The projectiles stopped.

  All of them, bullets and bolts, frozen mid-flight in a dozen perfectly straight lines. They hung there in the air between Sael and the secretary, motionless, like someone had painted them into reality and forgotten to add the part where they kept moving.

  The guards' faces went through several stages of reaction in rapid succession. First came confusion, eyebrows drawing together, heads tilting slightly as their brains tried to process what they were seeing. Then comprehension, that dawning realization that something had interfered with their attack. Then shock, eyes widening as they understood what level of magic would be required to stop that many projectiles simultaneously without so much as a hand gesture.

  The secretary had gone very still where she knelt on the floor, one hand braced against the carpet, the other clutched to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the frozen bullets hanging in the air between them, and her breathing had gone quick and shallow.

  One of the younger guards near the back had gone pale enough that Sael could see it even from this distance. Another guard's mouth had fallen open slightly, his rifle still raised but his grip on it loose enough that it was starting to dip toward the floor.

  For a moment, just a moment, nobody moved.

  ...Then the guards started reloading.

  Sael felt disbelief wash over him.

  It was so profoundly unreasonable that he couldn't quite process it. What were they thinking? That the second volley would somehow work better?

  Several guards had finished reloading now, raising their weapons again with grim determination.

  This was getting ridiculous.

  "[Mass Telekinesis]."

  The weapons moved before anyone could fire. Smooth, irresistible displacement lifted every weapon from their hands simultaneously, floating them upward toward the ceiling in a gentle current. Rifles, crossbows, even the backup pieces strapped to belts, all of them rose out of reach and hung there alongside the frozen projectiles.

  The guards lunged instinctively. One actually jumped, trying to catch his crossbow, and missed by two feet. The young guard who'd gone pale earlier made a sound between a gasp and a whimper, pressing himself flat against the wall.

  "My apologies," Sael said, keeping his voice calm. "That was not meant to frighten anyone further, but I couldn't allow another volley that might have hit your secretary by accident."

  The secretary made a small sound from where she still knelt on the floor.

  Sael looked at the guards' terrified faces and felt himself starting to overthink. He should probably say something. Try to calm them down, explain the situation. Though, when he actually thought about it, their reaction wasn't entirely unreasonable, was it? Unknown mage, destroyed office, casual display of power—that was threatening from their perspective.

  And mages could be quite dangerous. Everyone knew that. So losing your composure when facing one wasn't completely incomprehensible.

  Maybe he should explain about Ilsa. About the assassination attempt. Except they'd have to verify everything anyway and probably wouldn't just take his word for—

  Footsteps.

  Heavy boots on stone, multiple sets of them, moving quickly down the corridor outside. Voices came with them, urgent and overlapping.

  "—heard weapons fire—"

  "—unknown mage, captain said—"

  "—seal the corridor—"

  The guards in the room turned toward the sound, relief and renewed anxiety mixing on their faces.

  The footsteps rounded the corner.

  Four people appeared in the doorway.

  Sael recognized two of them immediately. Young Ilsa came first, her clothes looking distinctly out of place against the Academy's polished stone walls. Behind her was Orion, still wearing that same nervous energy he'd had when Sael had sent them both off to deliver messages.

  Good. They'd found who they were supposed to find.

  The third person was short. Notably short. Sael's eyes did a small double-take because the man's head barely cleared Ilsa's shoulder, and Ilsa wasn't particularly tall herself. His build was stocky though: broad shoulders, thick arms, a barrel chest that strained slightly against dark blue robes that had probably fit better twenty years ago. Dwarven ancestry, clearly. His face was weathered, lined with age, suggesting he'd seen more than his fair share of difficult years. The beard was gray, braided in the traditional dwarven style, and his hands, visible where they emerged from his sleeves, were scarred and calloused.

  Headmaster Koleen Andor, undoubtedly.

  The fourth person made Sael's attention sharpen.

  The man was tall. A head above most people in the room. His build was military: posture from years in armor, spine straight, shoulders back, weight distributed with the automatic balance of someone who'd spent significant time fighting. He wore simple clothes, practical rather than ornamental, dark leather vest over a linen shirt, boots that had seen hard use.

  It was the eyebrows, though, that caught Sael’s attention the most.

  They were thick and dark. Heavy enough to be the first thing you noticed about his face, sitting above gray eyes that were currently scanning the room with careful assessment.

  And most importantly, they looked exactly like Bran's.

  Genetics truly were a fascinating thing.

  The man's gaze swept across the frozen projectiles now hanging near the ceiling, then down to the scattered guards, then finally settled on Sael himself.

  The Duke of Orlys. Richter Eryndor, fourth of his name, if Sael remembered correctly from Ilsa's explanation. Bran's great-great-great—he'd lost count of how many greats, honestly—grandson.

  The guards saw him too.

  Their reaction was immediate. Several of them straightened despite their obvious fear, hands coming up in salutes that were more reflex than thought. The captain took two steps forward, his mouth already opening to deliver what was probably going to be a very frantic report.

  "Your Grace—"

  "Captain." The Duke's voice cut through without being raised. "Stand down. All of you."

  The captain's mouth closed. He stepped back. The other guards followed his lead, though several of them kept glancing nervously between the Duke and Sael like they weren't entirely sure standing down was the safest option.

  The short man—the headmaster—was already moving toward the guards, his stride quick despite his height. His hands gestured as he walked, sharp little movements that suggested he was either very agitated or very focused. Probably both.

  "What happened here?" His voice was rough, gravelly, with the particular timbre that came from decades of shouting at students. "Someone give me a report. Now."

  The guards started talking over each other. The captain's voice rose above the chaos, trying to establish some kind of order, but the younger guards were already explaining about the intruder and the office and the projectiles and the weapons floating and—

  The headmaster's expression was getting progressively more alarmed.

  The guards were clustering around him now, backing toward him like he represented safety, or at least authority they understood. Their voices kept overlapping, fragments of explanation tumbling out in a confused rush.

  Sael's attention shifted.

  The secretary was trying to stand.

  She'd gotten one knee under herself, was pushing up with her hands braced against the carpet, but her arms were shaking. The aftermath of adrenaline, probably. Her body had been flooded with it when the shooting started, and now that the immediate danger had passed, the crash was hitting her all at once.

  She made it halfway upright before her knee buckled slightly.

  Sael stepped forward and extended his hand.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were still wide, still carrying an edge of panic, but when she saw his hand, she reached up and took it.

  Her grip was surprisingly firm despite the trembling. Sael pulled gently, and she rose to her feet.

  "Thank you," she said quietly.

  Her voice was steadier than he'd expected. Still shaky around the edges, but she was getting herself under control. Impressive, really, given what she'd just been through.

  "You're welcome," Sael said.

  He released her hand. She stepped back, smoothing down her skirt, and he saw her shoulders straighten slightly. Pulling herself together. Forcing composure back into place through sheer will.

  Behind him, the headmaster was still interrogating the guards, his voice rising in pitch as they explained about the frozen bullets and the floating weapons.

  The Duke hadn't moved.

  He was still standing several paces away, watching. His expression was calm, controlled, but Sael could see the way his eyes kept tracking between the evidence scattered around the room—the destroyed office visible through the doorway behind Sael, the floating projectiles and weapons, the guards' obvious terror.

  He was assessing, gathering information and deciding how to proceed.

  Then he started walking.

  Each step seemed deliberate, closing the distance between them without rushing. He stopped about three feet away. Close enough to speak without raising his voice. Far enough to maintain formality.

  "Sir," the Duke said.

  His tone was polite. Respectful, even.

  "Richter Eryndor," Sael replied.

  He meant it as a proper greeting between people of different stations who were meeting under less than ideal circumstances. He even inclined his head slightly, the way he remembered doing during formal occasions back when it had mattered to him.

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  The Duke studied him for a moment. Those gray eyes—Bran's eyes, or close enough—were sharp. Missing nothing.

  "My daughter," he said slowly, "told me your name was Sael."

  Sael nodded. "Yes."

  "Sael," the Duke repeated. "As in Sael the Great?"

  There it was.

  The question Sael had been expecting since he'd introduced himself to the guards earlier. The natural skepticism that came when someone claimed to be a person who'd been dead for centuries.

  He could feel the room's attention shifting. The guards' conversation with the headmaster had gone quiet. Everyone was listening now, waiting to hear how he'd answer.

  Sael met the Duke's gaze and nodded again. "Yes."

  The silence that followed felt heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

  Then footsteps approached from behind the Duke. The headmaster pushed through, his shorter stature making him tilt his head back to look up at Sael properly.

  His eyes narrowed.

  "Then aren't you supposed to be dead?"

  The question came out blunt, there was no preamble or politeness. Truly, this was someone who'd lived long enough to stop bothering with social niceties. Which wasn't a bad thing at all.

  Sael looked down at him.

  "Only on the inside," he said.

  The words came out automatically. He'd meant them as a joke, a way to deflect the current tension, maybe get a laugh or at least a smile. Self-deprecating humor worked sometimes.

  The silence stretched.

  And... nobody laughed.

  The guards stared at him. The secretary stared at him. The headmaster's expression didn't change from its suspicious squint. Even Ilsa and Orion, standing near the doorway, had gone very still as the Duke's eyebrows drew together slightly.

  Sael felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

  The joke, sadly, had landed like a stone in deep water. No splash. Just... sinking.

  He really wished he were better at this. At jokes. Eirlys had been good at it. She could make anyone laugh, could diffuse tension with a perfectly timed quip or a warm smile. He'd watched her do it thousands of times, and had marveled at how easy she made it look.

  He'd evidently never quite figured out how she did it.

  Sael was tempted, briefly, to explain it. The nuances, the wordplay, the layered meaning, perhaps they simply hadn't understood. But he thought better of it almost immediately. Explaining a joke made it less funny, that much he knew. And the atmosphere, now that he was embarrassed enough to notice, seemed inadequate for further detour.

  The silence was still going and everyone was still staring.

  Sael cleared his throat.

  He decided to forget about this incident and hoped they would as well. It was time to move on to something more important.

  "I believe young Ilsa has briefed you on the current situation, Richter Eryndor," he said, straightening slightly. His gaze shifted to the headmaster. "And you, Koleen Andor."

  The Duke nodded. "She has."

  "As has Orion," the headmaster said. His voice was still rough, but the suspicion had softened slightly. "Though I'll admit, the report seemed... improbable."

  "Hmm."

  This one was a hmm of relief. They were letting it go. The joke, the awkwardness, the staring—all of it sliding past without further comment. Small mercies.

  "I will not question Sir Mage's identity at this moment," the Duke said. "That is a matter for later. But as I understand it, Aldric has caused considerable trouble recently. Most importantly, there is reason to believe he was involved in experiments involving..." he seemed to hesitate, perhaps not quite believing such a claim, "...Corruption."

  The secretary gasped.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening in what looked like genuine shock. Around the room, the guards reacted more subtly: stiffening postures, exchanged glances, a few hands drifting instinctively toward where their weapons had been before Sael had relieved them of those.

  Sael felt something ease in his chest.

  She really wasn't in on it.

  The secretary's reaction was too immediate, too unguarded to be feigned. And that was good. Very good, actually. People closest to someone engaged in dangerous magical research tended to know about it, either through direct involvement or through the sort of gradual exposure that came from working in close proximity.

  If she didn't know, if even she had been kept in the dark, then perhaps this wasn't actually a problem involving Corruption after all.

  Sael hoped so, anyway.

  Corruption spread. It infected people who spent too much time near it, wormed its way into minds and bodies. A secretary working daily in an office where Corruption experiments were being conducted should have shown signs by now. Behavioral changes, physical symptoms, something.

  She seemed clean.

  Still, Sael couldn't quite let himself be at ease.

  "I believe the children told you about my request?" he said.

  The Duke and the headmaster looked at each other.

  The glance lasted only a moment, but Sael caught the silent communication passing between them. They weren't sure about his identity. That much was clear from the careful way they were measuring their words, the formality they maintained. But they also knew he was powerful enough that making an enemy of him would be unwise. Better to deal with civility, extend cooperation, and verify his claims later when the immediate situation was resolved.

  It was rational, really. Practical. Exactly what Sael would have done in their position.

  The Duke turned back to him. "The situation seems severe enough to warrant your request. The evidence that assassins were hired has been testified to by the foxkin, and my daughter's account corroborates the danger she faced."

  "Excellent," Sael said.

  His gaze drifted to the secretary, and he remembered something. He reached into his coat and withdrew the Correspondence Parchment used between the professor and the assassins, unfolding it carefully as he stepped closer to her.

  "Excuse me," he said, extending the parchment toward her politely. "Could you confirm whether any of the handwriting here resembles Professor Aldric Eryndor's?"

  The secretary blinked, then took the parchment with slightly trembling fingers. Her eyes scanned the surface, reading the contents. Her expression shifted: surprise, then confusion, then something that might have been dismay.

  "This..." she said softly. "Yes. This section here." Her finger indicated one of the message exchanges. "That's his handwriting. I'm certain of it."

  Sael nodded and took the parchment back, folding it carefully and returning it to his coat.

  The Duke was quiet for a moment. His expression had grown more serious, those heavy eyebrows drawing together slightly.

  "If what you said is true," he said finally. "If you have reason to believe Aldric is involved in something..."

  "Corruption," Sael said.

  "Corruption." The Duke's tone suggested he didn't quite believe it was Corruption. Not yet, anyway. But he continued without challenging the claim. "Then I will not oppose your request."

  Sael inclined his head. "Shall we go, then?"

  ***

  The Great Hall of the Eryndor Academy was packed.

  Sael stood near the entrance, taking in the scene with growing discomfort. This was... a lot of people. More people than he'd dealt with in one place since, well, since he'd left for his cloud, really.

  The hall itself was impressive. Vaulted ceilings that stretched up into shadows, supported by carved stone pillars that depicted historical battles and magical achievements. Stained glass windows cast colored light across the assembled crowd, telling stories in brilliant hues: the founding of House Eryndor, ancient battles, dragons in the sky.

  One window caught Sael's attention. Ten figures standing in a circle, backs to each other, surrounded by writhing darkness. Each was distinct, Bran with his sword Caliburn raised high, and there in the center, Sael holding a staff that could only be Eld, magic spiraling outward in swirling blues and silvers.

  The Ten Heroes of Pointbreak. The final battle.

  The artist had captured surprising details, Bran's two-handed grip, the distinctive shape of Eld's headpiece, even the way Sael always held his left hand higher when casting barriers. They'd made him taller than he actually was, though, and given him better posture than he'd managed by that point in the fight.

  Wooden benches were arranged in two sections: one for the academy professors, one for members of the Eryndor family who'd been summoned on short notice.

  And every single person was talking.

  It wasn't in quiet conversation, either. Loud, agitated voices bouncing off the stone walls, creating a din that made Sael want to find the nearest exit and simply... leave. Just walk out. Let them figure this out themselves.

  But that wouldn't be responsible.

  He'd made a request. A simple request, he'd thought. He'd asked Duke Eryndor to gather everyone who might have been in contact with Professor Aldric. Anyone who could have been an accomplice, or who might know something about what the man had been planning.

  The assassination attempt had been bad enough. But if Aldric was involved with Corruption, then he wouldn't be working alone. Corruption wasn't something you just stumbled into by accident. It required knowledge, resources, contacts. It required other people.

  Which meant allies.

  And those allies would need to be identified before they could do any more damage.

  So. Simple request. Gather the suspects.

  What he hadn't anticipated was that "gathering the suspects" would result in approximately two hundred people crammed into one hall, all of them shouting at once.

  Professors were arguing with each other. Family members were demanding explanations. Someone was crying. Several people were shouting about conspiracies and political witch hunts and baseless accusations.

  Sael stood very still near the door and wished, not for the first time today, that he'd stayed on his cloud.

  "Bit overwhelming, isn't it?"

  Ilsa appeared at his elbow. She looked tired but composed.

  "Yes," Sael said.

  "Father will get them under control. He's good at that."

  "I hope so."

  They stood together in silence for a moment, watching the chaos.

  "Thank you," Ilsa said quietly. "For helping with all this. I know you didn't have to."

  Sael glanced at her. "You're welcome."

  "I mean it. Most people wouldn't have gotten involved. They'd have just... left it for someone else to deal with."

  He considered that. "I've already been involved since I helped you with the dragon. Leaving now would be like... starting to build a house and then abandoning it halfway through."

  "That's a very practical way of looking at it."

  "I like to think I am a practical person."

  Ilsa smiled slightly. "Are you?"

  Before Sael could respond—and honestly, he wasn't sure how he would have responded—Duke Eryndor stepped up to the podium at the front of the hall.

  He didn't speak immediately. Just stood there, one hand resting on his sword hilt, his presence somehow cutting through the noise more effectively than any shout could have.

  The effect was immediate.

  Conversations faltered. Voices dropped. Within seconds, the hall had gone from deafening chaos to tense silence.

  Richter's gaze swept across the assembly. His expression was carved from stone.

  "Sit. Down."

  It wasn't a request. People sat.

  The movement was almost synchronized, two hundred bodies settling onto benches, some reluctantly, others with visible relief at having an excuse to stop standing.

  Richter waited until everyone was settled before continuing.

  "We are here," he said, his voice carrying easily through the vaulted space, "because of events that occurred earlier today. Events that suggest criminal activity, conspiracy, and possibly something far worse than simple criminality."

  He paused.

  "You have all been summoned because you had contact with Professor Aldric Eryndor. Either through your work at this academy, or through family connections, or through social and political relationships. Some of you are here because you worked directly with him on research projects. Others because you corresponded with him regularly. And some because you were simply in his social circle."

  A murmur went through the crowd. Richter silenced it with a look.

  "I am going to be very clear about something," he continued. "This is not a social gathering. This is not a debate. You are not here to defend anyone or to argue about politics or family honor. You are here because we need to determine if Aldric had accomplices. If he shared his plans with anyone. If anyone in this room aided him in any way, knowingly or unknowingly, in the events that led to an assassination attempt on my daughter."

  The silence that followed that statement was absolute.

  "To assist with this investigation," Richter said, "I have invited an expert. Someone with knowledge and experience that will be invaluable in determining the truth of what happened, and whether there are any... lingering complications that need to be addressed."

  He gestured toward the entrance.

  "Sir Sael. If you would join me."

  Every head in the hall turned.

  Sael stood frozen near the door.

  Oh no.

  He'd known he'd have to speak. Obviously he'd known that. But he'd thought maybe he could just... do the scanning quietly. Check people one by one without having to make some kind of grand entrance or speech or—

  Ilsa gave him a gentle push.

  Right. Moving. He should move.

  Sael walked toward the podium.

  His boots echoed on the stone floor. Two hundred pairs of eyes tracked his progress. The silence was so complete he could hear his own breathing.

  This was terrible.

  He'd fought dragons. Corrupted generals. The Corrupted One himself. He'd stood against armies and never felt this level of discomfort.

  But those had been situations where he could just... act. Fight. Do something physical and immediate.

  This was different.

  This required talking to people while they all stared at him.

  He reached the podium.

  Richter stepped back slightly, giving Sael the floor.

  Sael looked out at the assembled crowd.

  Some seemed curious, others suspicious and some openly hostile. A few looked genuinely terrified, though whether that was because of the situation or because of him specifically, he couldn't tell.

  He should say something.

  Something commanding and professional. The kind of thing that would establish authority and credibility and make everyone take this seriously.

  "Hello," Sael said.

  That was... not commanding.

  He cleared his throat. Tried again.

  "I'm Sael."

  Still not great.

  A few people were exchanging confused glances now. Someone in the back row whispered something to their neighbor.

  "I... appreciate you all coming on short notice," Sael continued, desperately trying to remember how normal people did introductions. "I know this is probably very disruptive to your day. Your... schedules. And such."

  Hmm. 'And such.' Really?

  He resisted the urge to grab his pipe for emotional support.

  "The reason I asked Duke Eryndor to gather you is because we need to investigate Professor Aldric's activities. Specifically, whether he had help. Accomplices. People who knew what he was planning, or who assisted him in any way."

  Better. That sounded more official.

  "There are some concerning elements to this situation that go beyond simple criminal activity. Things that need to be verified before we can determine the full scope of what we're dealing with."

  He paused, trying to gauge the crowd's reaction.

  Mostly confusion. A few people still looked hostile. One elderly professor in the front row appeared to be asleep, which was a bit rude, considering he was doing his best to convey an important message.

  "To that end," Sael continued, "I'm going to need to examine each of you. It's a simple magical scan. Non-invasive. Won't hurt. Just... need to check something."

  The murmuring started again.

  Richter stepped forward. "Before we proceed with examinations, I believe it would be helpful for everyone to understand exactly what led to this assembly. Ilsa?"

  Ilsa stood from where she'd been sitting near the front.

  She walked to the podium with far more grace and confidence than Sael had managed. He stepped aside gratefully, relieved to no longer be the center of attention.

  "Thank you, Father," Ilsa said. Then she turned to address the crowd.

  And she began.