CH4 • Upstarter

Harriet no longer looked at me the same since that evening.

No one did.

The whispers followed me through the halls of the Mage Tower, growing louder with each passing day. 

My unexpected double awakening had shifted my status overnight—from an anticipated failure to an undeniable prodigy, a potential future successor to the tower's legacy.

I should have felt proud. Instead, I felt the weight of it pressing down on me—an unspoken expectation that I wasn't sure I wanted to meet. 

In my past life, I had served under contracts, bound by obligations. In this life, I wanted freedom. 

I had yet to see the whole world, one that felt like a dream just beyond my reach. 

I would make sure that, one day, I'd be free to roam it.

But for now, my real education as a mage had begun.

I was four months behind my birth cycle peers, but everyone knew the truth. Their so-called "head start" meant nothing. 

I had only lacked two things—mana and control. Now, those limitations no longer applied. 

The moment I caught up in my studies, they would be no match for me. 

My aptitude had been proven; my ability to adapt and overcome already set me apart.

And yet, a few days into my formal lessons, for all my potential, I struggled.

"He said, 'I'd rather not have the Atlas ring, if it means getting drilled to be one more of you.' Can you imagine the audacity?" One of the bypassing mages would whisper as I made it back to my room. 

Recently the curriculum was a little more than annoying, and I had said something that I shouldn't had said. 

The ring was a precious piece that was given only to a few, and recently it appeared besides me, I had created a unprecedented animosity against me. 

A Mage Tower's curriculum wasn't what I had expected. 

It wasn't just spellcasting or refining mana control. 

It was grueling—a relentless cycle of mental conditioning, social instruction, and scholarly rigor designed to mold mages into something far beyond simple practitioners of the arcane.

A Standard Day in the Mage Tower: Morning Meditation (5:00 AM - 6:30 AM); A daily practice of refining mana flow, reinforcing internal pathways, and stabilizing the First Circle.

This was no challenge for me. Waking early had been routine in my past life as a soldier. 

I found the practice simple, almost relaxing. Yet, my rapid improvement only further alienated me from my peers. 

While they strained to make incremental progress, I surged ahead, my mana reserves growing exponentially.

Afterwards it was Social Drills (7:00 AM - 9:00 AM): Most mages weren't attached to warriors, but basic combat knowledge was essential—especially for dealing with those who viewed magic with skepticism or outright hostility, such as the Church and noble factions.

This training was meant to teach etiquette, self-control, and how to wield magic subtly in social settings. 

I found it tedious. 

Pretending to be something I wasn't had never suited me.

Then Theoretical Lectures (10:00 AM - 1:00 PM): Covering magical theory, historical studies, rune applications, and alchemical properties.

I kept a low profile in these classes, though my knowledge—or lack thereof—drew attention regardless. 

I understood the basics, but the rigid explanations grated on me. 

When fire was described as "a warmth of intensity manifested," I couldn't help but chuckle. 

The professor took it as mockery.

Near the end of the day, Practical Spellcasting (2:00 PM - 5:00 PM):

Applying theoretical knowledge to real-world scenarios—casting spells, refining techniques, and experimenting with mana manipulation.

Here, I excelled. 

And yet, I fundamentally failed.

The problem was their methodology. 

Magic required runic logic to be innately understood to be utilized properly. 

If the logic behind a spell was flawed—or too advanced for the caster—failure was inevitable. 

And yet for me, the tower's standardized approach simply didn't apply.

My attempts at common spells misfired, not because I lacked ability, but because the structure was incompatible with my understanding. 

The only spell that worked flawlessly was 'Lumeno', a simple light illumination spell. 

That alone was proof that something was wrong—not with me, but with the runes used in their sigil casting.

Finally at the end of the day, we had our own personal Independent Study or Assigned Tasks (6:00 PM - 9:00 PM):

Personal development, extra studies, or tasks assigned within the tower.

Madame had given me ample resources—far more than my peers received. 

This generosity stirred resentment, but I didn't care. 

I needed to learn, to reshape magic so it fit me. 

I explained my struggles to her, that the spells weren't failing because I was inept, but because they weren't suited to me. 

She was intrigued. 

Curious. 

And so, she gave me the chance to prove myself through personal tutelage.

"I'm going to be a Mage Unlike Any Other" I'd say to her one day, she'd roll her eyes as she handled me another round of tomes and scripts to learn. 

I was a sponge.

Anything I saw and understood, regardless of how much it was. 

If my eyes met it, I'd immediately permanently memorize it. 

Why? 

I had a love for magic simply because it opened doors to returning to my old past life in a century that had marvel technologies that were akin to magic if I tried to explain.

My past-life experiences, my innate instinctual grasp of mana theory, and my unique control over concepts gave me an edge. 

But they also set me way too apart, from normal. 

While my peers painstakingly followed rigid formulas to mold mana, I instinctively altered its flow to suit my needs—subconsciously breaking the established forms. 

It made me… unpredictable.

By the end of the month, I had begun restructuring spells entirely. 

Even if another mage attempted to copy my modifications, they would fail. 

Why? 

Because they lacked my alternate life's understanding.

The science of this era wasn't by far close to what the 22nd century past life's knowledge knew. 

My old world was built off of science, but this life? 

It was magic, divine manifestations, and aura arts. 

Science was more like witchcraft from my old life. 

It was skepticism. 

Nonetheless, it aided me now. 

Given I was an incredibly fast learner, driven by more than just ambition. 

Magic, to me, was not just power—it was utility.

Take hygiene, for example. 

This era had its own logic, but I found much of it outdated. 

With magic, I could adapt and improve my quality of life. 

And if I could rewrite spells to serve my needs, why wouldn't I?

But not everyone saw it that way.

"It's cheating," one student muttered during a practice session.

"He doesn't even follow the standard method," another added, his voice laced with disdain.

"I bet he just copies the advanced mages and pretends it's talent," someone scoffed.

I ignored them.

The results spoke for themselves.

One such example was Flame Orb, a basic Tier 2 spell. Typically, it produced a small sphere of fire that radiated warmth before harmlessly dissipating.

When I cast it?

My version burned brighter, lasted longer, and shimmered as if on the verge of flickering into gaps of the air. 

And when it finally did extinguish, it left behind tiny embers—lingering sparks of heat that warmed the surrounding area it had moved about. 

It was meant to be a trivial spell, but I had transformed it from an entertainment trick into a useful utility spell.

My spells weren't just stronger. 

They were different.

It was as if a 9th Circle Mage had cast a simple spell—but even that comparison fell short. 

High-level mages only enhanced existing magic. 

I rewrote it, adjusting its very logic to better applicability and grandeur results.

And when others tried to replicate my techniques?

Their spells responded in failure, but if cast by me it was successful.

Thus, drawing more resentment and fear.

That, more than anything, proved that I saw magic differently. 

It was a realization that unsettled the instructors, high mages that studied spell drafting as administrators, and confounded my peers.

The logic behind it was locked tightly within me. 

I feared explaining how I understood things so much better—so differently—because the truth was something I could never reveal. 

I was a reincarnation from another life. 

And if anyone ever found out… what would happen to me? 

I dared not find out.

So when they asked how I did it, how I grasped magic in ways they couldn't, I only ever gave one answer:

"It's just how I see things."

***

There were thirty of us in our birth cycle, yet I had barely exchanged more than a few words with most. 

Not out of rudeness—there was simply no need. 

The hierarchy of our ranks had been determined long before now, and I had no allies among them. 

Resentment clung to the air whenever I passed by, their glares a silent accusation.

They had trained rigorously, poured over theories and formulas, shaping their mana through months of disciplined effort. 

I, on the other hand, had moved through the First Circle as though it were nothing, then bypassed the Second before they had even mastered their foundational spells. 

To them, I was a phenomenon—a genius among geniuses, they whispered—but I was still an outcast to everyone nonetheless.

In truth, my progress was not as effortless as they assumed. 

I lagged behind in the structured understanding of magic, its etiquette, and its rigid forms. 

Where they had refined their first-tier spells to near-perfection, I was only now navigating the complexities of the Third Circle. 

And since my spell casting refused to conform to traditional methods, I struggled to reproduce even the most basic textbook techniques. 

I had to rewrite and revise runic methods and techniques to make use of magic for myself! 

Eventually, I began skipping classes altogether, appearing only for tests and examinations, relying on my own studies to push forward.

That was how I found myself standing alone in the vast ceremonial hall, summoned for the final execution of my ranking—a solitary first-year mage stepping into the trials meant for those on the verge of their Second Year finals.

I was now twelve years old since being at the tower. 

A qualified mage, and a soon to be a contracted mage unlike my birth year peers who had still a year or two to come around to my level. 

The title of "First Year" and "Second Year" meant little in the grand scheme of magic. 

One could remain a first-year for a decade if they failed to meet the academy's standards, while others could advance swiftly, though few ever did. 

Most mages took six to eight years to progress through both stages. 

I had barely been here for four and half.

This test, the culmination of my rapid ascent, required a demonstration of spell mastery—analyzing weaknesses, refining techniques, and showcasing tactical application. 

Each series of the tests I had passed. Most of written and theory discussion seminars gave wary applause to me passing, all a bit unwillingly. 

My final assigned spell was a standard third tier type spell, Flame Tower, 'Zonafyi' a defensive ward spell that was favored in siege warfare. 

It allowed an allied force to pass through unharmed while incinerating enemies upon contact.

It was a spell that most mages had been forced to endure, and learn as it allowed them necessity to be granted contracts by nobles.

This spell was akin a curse in turn, for it was highly difficult among many other options, but surely it was made to be one a sure granted evidence for nobles.

To feel secure in making a contract with the mage tower's mage during the transfers of gradates. 

One by one, my older peers performed the spell flawlessly. 

These were peers who were years older than me.

Possibly, having been at the tower and had missions returning and now they were considered for a contract.

My case however, was strange. 

I wanted to leave as fast as possible and so did the tower strangely agree to that. 

Their sigil disks spun in smooth, practiced motions, geometric symbols forming in the air before a column of fire coiled upward, stable and precise. 

Each mage stepped into their own flames, untouched by the heat, their control evident.

Then it was my turn.

I exhaled, gathering mana, but the moment I shaped the spell, it resisted. 

My energy flared wildly, a violent surge tearing through my control. 

A sudden burst of fire erupted—not a contained pillar, but a searing inferno that swallowed the designated testing puppet whole. 

The air crackled with heat, warping the air itself. 

When the flames receded, only blackened ash remained.

Silence fell over the hall. 

Then, a snicker.

"Not so gifted after all, huh?" one of the older students jeered.

A few quiet moments of quiet laughter echoed throughout the place. 

I clenched my jaw.

This wasn't about power—it was about understanding. 

No matter how much potential I possessed, it was meaningless if I could not mold it to fit their expectations. 

'Wait. Their expectations? Why!' A sudden realization came to me as the fog had cleared in my mind. 

The Flame tower spell had key specific parameters built within it: it had to be Controlled, defensive, massive, and a beacon of warning. 

Mine had become something else entirely. 

It was due to how I had formulated the spell building it based on the requirements, not simply on how I viewed it. 

Now having seen many others perform it. With even slight variations, I could now picture it whole. 

My vision before was living in a world without magic, that had aided me so far. 

But now? 

No. 

I had to reform myself to be apart of this world's logic and simply translate my own logic into this world! 

A failure.

It didn't have the intent behind it. 

The spell was ultimately a shell of defense for allies, and a force against enemies. 

The instructors made notes. 

My peers smirked.

I breathed deeply, suppressing frustration. 

Something had gone wrong in the translation of the spell—some misunderstanding on my part. 

I had always struggled with the concept of light and dark energies. 

Unlike, elemental energies, these weren't necessarily universal enough for me to grasp. However, now I could see it. 

They were abstract forces, paradoxical in nature, and my logic-driven mind had never been able to comprehend them fully.

But then a new thought took root.

'Imagination. Probability. Dimensional space. Weren't these also akin to quantum mechanics which are also ambiguous? Isn't that like dark and light?' I'd nod to myself in thought for a moment before taking my last second attempt. 

Magic was not purely logic—it was language, a syntax of willpower, and understanding. 

My failure was not in the spell itself, but in my perception of its framework.

I inhaled sharply.

This time, I would not reinvent to replicate their method. 

I would create my own.

With deliberate focus, I traced sigils in the air—not the standard formations, but layered symbols, each reinforcing the next. 

My mana wove through them, threading together equations and theories I had only ever read about, never tested.

Four sigils aligned. 

The instructors stirred, their gazes sharp. 

A warning rune flickered to life in response to my spell's instability. 

If I lost control at any moment, they would intervene.

Thus failing my second attempt and awaiting the next cycle which was four years from now. 

I couldn't dare to lose this chance to experience the outside world! 

Focusing intently on. 

I did not lose control.

When I cast the spell, the effect was immediate. 

The third testing puppet was engulfed, but this time, the flames did not consume it. 

Instead, a luminous barrier shimmered around it, the fire warping into hues of gold and crimson, a controlled blaze that repelled all outside forces while shielding what lay within.

Murmurs spread through the hall.

At the edge of the arena, Madam Selvine rose from her seat. 

She moved with practiced grace, descending onto the testing grounds without a sound. 

The moment she approached the flame, she hesitated.

Her eyes flickered—not with disapproval, but something else.

Caution.

She extended a hand toward the flame, then drew back, as though repelled by an unseen force. 

Yet, her hand was singed slightly along with her mana coating on her body constant fighting back the spell's lingering effects. 

Glancing at me, with a clear wry expression I'd nod to her. 

She'd repeat her action, but this time she would enter within the flame tower. 

Moving out of it, she was still coating in flames of varying colors, as she approached the puppet, it would ignite into flames. 

The air around the new spell pulsed, a residual warmth lingering even as the fire itself began to fade.

For the first time since I had met her, Madam Selvine hesitated.

Finally, she turned, addressing the room—but her gaze remained fixed on me.

"He has…" Her voice, usually measured and controlled, faltered. 

Then, with quiet certainty, she spoke words that sent a ripple through the crowd.

"He has surpassed…the testing criteria altogether."

***

The 'Weight of Silence' was the term coined after news of my spell was published. 

My rumors and stories were spread across the tower's estate. 

It had been a long week of near-total silence. 

Beyond the usual routine exchanges, everyone had been avoiding me. 

I didn't mind. 

Isolation had always been a familiar companion, but this was different. 

This time, it wasn't just the other students keeping their distance.

Madam was also gone.

Not in the literal sense, of course—she still existed within the tower's vast halls, still oversaw the other students, still carried on with her duties. 

But she had erased me from her world. 

No words, no glances, not even a passing acknowledgment. 

Where once she had lingered nearby, offering insights or quiet correction, she was now an absence, a hollow space in my life.

I told myself it didn't matter, but the truth sat heavy in my chest.

At night I'd tear up from the pain of losing a mentor and feeling alone, and waking to find myself alone once more. 

Yet, I knew I she'd still care about me, as there was something I didn't know yet. 

I figured to await her to come around to me. 

Rumors of my final graduation had already begun to spread. 

One year left. 

That was all. 

I had long since been deemed fit to stand among the ranks of true mages, yet the urgency to see me gone was palpable. 

It wasn't difficult to understand why.

If I stayed any longer, if I learned any more, I could surpass every precedent in magical history. 

A third-circle mage at my age was unheard of. 

Given time, I could be the youngest in recorded history to rise to the rank of headmaster.

They couldn't risk that.

I had leaned enough through whispers and rumors to piece it together now. 

They didn't need to exile me—they only needed to shut every door leading forward. 

My presence in new advanced classes had been revoked. 

Access to the new archives was forbidden. 

New Spell tomes were kept out of reach. 

The headmaster himself had inked political restrictions into official record, ensuring that no new knowledge would find its way to me. 

He couldn't cast me out, but he could make it impossible for me to grow.

The message was clear: leave.

I had accepted my new solitude. 

It suited me, even if it had been forced upon me. 

But two people refused to let me be.

The first was Edric. 

Lanky and taller than most, he had the build of someone who had yet to grow into his own limbs. 

His shock of shaggy white hair was perpetually unkempt, a stark contrast to his sharp, wolfish grin. 

He was one of the few who didn't resent me—in fact, he found my isolation amusing.

Edric had taken it upon himself to talk to me constantly, as if my silence were a challenge to be broken. 

He pestered me with questions, tried to pull answers from me that I refused to give.

"Come on! Let's work together," he'd say, stretching out beside me in the meditation arrays, arms folded lazily behind his head. 

"Imagine it—two royal mages, chasing the world. You know you don't want to stay here forever. You even wrote it on your parchment board."

That was true.

I had stopped attending classes long ago, barred from learning anything new. 

The only thing I could still improve was my mana. 

Not that it mattered. 

Even without formal instruction, I had become something the tower feared—something they wanted contained or removed. 

Edric wasn't the only one who lingered around me.

Sylva was the other.

Where Edric was all careless energy, Sylva was sharp edges and precision. 

Her dark brown hair, cut short just above her jawline, was always neatly in place. 

There was an intensity to her, a quiet but relentless focus in her sharp eyes that never missed a single detail. 

Unlike Edric, she didn't waste words.

She would simply be there, seated beside me in the meditation arrays, flipping through a spell tome while simultaneously focusing her mana. 

She didn't ask questions or offer conversation, yet her presence was constant.

They weren't my friends, per se. 

And yet, they remained.

"Why are you two always here?" I asked one evening, breaking the silence as I meditated.

Edric let out an exaggerated groan, sprawled out on the stone floor, drained from the hours spent channeling mana. 

"You're interesting," he said without opening his eyes.

"I'd rather be left alone."

Sylva, without so much as glancing up from her tome, turned a page. 

"That's irrelevant."

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself not to react.

Despite Edric's lazy demeanor, he was one of the fastest spell casters I had ever seen. 

If I was the unwritten rewriting spellcaster, then he was the quickest caster ever—very predictable spells, yet versatile enough via sheer speed, untouchable in lightning fast spam casting. 

If anyone had attempted as a spar against him, they'd lose to nine spells casted with eight spells initiated, alongside with another being formed in a moment of surrender. 

To win against him, was simply to overpower him with one spell that wouldn't be chipped away by twenty or so spells. 

That is if you could ever get to formulate a powerful spell before he'd let you. 

Sylva was just as formidable in her own way. 

Her mind functioned on multiple levels at once, reading, channeling mana, and analyzing everything around her with impossible efficiency.

If multitasking were a talent, she had been born with it.

If I had to choose between the two in terms of powerhouse performance. 

It would be her. 

Given enough space, it was impossible to win. 

A spar against her ended in exchanges of blows gradually built up. 

Three spells cast once, then followed with a second wave. 

If the opponent couldn't either close the space or overwhelmed her three spells in time. 

The third exchange of spell countering was impossible, as she'd usually cast one spell a fusion of her whole effort as a decisive force. 

Between the two from what I had heard as I always opted out for spars as I didn't care for tower merit. 

She'd won six times out of ten matches. 

It wasn't an even split match, her odds favored her heavily due to her tri-casting abilities. 

They both had once requested me to a match only to decline them both.

Ever since it has been left to speculation on how I'd fare against them. 

Nor do I care to find out. 

My goal was always the same, I want to enjoy life without battles. 

That includes leaving this place to see the world at large. 

"I fail to see how my presence benefits you," I muttered, rubbing my temples.

Edric smirked. "We'll see."

They were exhausting.

And yet…

Somewhere, beneath my irritation, I allowed them to stay. 

Because perhaps, in some quiet, unspoken way, I didn't mind the company of my fellow bright stars.

***

'The Auction of Mages' is what I called the ceremony of contracting. 

Madam Selvine still watched over me, though her presence had grown more distant, her once-constant scrutiny reduced to fleeting glances from the edges of corridors, from shadowed alcoves where she thought I wouldn't notice. 

She no longer corrected my attitude, no longer placed a guiding hand on my shoulder or chided my failures with sharp words that cut deeper than any blade. 

But her eyes, sharp as ever, still followed me. 

Wary of me now. 

Calculating. 

I had stopped trying to understand what she saw—if there was any expectation left, or if she was merely waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

She knew I would adapt.

It had always been that way. 

Despite the detachment, despite the challenges, I refused to conform to their methods. 

If their teachings did not suit me, I would forge my own path. 

And she knew—just as well as I did—that my time here was ending. 

Soon, I would be handed over, contracted to a noble patron like a prized possession, my future determined by the highest bidder.

It was never a matter of whether we had a choice.

The day came in the grand halls, vast and cold, with walls so high they seemed to scrape against the sky. 

The floor gleamed with polished stone, reflecting the floating spell casted candlelight from towering chandeliers overhead. 

About hundred or so voices murmured beneath the vaulted ceiling—nobles, mages, guild patrons, and representatives of powerful houses who had all come for one thing: us.

The instructors, our so-called mentors, stood at the forefront, their expressions ranging from indifferent to pleased. 

Harriet whom had long forgotten about appeared within the crowd as she avoided eye contact with me. 

They spoke in turn, giving their remarks, listing off achievements, embellishing what was necessary. 

Each word they spoke determined their own compensation—whoever they praised would bring them wealth. 

We were nothing more than investments to them.

Among us, only three stood apart—three deemed worthy of special attention. 

Sylva, Edric, and myself.

When I was nominated, a few boo's and annoyed glances were glare at me. 

The two next to snicked silently, with Edric whispering, "I hope to see you on the frontlines one day."

While Sylva ignored both of us as if she was the main event of the show. 

The nobles had already read our reports. 

They had deliberated over our skills, weighed our value, discussed amongst themselves what use we could serve. 

And now, we stood before them like wares on display.

Madam Selvine was the one to introduce us. Her voice was steady, crisp, unwavering.

"Magic is a complex process," she began, her hands clasped before her, her cold eyes scanning the gathered patrons. 

"It requires precise control over mana, intricate formulas, and an unshakable mind to execute with intent. Only those who master these principles are considered mages of true worth."

A pause. 

Then she turned toward us.

"But there are those among us who surpass even these boundaries. This year, we present three exceptional candidates."

She gestured first toward Sylva.

"Sylva Yvain. A prodigy of multi-casting. She can cast three distinct spells simultaneously, as if three mages inhabit a single body. The layering of spells, each working independently yet in perfect synchrony, is something that only a handful of masters have achieved in their lifetimes. Yet, here she. A fifth Circle stands evidently able to repeat that feat."

Sylva stood with an air of confidence, her hair neatly tied back, her eyes gleaming with a quiet pride. 

She barely acknowledged the murmurs of interest that rose among the nobles, as if she had expected it.

Selvine's hand moved to Edric next.

"Edric Valmere. Capable of casting spells at extremely high speed—unmatched efficiency in turn. He can sustain complex magic for extended durations without suffering from mana withdrawal or magical recoil. His consistency in spellwork makes him an excellent asset in any battlefield or dueling court."

Edric smirked slightly at the hushed awe that followed. 

His white curls framed a sharp, aristocratic face, and his eyes flickered with amusement as he inclined his head toward the gathered patrons, as if already weighing which among them would be worth his time.

Then, finally, her gaze landed on me.

There was no sweeping gesture. 

No careful phrasing. 

Just a brief pause before she spoke.

"And this one," she said, "Caelum."

She did not bother with adding me a last name. 

Perhaps she thought it unnecessary.

It was tradition to give mages last names as means of honor to celebrate their achievements. 

Yet I had none. The headmaster hadn't given me one. 

Something that was rare. 

It meant I'd have to attain one from the nobles instead who took me. 

"He can alter…the nature of spells—remake them into something unpredictable, more so volatile. His magic does not follow standard principles…furthermore regarding of enhancement or negation that's where he…passes. The results… are often difficult to classify."

That was it. 

No embellishment. 

No admiration. 

Just the implication that I was unstable, that my magic was an anomaly, a problem rather than an asset. 

I was a risk to take if anyone wanted me. 

The deal was set, and the prices we didn't know. 

Only now we awaited the bidding process. 

I stared at the floor, jaw clenched, waiting for the nobles to move on, waiting for one of them—any of them—to take me, just so I could be rid of this place as much as it was ready to be rid of me.

The murmurs began.

"The girl is a natural asset," a noblewoman in emerald robes mused, her sharp features calculating as she assessed Sylva. 

"Three spells at once… An entire battalion's worth of firepower in a single mage."

"Lightening-casting speed?" A broad-shouldered man in dark blue leaned forward. 

"A strategist's dream. The Valmere boy is a definite consideration for my house."

Then, when it came to me—

"A volatile magic user?" A man with graying hair scoffed. 

He moved on wary to even bid. 

"Unpredictable spells are just as much a liability as they are an advantage. I don't bid on risks." Another said, avoiding as they went on to bid for others. 

"Some of the greatest advancements in magic came from those who defied predictability," a tradesman in crimson countered. 

Something about that man, I knew I didn't want to get engaged with them. 

It was akin to sending me to the slave trades guild. 

"If his magic truly functions outside conventional rules, he could be an invaluable research subject." Another spoke, this was an old wizard from another tower. 

I knew if I went there, I'd end up treated like an exotic species or something along the line of an experiment. 

I felt my hands curl into fists. 

Research subject.

Selvine did not interject. 

She simply let them debate.

At last, a final voice cut through the noise. 

Smooth. 

Amused.

"I'll take him. One hundred thousand gold coins. If anyone wants. I'm willing to double down. I have a use for him, after all he is of age my son will need to get along with such a young mage." He'd say. 

That was indeed true, among everyone, I was the youngest mage ever to be auctioned off or rather contracted away. 

I was only fourteen years old. 

Recently too. 

Silence settled over the room. 

Heads turned.

A man stepped forward from the back of the hall, dressed in black with subtle silver embroidery. 

He was not old—perhaps in his early thirties—but his presence demanded attention. 

His hair, a deep auburn, fell loosely around his sharp, angular face. 

His eyes, a piercing shade of gray, settled on me with an unreadable expression.

Selvine did look surprised.

"Lord Asceus," she acknowledged.

"Asceus?" Someone murmured. 

"The royal Duke of House Aurelian?" Another mage spoke quietly. 

It was a failing yet still reputable house, even in decline it still held powerhouse. 

Rumors thought-out the place made it so obvious that I even understood. 

'I'm going to be an attempting healing tryout for the Duke. He is desperate.' I'd think. 

A noble woman would snicker about, then. 

Someone who was a high-ranked noble, enough that few dared to challenge his claim spoke, "Asceus, as unfortunate as your son is, do understand that your risking more and more now. The Queen will look kindly if I report back with this matter."

"Nonetheless. I'll do what I can. Unfortunately, most of the other mages here during this period have been interesting bar from the commons. If I have to stake hope in the unpredictable chaos of a child, I'll do so." He'd reply as many shock their heads. 

He regarded me a gaze for a moment longer, then spoke again.

"Unpredictable spells can be the most dangerous weapons in the right hands," he said simply. 

"I believe I'll find good use for him."

And just like that, my fate was sealed.