Lysander’s attention fell, naturally, on the demon at Aeris’s side.

  She wore no red tattoos on her face, which introduced a moment of hesitation, but not a long one. Not simply because that meeting from a hundred years ago had seared itself onto his mind, such that he could never forget the Sorceress’s strangely diminutive stature and intimidatingly bored expression, but because the second breach at Prismarche—as if the first hadn’t—had all but confirmed that the woman was alive and active in the world once more.

  Aeris had been unhelpful yesterday when reporting what had really happened in Prismarche. Lysander had put two and two together and deduced that Vivisari had asked for Aeris’s silence. Which annoyed Lysander. Aeris’s allegiance should be to the Institute, not the Sorceress, however much those two factions should themselves be aligned. Another problem Lysander had temporarily set to the side.

  He couldn’t say he was unfazed to see the most famous person in the world striding into the garden annex. A jolt went through him upon the revelation of who his new company was, and his thoughts raced as he tried to guess her purpose for coming. There were a number of plausible reasons. Too many.

  “Lysander,” Aeris greeted with a nod. “Nia.”

  “Hi Aery,” the half-elf archmage returned. “Who’s this?”

  “Lady Nysari Keresi,” Aeris replied. “Grand Magus, tenth elevation. We met by chance; she actually has business with you, Lysander. I hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

  Lysander narrowed his eyes at the man. Business with him specifically? That was concerning, since the only natural assumption was she needed to speak with the Institute’s Headmaster, not Lysander himself. And ‘business’ between the Sorceress and the Institute meant critical matters of state.

  He wasn’t surprised that Nia hadn’t recognized the Sorceress. His fellow archmage was reclusive in the tower and likely had never met the legendary mage, and even now had spared only the briefest glance before returning to her notes, happily absorbed in her study of the spatial phenomenon.

  “Not in the slightest,” Lysander replied smoothly, meeting the demon’s red eyes and fighting an instinctive flinch. “I assume it’s urgent, if Archmage Aeris brought you to me. I can take you to my office, if you’d prefer privacy.”

  “Yes, please,” came the cool response.

  Lysander shared a look with Aeris, but the old warmage kept his face politely neutral. Lysander supposed that meant this couldn’t be anything too concerning.

  A sudden meeting with the Sorceress herself, though. Lysander wished he’d had at least a few minutes to brace himself.

  He turned and made to leave. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Sorceress’s eyes linger on the spatial tear for a moment before she joined him. He wondered if he would receive an explanation for whatever that personal handiwork of hers had been—and yes, he knew that it was the Sorceress who was at fault. Hardly a difficult deduction.

  He also wanted to know why she had torn up a chunk of the spatial fabric in the middle of his Institute. He was hardly irrational enough to think she’d taken that risk for anything less than something of crucial importance, but as the man responsible for the students and mages within this tower, he couldn’t help but feel aggravation at the danger the rift represented.

  “I can [Blink] us,” Lysander offered with a glance toward the woman. With her following at his side, he was struck again by just how small she was. Especially since he dealt with children frequently through the course of his duties as headmaster—she was smaller than most third years. The effect disoriented him.

  “If you don’t mind,” she replied impassively.

  He faced her and held his hand out, and she touched her fingers to his. One [Blink] later, they stood in his office.

  The demon looked around at the decorations as Lysander walked behind his desk to sit. He silently studied her expression, but gleaned nothing; her face might as well be a mask carved of bone. She certainly wasn’t impressed by anything she saw.

  Sitting, he gestured at the visitor’s chair. “Vivisari. I was expecting you, I admit. Perhaps not so soon.”

  Or rather, sooner, but when that hadn’t been the case, then not for some time.

  The woman glanced at him, then walked over and accepted the indicated seat. “I suppose there’s little point in denying it. Nysari is for moving around the city without complications. I didn’t think you would recognize me, though. Have we met before?”

  Well, there was an immediate confirmation that the encounter from his youth had been a footnote or less to this woman. Something carved onto his memories, but insignificant to the Sorceress herself.

  He deflected with, “It’s rather apparent, considering the events of the past week, and that you were accompanying Archmage Aeris.” After a pause, he added mildly, “I would not call the disguise itself particularly effective either, for anyone even vaguely aware of the Sorceress’s appearance. Tattoos hidden or not.”

  There had been a moment’s hesitation even in Lysander’s mind, admittedly, half for the lack of tattoos, and the other half for the woman’s stature, no matter if he recollected that stark impression from a hundred years ago. It was simply strange, so much power being packed into a form that small.

  “I suppose it isn’t,” the demon agreed. “But again, it’s just to avoid the obvious complications of walking around with my real face. I ask that you don’t spread this identity.”

  “If the Sorceress requests it, I am obliged to obey.”

  A trace of unintended sarcasm must have leaked into Lysander’s response, because Vivisari studied him for a second longer than felt natural. Lysander wasn’t even sure why he had taken the tone. He understood how important this meeting was. How important fostering a positive relationship with the Sorceress was. Even if he did have a personal grievance—and he certainly did not—he would have kept it tightly restrained.

  “I appreciate that,” Vivisari said. “I won’t waste your time. I have matters to attend to, as I’m sure you do as well. There are two things I need to discuss, one personal, and one professional.”

  He paused at that. Vivisari had something personal to discuss with him? He truly couldn’t imagine what. “I see. I’ll help in any way I can. But first, might I have a question of my own?”

  “Of course.”

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  Of course? It was a more congenial response than he’d expected. He supposed he didn’t actually know this woman’s personality much. Nearly no one had, barring the Party of Heroes themselves and the members of Vivisari’s guild. She had been famously reclusive, the least-seen-in-public of the Heroes by far, to the extent she had made Theophania seem like a socialite in comparison.

  “It was you above Meridian, then Prismarche?” he asked. “Sealing the dimensional breaches?”

  A moment passed as those red eyes surveyed him. “I’ve been advised by my steward to remain silent on that topic. It is my understanding that the Archbishop has credited the heavens for what happened.”

  “Bah.” Lysander couldn’t help the break in etiquette. He had found that ridiculousness spouted by the Archbishop aggravating since the very beginning. Seeing Vivisari, the Sorceress, walking on eggshells to not offend the zealot deeply annoyed him. But he reined himself in shortly. Non-answer as it had been, Vivisari’s implication was clear. “I understand.” The confirmation that she’d grown so substantially in power shocked him, but he’d digested that over the previous days. Difficult as it was to truly come to terms with. “Now, then. How can I, or the Institute, aid the Sorceress?”

  Red eyes appraised him. “My apprentice was expelled from this academy nine months ago,” she said. “I understand that you approved of it. I wished to… discuss that event with you.”

  Lysander’s thoughts screeched to a halt—for two reasons. First, the immediate claim: that the Institute had expelled the Sorceress’s apprentice. Inexpressive as the woman was, he sensed a muted irritation in her tone. As would be appropriate for a perceived injustice so personal. That was definitely something to concern himself with, drawing the Sorceress’s ire, no matter how stellar her reputation and his belief that she wouldn’t seek retribution for petty slights.

  It was easy to cognitively be aware that the Sorceress wasn’t some blood-crazed, vindictive Titled, but having seen her erase multiple Cataclysm-rank monsters just four days prior with magic of such phenomenal majesty that he broke out even now into a cold sweat, Lysander was reasonably wary of the woman. In the way he would be of any person who could erase his existence with a flick of her wrist… and the Institute with it.

  His shock, secondly, came from the revelation that the Sorceress had taken an apprentice. The implications were staggering. Did that mean another unprecedented magical talent had been found, and was now being fostered? The Sorceress had spent centuries not passing her knowledge on to the younger generations, wholly obsessed with her own progress—as most prodigies were. For someone to have drawn her eye implied talent beyond talent. Even if only a hundredth of the woman’s own, that suggested the next Osmian, at the most conservative estimation imaginable. A miniature Sorceress would still be unrivaled among mortal archmages.

  Then he put the two ideas together, and was dumbfounded again. Expulsions were uncommon; at most one or two happened a year. In this case, there was only one person Vivisari could be talking about. That red-haired, second-year cat beastkin with a list of minor infractions to her name. Saff...ron? No, feminized. Saffra. Yes, that was it.

  That didn’t make sense. The girl had been a scholarship entry with excellent grades, which was even more impressive considering her slightly delayed entry and her lack of preparatory schooling, but she hadn’t been special. Not to the extent he would have been unsurprised to discover she’d become the Sorceress’s apprentice. Though he wasn’t sure any individual in the world could have made him feel that way.

  Finally, his whirring thoughts dredged up the details of the expulsion.

  A scandal with the Caldimore family. With the Caldimore family. He hadn’t connected the dots. His mind hadn’t drifted toward that expulsion nine months ago, despite Duke Caldimore’s sudden infamy. Lysander didn’t view himself as a man who wormed out of responsibility and made excuses for any and all mistakes, but in this instance, he truly couldn’t blame himself. He’d been dealing with the fallout of a half-destroyed Adventurer’s District and an urgent need to analyze the most threatening magical phenomena in the world’s history. Among a half dozen less important, but still staggeringly crucial matters. He had been more than occupied. That he hadn’t scrutinized the Caldimore line’s current shame with the fact they’d pushed for a young girl’s expulsion nearly a year ago was reasonable beyond question.

  Still, something could be reasonable and still disgruntle him. Now he was playing catch-up, trying to rapidly analyze the situation and understand what was going on.

  “Saffra,” he said, because too much time had passed, the silence dragging on. “A second year.”

  “Yes. That’s her.” Vivisari didn’t provide additional information, simply waiting—red eyes boring into him—to see how he would respond. Again, despite her stoicism, he sensed a muted hint of aggravation in her posture and tone.

  That annoyed him in turn. Against his better judgment, he replied flatly, “In that case, with the information I had at the time, it was a justified expulsion.” There were a number of ways he could have softened that statement, to make his words less inflammatory, and yet he offered none.

  He knew his ego was a problem; that his grimoire hung from his hip even a century later was proof he recognized that flaw. Nevertheless, he had not fully controlled it. Especially if he felt he was in the right, he had difficulties backing down, no matter the logic of doing so.

  Vivisari’s eyes turned even colder. It was certainly a terrifying thing to behold, but Lysander didn’t flinch. “Duke Caldimore orchestrated those supposed offenses to have her expelled, as a punishment to his daughter. The two were friends.”

  He had suspected as much. Not the details, but the general shape, seeing how the Sorceress had picked up the wayward student, then been in conflict with the Duke.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “my judgment did not err; it was the right choice.”

  “Explain yourself,” came the flat response, and Lysander would have sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

  He straightened and answered, still without the slightest wince, “I am not omniscient. With the information available to me at that time, with the witnesses on hand sworn under oath, her expulsion was justified—was correct, by any definition.” His eyes took on a flinty look, to match hers. “Do not mistake me for saying that justice was carried out. Only a reasonable attempt of it, a flawed imitation of that ideal we mortals ever strive for. If what you say is true, and I do not contest your word, then I will seek retribution from those who lied during the investigation. I will offer my apology to the individual who has been wronged, and will provide an immediate re-acceptance into the Institute, with reparations paid and accelerated resources given, should she wish them. And I will seek ways to prevent another similar misfortune. Not because the student in question has drawn the interest of the Sorceress, but because that is my duty as Headmaster.”

  Even Lysander found himself surprised at the heat in his voice. He was leaning forward in his seat; he forced himself into a more relaxed position. Unfortunately, removing the heat only left his voice as cold as Vivisari’s. “A poor outcome is not strictly the result of poor actions; that is self-evidently true. My decision was sound. But if you imply I assisted with this miscarriage of justice, that I bent the knee to Duke Damon Caldimore and threw a student to the wolves as sacrifice, then you offer me a gross insult.”

  Silence filled the room, and even though it dawned on him the true extent of his foolishness for speaking to the Sorceress in this way—even if he found no fault in his words—he didn’t seek to fill the strained emptiness.

  “You’re right,” Vivisari said. “I apologize.”

  Lysander hadn’t expected that response. Not so plainly stated, without clarifier or defensiveness. He leaned back in his seat again—he hadn’t realized he’d gone forward a second time—and failed to find his words.

  “You’re not who I should be upset with,” she added. “I’m not sure why I implied you were. I’m just unhappy with what happened.”

  Lysander finally cured his gawking. “I do apologize in the symbolic sense,” he said, clearing his throat. “And I am deeply displeased to learn of this. I will hold those responsible accountable, rest assured. I take my duties as Headmaster seriously.”

  “I can see that. Aeris vouched for you for a reason.”

  Again, Lysander was disoriented. His relationship with Aeris had been strained at best, ever since their very first meeting when Lysander was a boy, more than a hundred years ago. Their personalities had never meshed. Yet the old man had spoken well of him to Vivisari? That might be the most shocking revelation so far.

  “Let’s put that aside,” Vivisari said. “I want her expulsion lifted, and her access to the library returned, but I assume that’s a given, based on how you spoke.”

  “It is. And more.”

  “Then the professional matters.” She held a hand up, and a very strange object appeared within—it seemed to be an arm made of void carapace? “I understand that you’re leading the research efforts on this material. We should discuss it.”