Alwyn managed a small smile. “I know. Thank you.”
He turned to the door, took a steadying breath, and knocked twice. Then he turned the handle, only to find the door was locked. He blinked, surprised. He was sure that this was the appointed time, but perhaps the Mage Princeps was still in a meeting with someone else.
It couldn’t be helped. Deflated, he turned back to Krujha and sat beside him on the bench, shrugging. They sat quietly, and Alwyn did his best to keep himself from nervously tapping his foot as they waited.
After a moment, Krujha leaned closer to him and whispered into his ear, “So do you think I’ll be accepted if I apply to join the Library?”
Despite everything, Alwyn had to press his hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Krujha pulled away, a self-satisfied grin stretched wide around his tusks.
A few minutes later, the door unlatched and swung open. A girl stepped out that Alwyn didn’t recognize, wearing student robes. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen with long, curly brown hair that was pulled up into a ponytail high on her head.
What he did recognize, though, was the look of utter disdain on her face as she stepped out of the office and eyed them both. Her eyes briefly widened in surprise at seeing Krujha, before fading back into that familiar elven stoicism. Though she was young, the way she looked down at Alwyn was unmistakable: it was the wayhehad looked down at so many other students and members of the Order before.
This was his replacement, he thought—the next of Tessarion’s favored pupils. It had never really been about Alwyn at all. Tessarion had made him feel so special and important, but clearly this girl had been made to feel just the same. He was only another in a long line of tools the Mage Princeps had created for his own purpose.
The thought stung, but now he mostly felt sorry for this girl, who clearly believed she had Tessarion’s personal favor as fervently as himself, not so long ago. With any luck, Tessarion would not be in a position to manipulate any student for much longer.
“The Mage Princeps will see you now,” she said, her voice even and calm; but her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, dripping with snide arrogance.
“Thank you,” he said steadily as he stood. She gave him a sharp nod, spared one last glance over at Krujha, then turned and walked away, her steps echoing down the stone hallway.
Alwyn glanced back at Krujha, who smiled at him, and he managed a slight smile back. He was more than strong enough for this now.
The door was unlocked this time. Familiar magic washed over him as he stepped inside, his mentor waiting for him on the other side of his desk, as unchanged as the room itself.
This would, in all likelihood, be the last time he was ever in the Mage Princeps’ office. Alwyn couldn’t quite place the mix of feelings the thought elicited.
“Alwyn,” Tessarion said, pulling him from his thoughts as he approached. His face wore the usual impassive demeanor. “I’m pleased to see you’re recovered.”
“Not entirely,” Alwyn said with a slight grimace, taking a seat opposite him. “But enough.”
“I have heard the official version of what transpired in the orc wildlands,” Tessarion continued, barely acknowledging his response. “But I would like to hear your version of events.”
Alwyn took a steadying breath. It was a long story, but he recounted it in as much detail as he could—leaving out everything between him and Krujha. When he described the first camp and how he had tried to free the captive elves there, he wondered if Tessarion would say anything about Fionia; but he remained silent, and so Alwyn continued.
His voice quavered as he approached the end; how Zesh brought him to the mountaintop to reveal that he knew Alwyn’s plan; how the druid had somehow subdued his magic; and how when he’d finally released it using the sigil, it felt like being burned from the inside out.
“It still feels... weakened, somehow,” he concluded softly, letting his brows furrow in a cowed expression.
For a long moment, Tessarion was silent.
“I knew you were the right one for this job,” he finally said. Once, that hint of praise would have sent Alwyn’s heart racing; now, it barely felt like anything at all. “But what you have said about this injury concerns me.”
He held his hand out expectantly. Alwyn hesitated, then obediently placed his hand in Tessarion’s outstretched palm. The skin of his fingers was still a raw pink, a stark contrast to the soft and pale skin of his mentor’s hand.
He could feel the elf’s magic course through him, taking stock of his own. But he knew what Tessarion would find: whenever he focused on the well of magic inside him, it felt empty compared to before. He had tried some of the smallest uses of magic successfully; but they were minor tasks like hovering plates of food closer to him across the table, or forcing dust off of surfaces and water out of damp clothes. But he had not dared to try anything with fire, even lighting a candle; and anything requiring more magic had felt too daunting to even attempt.
“I know what this means,” he said softly when Tessarion finally released him from his grip. “I will leave the Order.”
“That will not be necessary,” Tessarion replied. Alwyn blinked, now entirely taken aback. He had expected Tessarion’s abject disappointment again–to be told that despite completing his mission, he was no longer fit to be part of the Order of Twilight. He had been bracing himself for that conversation, and now had no idea what to expect. “You will simply remain off duty until this wound heals. There is no indication this may be a permanent handicap.”
But itfeltpermanent in a way Alwyn didn’t know how to describe. He might gain some of his strength back, but that deep well of magic that had once been at his command would never return.
And more than that, he had no desire to be beholden to the Order any longer, especially without any of the benefits of being an active agent. It sounded as though Tessarion intended to keep him cooped up in his dormitory room for as long as it took for his magic to somehow recover, indefinitely. Once, he might have done it, driven by even the possibility of one day getting another scrap of his mentor’s approval.
He had to pretend to still be that version of himself.
“I...” he started, looking down into his lap. “Yes, Master. Thank you.”
