Old Marvin Cress hummed to himself as he arranged the final batch of candied peanuts in a neat paper cone.

  The tune was something from his childhood. Something his grandfather used to sing while they worked in the shop together, back when the world had seemed simpler and candy-making had felt like alchemy. The melody was simple—just a few repeating notes—but it settled something in Marvin's chest every time he found himself humming it without thinking.

  He picked up one of the peanuts and popped it into his mouth.

  The crunch was perfect. The caramel coating had set just right, not too thick, not too thin, with that slight give before it shattered between his teeth. The salt hit his tongue a second later, cutting through the sweetness in exactly the way it was supposed to. The peanut itself was roasted properly, no burnt taste, just that warm, nutty flavor his grandfather had always insisted was the most important part.

  "Can't hide bad peanuts under good caramel," the old man used to say. "People will taste it. They always do."

  Marvin swallowed and reached for another one.

  They'd agreed on two hours.

  He glanced at the timekeeper mounted on the wall behind his stall. The hands had moved past the four-hour mark about fifteen minutes ago. Creeping steadily toward five now.

  Marvin sighed.

  He got got.

  That's what his competitor, Old Ferris, would say when he heard about this. "You got got, Marvin. Fell for the oldest trick in the book. Someone asks you to make something special, you drop everything like a fool, and they never come back."

  Ferris would laugh about it too. That wheezing, self-satisfied laugh that made Marvin want to throw something. Probably would lean against Marvin's stall with his arms crossed, shaking his head, going on about how Marvin was too soft, too trusting, not business-minded enough to survive in the merchant trade.

  And the worst part was, Ferris would be right.

  Marvin looked down at the six paper cones arranged neatly on his counter. Each one filled with fresh candied peanuts, still warm from the batch he'd finished twenty minutes ago. He'd made extra, just in case the young mage wanted more than one portion. Professional courtesy. Planning ahead.

  ...Wasted effort, apparently.

  He'd closed the shop to do this. Turned away three customers while he was roasting peanuts and melting caramel. Lost an entire afternoon of sales because some stranger with silver hair had mentioned his grandfather's recipe and Marvin had gotten all sentimental about it. How stupid.

  The stall looked empty now with half his usual stock packed away. The jars of hard candies were still out, but the dried fruits were gone, the chocolates too, all of it cleared to make room for the equipment he'd needed. His profit for the day would be dismal. Maybe enough to cover the cost of supplies, but barely.

  Marvin picked up another peanut and chewed it slowly.

  At least they'd turned out well. That was something. The recipe had held up after sixty years, and the execution had been nearly flawless. His grandfather would have been proud.

  Assuming his grandfather wouldn't have also called him a fool for closing shop on the promise of a stranger.

  Marvin sighed again, deeper this time.

  Maybe he should just pack them up. Take them home. His daughter would appreciate them, probably. She'd always had a sweet tooth as a child, though she was grown now with children of her own. Maybe the grandchildren would like them.

  Yes. That's what he'd do. Salvage what he could from this mess.

  He was reaching for the first cone when a familiar voice drifted across the marketplace.

  "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

  Marvin's jaw tightened.

  Old Ferris approached with that shuffling gait of his, cane tapping against the cobblestones, his wrinkled face already splitting into a grin that showed the gaps where teeth used to be. He was wearing the same stained apron he'd been wearing for the past decade, covered in what Marvin sincerely hoped was just chocolate but suspected was probably something worse.

  Ferris stopped in front of Marvin's stall and leaned heavily on his cane, making a show of looking around at the empty display. He'd definitely heard of the day's events from others.

  "Closing early today, are we?" Ferris said. His tone was light, the way a cat might sound if cats could talk and enjoyed tormenting mice. "Business too good? Can't keep up with demand?"

  "Just reorganizing," Marvin said flatly.

  "Reorganizing." Ferris repeated the word like he was tasting it. "That what we're calling it now?" His eyes found the paper cones. "And what's all this? Making fancy special orders while honest merchants are actually working?"

  "Someone requested them."

  "Someone?" Ferris leaned closer, squinting at the peanuts. "Looks like six portions to me. That's a lot of someone."

  Marvin said nothing.

  Ferris straightened up as much as his bent spine would allow and tsked. "You know your problem, Marvin? You're not business-driven enough. Too sentimental. Someone mentions your grandfather's old recipes and you get all misty-eyed, start making things that nobody's asked for in half a century."

  Yep. Definitely heard about it.

  "Someone did ask for them."

  "And where is this someone?" Ferris made a show of looking around the marketplace. "I don't see them. Do you see them, Marvin? Because I'm looking very hard and I'm not seeing anyone."

  Marvin's hands curled into fists on the counter.

  "Ah, there it is." Ferris's grin widened. "That look. That's the look of a man who knows he got fooled but won't admit it yet."

  "I didn't get fooled."

  "No?" Ferris tapped his cane against the ground. "Then where's your customer? It's been—what, three hours? Four?" He glanced at the timekeeper. "Oh my. Almost five. That's quite a wait for someone who's definitely coming back."

  "They'll be here."

  "Of course they will." Ferris nodded sagely. "And I'm the King of Albyon. We're both very important people with very real expectations."

  Marvin opened his mouth to respond, probably with something he'd regret, when Ferris continued.

  "You remember Young Willem? From three summers ago?" Ferris was warming to his topic now, settling into storytelling mode. "Someone asked him to prepare a special order. Told him they'd be back in an hour. Willem closed his stall, spent half the day on it. You know what happened?"

  "They didn't come back."

  "They didn't come back!" Ferris slapped his knee, delighted. "And Willem sat there just like you're sitting now, looking at his special order, realizing he'd wasted an entire day on nothing."

  "Willem's an idiot," Marvin muttered.

  "Willem's your nephew."

  "Still an idiot."

  Ferris cackled at that. "That's the Cress family curse right there. Too nice for your own good. Your grandfather was the same way. Always making special orders and giving people discounts because they smiled at him right."

  He leaned forward, his expression shifting into something that almost resembled sincerity.

  "You're a good candy-maker, Marvin. Always have been. But you'd make more profit if you stopped trying to make everyone happy and focused on making coin instead."

  Marvin stared at him.

  Ferris had been saying variations of this for forty years. Ever since they'd both taken over their respective family stalls and became neighbors in the marketplace, selling competing goods, watching each other's customers, keeping score of who did better each day.

  They didn't hate each other. Not really.

  But they also absolutely did, in the way only two people who'd known each other for decades could manage. Every kind word Ferris offered came wrapped in mockery. Every piece of advice was designed to sting just enough to notice.

  And the worst part was, Ferris was usually right.

  Marvin picked up one of the paper cones, turning it slowly in his hands. The peanuts shifted inside with a soft rustle.

  Maybe Ferris was right this time too. Maybe Marvin had been fooled. The silver-haired mage had seemed genuine enough, but genuine didn't mean reliable. People forgot, or changed their minds, or... or got busy with more important things and let casual promises slip away without a second thought.

  Two hours had turned into five.

  The shop was closed. The profit was gone. And Marvin was standing here holding candy that nobody wanted, listening to Ferris tell him—again—that he wasn't cut out for merchant work.

  He was starting to believe it.

  "I appreciate your concern," Marvin said quietly, setting the cone back down. "Truly, Ferris. But I'm fine."

  "You don't look fine. You look like a man who just realized he wasted an afternoon."

  "The peanuts turned out well."

  "Nobody cares how the peanuts turned out if nobody's buying them." Ferris's expression softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. "Look, I'm not trying to be cruel. I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. You can't run a stall on sentiment. You need to be harder. More practical."

  Marvin opened his mouth to respond when a voice cut through the marketplace noise.

  "Apologies for the delay."

  Both men turned.

  The silver-haired mage was walking toward them, moving with that same easy confidence he'd had this morning. He wasn't alone. Two other figures flanked him: one tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and the distinctive Eryndor eyebrows, the other shorter and stockier with the build of someone who'd spent their life either swinging a hammer or a staff.

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  Marvin's eyes widened.

  He straightened up automatically, his hands moving to smooth down his apron even though it was already as smooth as it was going to get. His mind was racing through protocols he'd learned decades ago, etiquette for dealing with nobility that he hadn't needed to use in years.

  "Your Grace," Marvin said, his voice coming out higher than intended. He bowed quickly, deeply. "Lord Richter Eryndor. I—this is—"

  Next to him, Ferris had gone rigid. His cane clattered to the ground as he attempted his own bow, nearly toppling over in the process. "Your Grace! I—we didn't—I mean—"

  "And Headmaster Andor," Marvin continued, his bow deepening further as recognition hit. He'd seen the headmaster before, of course. Everyone in Orlys had seen the headmaster at some point. But seeing him and having him standing directly in front of your stall were two very different things. "My lord, I'm honored, I—"

  Ferris was still trying to retrieve his cane while maintaining some semblance of a bow. The result was a sort of bent-over fumbling that would have been comical if Marvin weren't too busy panicking to appreciate it.

  "Please," Marvin managed, gesturing at his stall with trembling hands. Was he in trouble? This seemed to be trouble. Big, big trouble. "Is there—can I offer you—would you like—"

  He stopped, realizing he was babbling.

  The Duke and the Headmaster stood there patiently, waiting for Marvin to finish having his crisis.

  The silver-haired mage—the one Marvin had thought might not come back—stepped forward with a small, almost apologetic smile.

  "Again, my apologies for the delay," he said. "The task took longer than I anticipated, but we're here now."

  Marvin nodded quickly, too quickly, his attention split between the white-haired mage and the two very important people standing just behind him. "Oh. Yes. Of course. I understand completely, my lord—I mean—"

  He stopped himself before he could assume a title that might not exist. His gaze flickered between the Duke and the Headmaster, uncertainty settling in his chest. What were they doing here? This didn't make sense. Important people didn't escort random mages to marketplace stalls for candy purchases. There were servants for that sort of thing. This man, by no means, was not a random mage, then.

  "Your Grace," Marvin said, addressing the Duke directly because at least that was safe ground. "Headmaster Andor. What were you looking for today? If there's anything I can—"

  "Relax, lad," Headmaster Andor cut in. The old man's eyes crinkled at the corners, amusement plain on his weathered face. "You look like you're about to faint. We're not here on official business. Well. Not the sort you're thinking of, anyway."

  Marvin's shoulders didn't relax.

  "We're with him," the Duke said simply, gesturing toward the white-haired young man. "With Sael."

  Marvin's eyes found the mage again. Sael? What a common name. He'd expected, with everything going on, a less common name, maybe more noble, as he suspected the mage was.

  ...Who was this?

  The young man—Sael—cleared his throat softly, drawing Marvin's attention back. His gaze had found the paper cones arranged on the counter, and smiled. "I see you finished them."

  "Yes, my lord. Just as you requested."

  "Thank you for making them." Sael's tone was genuine. "May I take them?"

  "Of course! Yes, absolutely, please—" Marvin gestured at the cones, nearly knocking one over in his haste.

  Sael reached for the nearest cone, then paused. "How much do I owe you?"

  The question snapped Marvin back into merchant mode, his brain automatically calculating costs even while the rest of him was still trying to process the situation. The peanuts, the caramel, the time, the lost business from closing early; he should charge more, Ferris would definitely charge more, but this was the Duke's companion and Marvin wasn't about to risk offending anyone by overcharging.

  "Six Sol," he said. Fair price. Honest price. The sort his grandfather would have charged.

  Sael nodded and reached into his pocket.

  Everyone watched him. Marvin, Ferris, the Duke, the Headmaster, all eyes on the white-haired mage as his hand disappeared into his coat. The motion stretched longer than it should have. Sael's fingers moved inside the pocket, clearly searching, and his expression shifted through several micro-changes too quick to properly read.

  Then he stopped.

  His eyes widened slightly.

  Marvin frowned. What was happening?

  He focused, activating a skill he rarely bothered with anymore. [Enhanced Hearing] was useful for catching marketplace gossip or listening for approaching customers, but mostly it just gave him headaches from the constant noise.

  The murmur that reached his ears was barely a whisper, spoken under Sael's breath.

  "Oh no... I forgot I'm broke."

  Marvin blinked.

  What?

  The Duke stepped forward smoothly, his smile unchanged. "You said six Sol?"

  Marvin looked at the Duke, then back at Sael, who had withdrawn his empty hand from his pocket and was now standing very still. This had to be a joke. Some kind of noble humor that Marvin wasn't sophisticated enough to understand. The man was important enough for the Duke of Orlys and the Headmaster of Astra Academy to personally escort him through the city, and he was pretending to be broke? Hah... right.

  "Yes, Your Grace," Marvin said slowly. "Six Sol."

  The Duke reached into his own pocket and produced five coins. The sound they made hitting the counter was different from regular Sol. Heavier. Richer. The distinctive clink of Dracos.

  Both Marvin and Ferris gasped.

  "Your Grace, that's—that's way too much!" Marvin stammered, staring at the five Dracos like they might bite him. "I couldn't possibly—"

  The Duke laughed, the sound warm and entirely too casual for someone of his station. "Sir Sael here spoke about you on the way. Mentioned you probably had to close your stall for the day to make candies for my aunt."

  Marvin's head turned toward Sael.

  The young man met his gaze and gave a single firm nod, his mouth forming a thin line.

  Marvin's thoughts stuttered to a halt.

  Wait. The Duke's aunt? But hadn't the young man said his granddaughter this morning?

  Marvin gulped.

  His eyes dropped to the five Dracos gleaming on his counter. Twenty-two weeks. That's what this represented. Twenty-two weeks of careful sales and haggling and standing in the cold marketplace before dawn. More money than he'd ever expected to see from a single transaction in his entire life as a candy stall merchant.

  He looked at Ferris.

  The old merchant's mouth was hanging open, his eyes fixed on the coins like a man witnessing a miracle. His cane lay forgotten on the cobblestones.

  Oh, this was perfect. This was better than perfect. He was going to remind Ferris about this moment every single day for the rest of their lives. Every morning. Every afternoon. Every time Ferris opened his mouth about being business-minded or not getting fooled or being too sentimental.

  Nothing would ever top this.

  The young mage—Sael—whoever he was, it didn't matter. If he wanted to be known, he'd say so himself.

  Marvin reached for the coins, his fingers trembling slightly as he gathered them. "Your Grace is far too generous," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Thank you. Truly."

  He carefully packaged all six cones, his movements deliberate, professional. When he handed them to Sael, he bowed properly. "I hope they meet your expectations, my lord."

  "Thank you, sir merchant," Sael said, then turned to the Duke. "And thank you, Richter. I'll pay you back."

  "Nonsense." The Duke's tone was warm, but somehow, the word sounded less like casual dismissal and more like... deference? The Duke even inclined his head slightly when he said it.

  Marvin shook his head quickly. None of his business. Whatever was happening here existed in circles far above a simple candy merchant.

  The three figures departed, leaving Marvin standing beside his stall with a fortune in his hand and Ferris still gaping beside him.

  **Half an hour later**

  A few portraits lined the eastern wall of the headmaster's office in chronological order, twenty-three faces that had carried the weight of Astra Academy across the three centuries and eighty-one years of its continued existence.

  Sael stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, studying each one with the same attention he might give to a spell matrix that refused to resolve properly.

  The first portrait was his.

  Well. Allegedly his.

  The artist had tried. Sael could acknowledge that much. Art had been in a rough state back then, crawling out of the ruins of the Age of Ash alongside everything else. Most skilled painters had died in the chaos, and their apprentices had died, and their apprentices' apprentices had scattered to survive however they could. The few who remained had been relearning techniques from fragmented treatises and half-remembered lessons.

  So the proportions were slightly wrong, the perspective was questionable, and the shading suggested the painter understood light existed but wasn't entirely sure what it did.

  But the real problem was simpler: they'd gotten his eyes wrong.

  Blue. They'd painted them blue.

  Sael's eyes had never been blue in his entire life. Green, always green, the color of spring leaves or deep forest moss depending on the light. He'd mentioned it to the artist. Twice, actually. The man had nodded earnestly both times, assured Sael he understood completely, and then painted them blue anyway.

  His hair had still been mostly black then, just starting to show silver at the temples. He'd been younger. Not young—he'd already lived fifty-five years by then—but younger than now. The portrait showed him clean-shaven, though that part was inaccurate too.

  He'd been growing a beard at the time, and Eirlys had hated it.

  Sael's mouth twitched at the memory. She'd made her opinion abundantly clear the first week, commenting on it every morning with increasing creativity. "You look like a vagrant." "Are you aware there's something on your face?" "I didn't realize we were adopting the aesthetic of unwashed hermits."

  He'd kept growing it anyway, partly because he'd wanted to see what it looked like, partly because her complaints amused him.

  Three months in, she'd stopped complaining.

  Six months in, she'd told him not to shave it off.

  The whiplash had been magnificent. He'd stared at her, waiting for the punchline, but she'd been serious. Something about how it suited him, how she'd gotten used to it, and how he should keep it.

  Which had immediately made him want to shave it off.

  He'd told her as much. She'd thrown a book at him. A heavy one. He'd deflected it with a barrier spell and she'd thrown another one, and they'd spent the next twenty minutes in the most ridiculous argument of their entire relationship, which was saying something given how long that relationship had been.

  He'd kept the beard for another two years just to be contrary.

  Sael exhaled softly, the smile fading slowly.

  He'd worked at Astra for exactly ten years before resuming his travels with Eirlys. Ten years of teaching and trying to build something that might outlast the chaos. They'd needed structure back then. The world had needed people who understood what magic could do, what it should do, the difference between the two.

  His students from those ten years had gone on to form what people now called the Council of Seven. Though he'd never called them that. They'd just been his students: Rendall, Mira, Jorin, Sestus, Althea, Veron, and Lysa. Seven bright minds who'd wanted to learn and hadn't been afraid of hard work.

  He'd been proud of all of them.

  Still was, technically, though all of them had been dead for centuries now.

  For a long time—two centuries, give or take—he'd kept to himself. Studied alone, traveled alone after Eirlys passed. Avoided forming connections that would inevitably end the same way all his other connections had ended.

  But... knowledge had little value if it only stayed with you.

  He'd had time since his last student. Decades upon decades to study things that hadn't existed during the Corruption Wars, to refine techniques he'd developed centuries ago, to explore entirely new branches of magic that the modern era had made possible. Things that could benefit people, that could push civilization forward and make lives safer or more interesting or simply less difficult.

  What was the point of discovering all of it if it disappeared when he did?

  The new era had come this far because people had shared what they knew. Because his students had taught their students, who had taught their students, each generation building on what came before. The Academy itself existed because he'd been willing to teach that first year, and because those seven had carried it forward after he'd left.

  Maybe it was time to stop hiding from the grief of loss and do something useful with the centuries he'd apparently been granted.

  Maybe.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Sael turned away from the portraits, his hands unclasping.

  "Come in," he said.

  The door opened gradually as a figure appeared in the gap. Young, dark-haired, wearing simple clothes. There was something white dusted across the front of his shirt and a bit in his hair as well. Flour, Sael realized after a moment. The boy had been baking.

  Orion stood half in the doorway, half out, one hand still on the frame like he might bolt at any second. His posture was stiff, clearly trying very hard to appear composed.

  "Greetings, my lord," Orion said, his eyes fixed somewhere around Sael's shoulder rather than meeting his gaze directly.

  Sael smiled.

  "Greetings, Orion."

  The boy's shoulders relaxed fractionally at the warmth in Sael's tone, but he still didn't move further into the room. Just stood there in the doorway, one foot inside, one foot out.

  Sael tilted his head slightly, curious.

  "Why are you standing there?" he asked gently. "You can come in."

  Orion shifted his weight. "I—yes, my lord. I just—"

  He took one small step forward. Then stopped. Then another step. Stopped again. His movements were so careful, so measured, that Sael briefly wondered if the boy thought the floor might collapse under him if he moved too quickly.

  Then a hand appeared from outside the doorway and shoved Orion firmly between the shoulder blades.

  "Whoa!"

  Orion stumbled forward several steps, arms windmilling slightly before he caught his balance. He spun around immediately, and a familiar figure filled the doorway.

  "Ilsa!" Orion shouted, indignant.

  Ilsa stood in the entrance with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

  "He's not a dragon," she said flatly. "He's not going to eat you. Just get in there and hear him out."

  "I wasn't—I didn't think he was a dragon—"

  "You were acting like it."

  Orion opened his mouth to protest, realized he had no good argument, and closed it again with a small huff.

  Ilsa's expression softened, and she looked past Orion to meet Sael's eyes.

  "Hello, Grandpa Sael."

  The words hit Sael like a physical thing.

  He blinked, his smile faltering for just a moment as his brain processed what he'd just heard. Ilsa seemed to catch his reaction. Her eyes widened slightly, and then she laughed.

  "My great-aunt calls you that," she said quickly, her smile warm. "And since she's technically my ancestor, I thought that would make me sort of your granddaughter as well. Right?"

  She paused, uncertainty flickering across her face.

  "Is that alright? Grandma Margaret said you'd like it, but if it's too familiar, I can—"

  "No," Sael said, and his smile returned, wider this time. And warmer. "I like it."

  Something in his chest had gone soft and pleasant. He did like it. More than he'd expected to. The name felt right coming from her, like a thread connecting past to present in a way that made both feel more real.

  Ilsa's smile brightened further. "See?" She directed this at Orion, gesturing at Sael. "Not a dragon."

  Orion, still standing in the middle of the office looking vaguely shell-shocked, managed a weak nod.

  Ilsa straightened, her expression shifting back to something more businesslike. "I'll leave you two alone, then. I have some things to attend to anyway."

  She gave Sael one more warm smile, nodded to Orion, and stepped back into the corridor.

  The door closed behind her with a soft click.

  Silence settled over the office.

  Sael and Orion stood facing each other, and the boy still had flour in his hair.

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