The Headmaster's decree hung over the square like an iron weight. Roshir, trapped behind Tiraz's placid face, recalculated. A fortnight. Not six months. Not even one. Just fourteen days until the Winter Incursion, which now meant the Winter Rift. And tomorrow, at the Autumn Banquet, Zandir would secure command.
His internal star-chart, typically a distant hum, flared with an urgent pulse. Preventing tragedies. That was its mandate. He’d saved Niravi, yes, but in doing so, he’d unknowingly accelerated the very disaster he sought to avert. The timeline wasn’t a fixed path he could merely observe; it was a living river, and his every ripple sent waves ahead, intensifying the current.
*He had to move now.* Not tomorrow. Tonight.
The plaza dispersed in a flurry of panicked whispers and frantic footfalls. Tiraz melted into the throng, his gentle smile fixed, eyes scanning the exits. He needed the command seals, proof of authority that Zandir would inevitably flaunt and then misplace. They would be in his private quarters, the most heavily warded suite in the entire Gilded Citadel, reserved for 'Chosen Ones'.
“Tiraz! Wait!” Bakkur, his face a blotchy map of anxiety and exertion, skidded to a halt beside him. The merchant-apprentice clutched a leather satchel to his chest like a drowning man. “The—the banquet! They’re moving everything up! All my contacts for the… special wares… they’re going to be impossible now! How will you get your… *things*?”
Tiraz placed a reassuring hand on Bakkur’s shoulder, his smile softening the edges of his desperate urgency. “The feast is indeed a problem, Bakkur. But not for your wares.” His gaze sharpened, calculation piercing through the support buffer’s placid exterior. “I require a diversion. A loud spectacle that draws sentries away from the Western Wing of the Noble’s Tower. Say, in precisely two candle-marks from now.”
Bakkur took half a step back. “A spectacle? Sir, the sentries are on edge from the rift! What kind of chaos are we talking about?”
“Something that screams ‘illicit mineral sale gone wrong, but accidentally smothered by a lone, terrified merchant-apprentice trying to make an honest living’,” Tiraz suggested, his voice calm. “Perhaps near the central fountain, close to the kitchens?”
Bakkur gaped. “You… you want me to *stage* an incident? And take the blame? Sir, I’ll be expelled! Flayed! Worse!”
“You helped hold the line today, Bakkur,” Tiraz reminded him gently. “And you acted heroically, if clumsily. A small blunder, quickly resolved, might earn you a commendation if handled correctly. A minor fine, perhaps. But more importantly, it buys me time.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Time to ensure no one like… Niravi… ever stands in Zandir’s path again.”
The mention of Niravi’s name, the quiet conviction in Tiraz’s tone, seemed to steel Bakkur’s nerves. He gulped, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. “Niravi… I saw her, today. That beast…” He shivered. “Alright. A loud diversion. Two candle-marks. Near the central fountain. Wish me luck, sir. I’m going to need it.” He scurried away, already muttering to himself about ‘volatile catalysts’ and ‘accidental chain reactions’.
Tiraz watched him go, then turned, his smile fading as he slipped into the shadows of the Western Wing. The Noble’s Tower loomed, its ornate carvings and gilded spires mocking the subtle menace that resided within. Reaching Zandir’s private suite required navigating a labyrinth of wards, surveillance charms, and patrol routes. Normally, a veteran swordmaster would bypass these with ease, a whisper in the wind. But Tiraz’s new body was frail, his aura suppressed by the brass ring, his skills locked away. He was a ghost in a borrowed shell.
He moved like a breath, using the lingering chaos of the plaza’s emptying as cover. His support-class aura, habitually dismissed as insignificant, became his greatest asset. Guard-charms, designed to detect potent combat signatures, merely flickered past his presence. He picked locks with a delicate precision, the faint clicks drowned out by the distant clamor of academy staff preparing for the sudden banquet. It was a dance of borrowed time and calculated risks.
The main door to Zandir’s suite finally yielded with a soft thud. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spiced incense and something else—a faint, metallic tang that Roshir recognized as refined aura-flux. The chambers were ostentatious, draped in rich fabrics and glittering with polished prism sconces. A single, low-burning lamp cast long shadows, revealing two silhouettes in conversation near a low table. Zandir, preening, and another, hooded visitor whose face remained buried in shadow.
“The roster is set, my lord,” Zandir was saying, his voice a smug purr. “The Headmaster’s a fool. He sees only strength in numbers. I’ve ensured the most… expendable… support units are assigned to the Outer Veil perimeter. Easy prey, easy glory for me.” He snickered.
The stranger's voice was like grinding shale, devoid of warmth. “And the… *specific* unit you mentioned? The one with the younger sister of the former Roshir?”
Zandir scoffed. “Ah, Niravi’s squad. Yes, I made *certain* they’re front and center for the initial push. The Glass-Rift activity has increased near the Rimegate sector. They’ll draw the first wave, soften them up. Their screams will draw the swarm while I secure the inner defenses. A necessary sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree?”
[TRAGEDY IMMINENT. Niravi’s Life Thread: CRITICAL]
Inside Tiraz, something snapped. Roshir’s cold discipline, typically a steady weapon, turned scorching hot. The brass ring on his finger, forged to bind a swordmaster’s true aura, hummed violently, a thin crack spiderwebbing across its metal. His chest heaved with shallow drafts. *Expendable bait. Niravi.*
*He will never command a single platoon.* Blood pounded behind Tiraz's temples. He took a single, slow step forward, the subtle creak of a floorboard under his worn boot like thunder in the silent room.
The hooded visitor’s head snapped up, a faint ripple of energy radiating outward. “We have an intruder.”
Zandir jumped, clutching his chest. “What? Who?”
Before Tiraz could react, a sudden, frantic *thud* rattled the suite. The window shattered inward, spraying jagged fragments across the carpet. Bakkur tumbled through the frame, coughing amid acrid smoke billowing from a glowing mineral core in his fist. “Sir! My diversion! It… went somewhat sideways!”
The hooded assailant let out a low hiss. “A witless diversion. But detected nonetheless.” A pale hand shot out, not toward Tiraz, but at Bakkur, who lay sprawled amidst the broken glass. A shard of pure, black glass, impossibly sharp and radiating lethal intent, materialized in the air, then shot forward, a homing missile aimed directly at Bakkur’s screaming face.
There was no thought, only instinct. Roshir’s fatal kindness, the very flaw he cursed, seized control. Tiraz lunged. He twisted, throwing his frail body in front of Bakkur, the brass ring screaming its protest as the homing glass-spike slammed into his chest with sickening force. A wet, tearing sound. His world inverted, collapsing into a dizzying vortex of pain. He felt a searing cold, then a gush of warmth. The scent of iron. Zandir’s guards, alerted by the commotion, crashed through the main door, blades drawn, just as Tiraz’s knees buckled, sending him tumbling to the ground, a growing pool of crimson blossoming beneath him.