"The good news is you will no longer be under a special protection program," Rolen announced. The same pinkish leyline still floated over his head, and he was still steepling his finger on one of his three tea cups.

"That implies there's bad news," Fabrisse pursed his lips. His mind immediately circled back to Lorvan, and he squeezed his nose in frustration. Maybe his mentor had really lost his arms.

Rolen had called Fabrisse in first and asked him about how much Liene knew. Fabrisse decided it was better to come clean and admit he had told Liene about the incident. Confessing to Rolen directly seemed wiser—he was more likely not only to forgive him but also to shield him from any consequences if someone else asked about it later.

"Let's talk about the good news first," Rolen set his teacup down. "Also, come in; sit down. Why are you both standing by the door?"

He glanced at Liene, who was standing beside him with a rather concerned expression. She nudged him gently with her elbow. Go first, the gesture seemed to say. He reluctantly stepped forward.

From a small, ornately carved music player perched on Rolen's desk, the lively strains of a popular bardic ballad drifted through the room. The device, powered by a tiny aethercache, converted aetheric currents into sound. The tune was the latest hit in Aurelienth, whimsical and exceedingly overplayed among the young mage circles.

For some reason, this completely fit Rolen's image that Fabrisse had in his head.

Fabrisse stepped forward, still casting a quick glance at Liene before sliding into a chair opposite Rolen. Liene followed, taking the seat beside him.

Rolen leaned back. "Nice to see you're in good health, Kestovar. Do you want tea?"

"Yes, please."

Rolen gestured toward the three cups already waiting on the desk, steam curling faintly from each. "I have greenleaf, duskberry, and emberroot. Take your pick."

Fabrisse hesitated, eyes darting between the cups as though the decision carried grave academic weight. "Greenleaf," he said at last.

"And you?" Rolen asked Liene.

Liene leaned forward, peering at the other two. "Duskberry," she said after a beat. "It smells like late summer."

"An excellent choice," Rolen said, handing it over. "Emberroot is mine, of course. Too bitter for students, too necessary for Archmagi." He poured the tea and took a sip himself. "Then let's get to the meat of this. After careful consideration," he began, "we've concluded that the Void Faction will no longer be targeting you—at least for the foreseeable future." He let the words hang for a moment, watching Fabrisse's reaction. "This reprieve is not permanent. Danger could return. But for now, you have a unique opportunity."

"You need to use this time wisely," Rolen continued. "Focus on progression, on refining your skills, and on becoming as strong as you possibly can. Both of you." His gaze shifted to Liene, then back to Fabrisse. "Opportunities like this rarely present themselves, and I expect neither of you to squander it."

"Why me too . . ." Liene murmured.

Rolen gave a small, wry smile. "I will not be in close attendance over him forever. Neither will most of the instructors and mentors here. But you two? Looks like you're going to be close for a while. Stuck by the hip, so to speak."

Liene gave him a smile that could very well have passed for a frown.

Rolen leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "I've reviewed your recent scores as well, Lugano. Getting just enough points to scrape through every exam is a talent in its own right," he said. "But if you're going to be around him"—he glanced at Fabrisse—"you're inevitably going to be entangled." He paused, letting the implication settle. "You have the talent for thaumaturgy. All I ask is that you apply yourself more rigorously than you have been."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Yes, Archmagus." Liene rubbed her cheeks with her knuckles once more, then suddenly pulled her hands back behind her back like she'd just realized she'd been doing something silly.

"First, you'll need to pass all your exams, particularly in Fire and Air Thaumaturgy. If you feel ambitious, learn Water too for extra credit. Should you meet those expectations, I may be able to speak favorably on your behalf—enough, perhaps, that certain opportunities might be reconsidered."

That would be about as good as it could get for Fabrisse. If an Archmagus had a word in, his grant was all but secured. His scheduling would be super tricky now; he might have to pass up on the Library job altogether, and maybe a full eight-hour sleep day would become the stuff of fiction now.

"That will be no problem," Fabrisse affirmed.

Rolen reached into a drawer at his side and withdrew a narrow scroll case with rune-etched bronze fittings. He set it down on the desk between them with the care of someone handling something sharp.

"Take this," he said. "Do not open it unless you must. If you detect danger, find the nearest leyline and activate the scroll. The ready-sigils inside are inscribed by myself. Once invoked, you will step inside my curated Lightfold, and you will remain safe until I come to fetch you." Ready-sigils were pre-cast spells embedded with memorized mnemonics and patterns.

He fixed Fabrisse with a look that was both stern and faintly amused. "I trust you know how to detect a leyline?"

"Yes . . ." Fabrisse nodded quickly. No, actually. I don't. I'll have to learn those spells first. He took the scroll, and the Eidralith flashed him a notification.

[Object Acquired: Lightfold Refuge Script (Local Name: 'Don't Die' Scroll) x1]

"Then . . . what's the bad news?" Fabrisse asked.

"The bad news," he took a sip of tea, "is that you're no longer the exclusive obsession of one faction. You're now a target of many." He spread his hands, as if displaying an invisible list on the air before them. "Political interest, academic rivalry, opportunists who smell profit, zealots who smell destiny—everyone will want something. Some will approach openly, others will slither in through back channels. Speaking of which, those from the Bureau have already been poking around. A few of them really want a private audience with you, Kestovar."

Fabrisse let out an exhale. At least the news didn't concern Lorvan.

"I've expected as much."

His gaze pinned Fabrisse. "So hear me well: do not commit to anything unless you are absolutely certain."

Oh no. I already have.

"Every alliance you accept will cost you something, even if the price isn't clear at first. Take advantage of every offer, every arrangement, but only on your own terms." Then Rolen leaned back, a glimmer of mirth breaking through his severity. "Say, for instance, if a certain Archmagus were to offer you Fire tutorship with no strings attached. A rare, miraculous act of generosity. Why, it would be foolish not to take advantage, wouldn't it?"

"You don't mean . . ."

Rolen took yet another sip of tea. "Check your schedule, Kestovar. Do you happen to have a free slot on the third bell of Tuesday and Friday?"

The words caught in his throat. Why? Why would an Archmagus of all people offer him this? Tutorship was currency in the Synod. There was no visible gain for Rolen, unless he was after the Eidralith too. But he didn't seem the type to care about that.

He was about to let it pass, to trust that Rolen had earned enough credit as a trusted ally of Lorvan, that it didn't matter.

But Rolen's eyes narrowed over the rim of his teacup. He set it down with a deliberate clink. "Go on. Ask the question," he said. "You're already thinking about it. You have to ask what I gain from this."

"Ah . . . Well." Fabrisse scratched the back of his head. "Then what do you gain from this?"

Rolen smiled, the kind of amused curve that suggested he'd been waiting for this exact moment. "This place has been dreary for ages. If nothing else, you might finally give me a reason not to fall asleep between convocations."

Fabrisse exchanged a confused glance with Liene. Surely that can't be his motive?

But Rolen just leaned against his armchair, resting his hand against the side of his jaw. With his free hand, he combed a few strands of his long, silver-streaked hair down over his shoulder, smoothing it with an absent gesture that was almost ostentatious.

Liene leaned subtly toward Fabrisse, her lips barely moving. "His hair's silkier than mine," she whispered.

Fabrisse blinked at her, uncertain if she meant it as admiration, jealousy, or both.

"I don't like Fridays," Rolen continued as if he hadn't noticed. "If I take you on then, I'll have to give up my weekly hurling match with the College of Thaumaturgical Sport-Forms. "So . . . Tuesday?"

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