down. His expression changed—went careful, almost wary.
"Tristram Tailon," he said quietly.
Charles found him at the crowd's center.
Young. Fifteen, maybe. Tall—nearly Charles's height already. Pink hair catching sunlight like copper wire. Casual clothes: dark trousers, an open shirt, boots meant for walking not ceremony. But the two women flanking him weren't casual. Both older—mid-twenties at least—dressed in silk that probably cost more than Charles's horse. They hung on his arms like ornaments. Smiling. One whispered something in his ear that made him laugh.
The crowd parted around them. Not from fear. From something else. Something that made Charles's skin prickle.
"Who is he?" Charles asked.
Darwin was quiet for three seconds. "You really haven't heard?"
"No."
"Tristram Tailon. Son of the First Pillar." Darwin's voice went lower. Precise. "Tier Six. Approaching Tier Seven. He's fifteen years old."
Charles turned. Stared at his friend. "That's not possible."
"It is when it's him." Darwin pushed his spectacles up. "You understand what Tier Six means, right? Not academically. Actually understand it."
Charles's mouth felt dry. "Regional authority. War-level capacity."
"Tier Six mages obliterate armies." Darwin's tone was flat. Clinical. "Tier Six can level city blocks. Tier Six requires state sanction for deployment because their failures become national disasters." He looked back at the window. "Tier Seven is demigod. The High Council. Power so concentrated it bends reality. There are twelve seats and they haven't added a thirteenth in three hundred years because nobody qualifies."
Charles looked back at the street. At the boy with pink hair and two women and a crowd that parted like water.
"He's fifteen," Charles said.
"He'll be Tier Seven before he's twenty." Darwin's voice carried something complicated. "Everyone knows it. His path is set. The Twelfth Pillar seat will open and he'll take it and the world will adjust because that's what happens when someone like him exists." He paused. "That's not golden standard, Charles. That's inevitability. That's a natural disaster wearing a human face and smiling about it."
Tristram moved through the crowd below. Casual. Unbothered. One of the women said something. He laughed again—genuine, easy. Like this was just another afternoon.
A teenager who could erase cities.
Walking to lunch.
"Viktor's talented," Darwin said quietly. "I'm sure of it. But there's talent, and then there's that." He gestured at the window. "The gap between them isn't effort or training. It's the distance between mortal and myth."
Charles watched until Tristram and his companions disappeared around a corner. The crowd lingered, still buzzing.
"Could Viktor reach Tier Six?" Charles asked.
Darwin was quiet for a long time.
"I'll have to think about it," he finally said.
—
Charles walked back through the portal carrying nothing. The books stayed. The question hung unanswered.
The world folded. His stomach lurched.
Stone walls. Mountain air. Different guards.
The Kirsch estate.
Charles climbed stairs and emerged into afternoon light. Sounds hit immediately—wood cracking into wood, metal on metal, voices shouting corrections. The rhythmic thunder of bodies moving through drills.
Training yards spread before him. Dozens of figures working. Some sparring. Some running forms. Others doing conditioning work that looked designed to break.
Charles scanned the yards. Found him.
Viktor moved through staff-work near the eastern yard. Clean strikes. Controlled. He'd grown—taller, maybe 150 centimeters now. His frame had filled out slightly, lean muscle replacing brittle thinness. White hair bright against sun-darkened skin.
Not the fastest in the yard. Not the strongest. But precise.
Viktor's eyes lifted. Found Charles.
He finished the sequence. Set the staff down. Ran over.
Stopped a few feet away. Breathing hard. Waiting.
Charles reached out. Put his hand on Viktor's head. Pressed down gently—the gesture automatic, older brother acknowledging younger.
Viktor's shoulders dropped. Just slightly.
Charles withdrew his hand. Looked at him properly.
Twelve years old. Two years since the revenge mission. Two years since Charles had watched assassins systematically test Viktor's limits while he did nothing.
Two years since Charles had to save him.
Viktor looked up at him. Still not speaking.
Charles turned. Walked toward the manor house.
Behind him, Viktor picked up his staff and went back to work.