"Hmm."

  And this was a hmm of assessment made as Sael's gaze swept across the courtyard, taking in the scene.

  Two factions. Weapons drawn. Magic prepared. The Duke with his sword raised, mid-strike, frozen in the moment before violence would have erupted.

  And now, all of them staring at him.

  Some of the faces showed fear. Others showed confusion. A few—particularly among the group opposing the Duke—showed something else entirely. Calculation. Hostility. The particular expression people wore when they were deciding whether to attack.

  Several of those in the opposing faction had shifted their stances slightly. Subtle movements. Feet repositioning for better leverage. Hands adjusting grips on weapons. One mage's fingers were already glowing with preparatory magic, the light barely visible but unmistakably present.

  They were considering attacking him.

  Sael didn't announce himself.

  He didn't raise his voice or make any grand proclamation. He simply raised one hand, fingers spreading in a gesture that looked almost casual, and spoke a single word.

  "[Gravitational Anchor]."

  The spell didn't make a sound. Just a subtle ripple in the air above the opposing faction, like heat shimmer on a summer road, and then—

  They all fell.

  Twenty-three people hit the courtyard stones in perfect unison. The impact was immediate and absolute. Bodies slammed down with enough force to crack flagstones. Weapons clattered from nerveless fingers. Someone's sword skittered across the ground and came to rest against a bench.

  They couldn't move. Some tried, Sael could see the strain in their faces, the trembling in their limbs as they fought against the weight pressing down on them. But it was futile. The spell had increased local gravity by a factor of eight, maybe nine. Enough that even standing would require strength most of them simply didn't have.

  A few of the stronger ones managed to lift their heads. Barely. Their faces were pressed against the stone, cheeks flattened, eyes bulging slightly with effort and what was probably terror.

  The grass around them was flattened too, pressed into the earth like it had been stomped on by something massive. Small stones had sunk into the soil. One man's belt buckle had bent under the pressure, the metal creaking audibly.

  The man named Robb was near the front of the group. His mouth was open, trying to form words, but all that came out was a strained wheeze.

  Professor Veric looked worse. The man was flat on his stomach, one arm pinned beneath him at an angle that would probably hurt later. His face had gone red, then purple, veins standing out on his forehead as he struggled just to breathe against the weight.

  One of the guards—a younger man Sael didn't recognize—was making a high, thin sound in the back of his throat. Not quite a scream. More like the noise someone made when their lungs couldn't expand enough to scream properly.

  Sael stood at the edge of the effect radius, perfectly still, then he lowered his hand and stepped forward, dragging the unconscious form of Professor Carth with him. The man's body scraped across the stones, leaving a faint trail. Sael dropped him without ceremony in the space between the two factions—the no-man's-land that had formed when violence seemed imminent.

  Carth didn't move or twitch. Sael looked at him for a moment, then looked up at the assembled crowd.

  His gaze swept across Richter's side first, then across the prone forms of the opposition, still pinned to the ground and struggling to breathe.

  "I looked at his memories," Sael said quietly.

  His voice wasn't loud, but he made sure it carried with perfect clarity across the courtyard.

  He didn't particularly care how any of them perceived him anymore. The anxiety that usually gnawed at him when speaking in front of crowds—the constant mental calculus of how his words might be received, what people might think—was simply absent. He'd calmed down considerably since the initial confrontation, but that calm hadn't brought back his usual social anxiety. If anything, it had burned it away. Sael had no sympathy left for these people. Not enough to waste energy worrying about their opinions of him, at the very least. Which was, in a sense, quite liberating.

  He pointed at Carth.

  "Professor Carth. Former head of Advanced Magical Theory. Currently Corrupted." He paused, as if considering his words. "The memories were... extensive. Detailed. He kept very thorough mental records of his activities, which is helpful. It made identifying his allies easier."

  Sael's hand moved, gesturing toward the people pinned to the ground.

  "Most of you were in those memories. Fellow Corrupted. People who heard the whispers and said yes. People who were offered their heart's desire and accepted." They disgusted him thoroughly. "I have a reasonably clear picture of the current situation."

  He was quiet for a moment, studying them.

  "I would recommend that you don't resist what comes next. It will be easier for everyone involved."

  He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes had snagged on something. Someone. Two figures near the back of the pinned group, pressed to the ground like all the others but—

  Sael's head tilted slightly.

  He stared at them for a long moment.

  Then his expression shifted into something that might have been confusion, or possibly consternation, or maybe just profound bewilderment.

  "Wait," he said slowly.

  He walked forward a few steps, careful not to step on anyone—he held them in contempt, certainly, but there was no need to be rude about it—until he had a clearer view of the two figures in question.

  A professor: middle-aged, balding, wearing blue robes. And beside him, a guard. Young. Maybe early twenties. Red-faced and gasping under the increased gravity but otherwise unremarkable.

  Sael stared at them.

  "You weren't in the memories," he said.

  Neither of them could respond, obviously. They were both too busy trying to breathe.

  "I went through all of them," Sael continued, more to himself now than to anyone else. "Every interaction Carth recorded. Every meeting, every conversation, every ally he made. I cross-referenced them. Checked for patterns. Made sure I had a complete picture of his network."

  He paused.

  "You're not in that network."

  The professor made a strangled sound that might have been an attempt at speech.

  Sael ignored it, his brow furrowing as he continued to think out loud.

  "Which means—"

  He reached down and touched the professor's shoulder.

  The man flinched violently, or tried to. The movement was more of a full-body twitch, accompanied by a strangled grunt of panic. His eyes went wide, whites showing all around the irises.

  "[Analyse]," Sael said quietly.

  Nothing. He was clean.

  He moved to the guard, who passed gas audibly when Sael's hand touched his back.

  "Goodness," Sael said mildly.

  The guard's face, already red from exertion, somehow managed to turn a deeper shade of red. Even through the strain of breathing under the increased gravity, embarrassment was clearly visible in his expression.

  There was really no need for that, Sael thought. It was a perfectly normal bodily reaction given the circumstances—extreme stress, compression of the internal organs, fear. Perfectly understandable. Though admittedly, the timing and context were rather unfortunate.

  "[Analyse]."

  Same result. No Corruption. No whispers accepted, no bargains made. Just a normal person, terrified and pinned to the ground, who had just disgraced himself in front of roughly fifty witnesses.

  Sael straightened, processing.

  "You two are not Corrupted," he said, almost to himself. "But if you're not Corrupted, then why were you standing with this group? You saw the Duke draw his sword. You saw the factions forming. You understood that one side was accused of Corruption and the other was... not that."

  There was a beat of silence.

  "Are you perhaps stupid?"

  The question came out with complete sincerity. No malice or mockery. Just genuine confusion, like Sael was trying to solve a puzzle and had arrived at the only logical conclusion he could think of.

  Sael looked down at the two of them, curiosity flickering through his thoughts. Why had they done it? What reasoning could possibly be given here?

  But this was wasting time.

  He was standing in the middle of a courtyard with twenty-three people pinned to the ground, most of them Corrupted, with the Duke of Orlys behind him holding a drawn sword and roughly fifty witnesses watching everything unfold. This was a crucial moment. A delicate situation that required focus and efficiency.

  He could satisfy his curiosity later.

  Sael turned back toward the Duke.

  "Richter Eryndor."

  The Duke had lowered his sword at some point—probably around the moment twenty-three people had been flattened into the courtyard stones—but he still held it. His knuckles were white around the grip.

  He looked at Sael for a long moment, visibly choosing his words.

  "Yes," he said finally. Carefully.

  "I'm glad you weren't Corrupted."

  There was a beat of silence.

  Richter blinked. His expression shifted through several configurations before settling on something that Sael decided to interpret as confusion mixed with wary appreciation.

  "I... thank you?"

  It came out like a question. Like he wasn't entirely sure that was the correct response to whatever was happening right now.

  Behind him, Headmaster Koleen stood very still. The dwarven ancestry showed in the set of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. The woman with short-cropped hair—Ophelia, if Sael remembered correctly—had her eyes fixed on Sael with an intensity he had a hard time to interpret. So he decided to not do so.

  The entire courtyard was quiet. Watching.

  Sael nodded, satisfied with this exchange.

  It had felt important to say. The Duke of Orlys was a direct descendant of Bran. The same bloodline. The same house. And Bran had been... well. Bran had been Bran. Strong. Incorruptible. The kind of person who would have cut down anyone who whispered promises in his ear without a moment's hesitation.

  Sael had wanted to express his satisfaction that this Eryndor had followed that same path. That he hadn't succumbed. That some things, apparently, could be inherited beyond just a name and a title.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He probably wouldn't have said it normally. The overthinking would have stopped him—the worry about how it might be perceived, whether it was appropriate, what people would think. But right now, in this moment, he simply didn't care about any of that. He felt the satisfaction, so he expressed it.

  Perhaps this was the secret to happiness, Sael thought. Not caring what others might think.

  After all, whatever you did in life, if you died, it amounted to nothing in the end. Those who hadn't liked you wouldn't suddenly love you. Those who had loved you couldn't save you. Their opinions, positive or negative, would be completely irrelevant to your corpse. Might as well live the way you wanted while you still could. Within the law, of course.

  In his case, the dying part was somewhat less applicable, he'd be around to experience the long-term social consequences of his actions for quite some time. Possibly centuries. Which did complicate the philosophy somewhat, but the core principle still seemed sound.

  It wasn't the first time he'd arrived at this conclusion. It happened occasionally, usually after he'd experienced some intense emotion that burned away the usual layers of social calculation. In those moments, he'd think: ah, yes, this is it. This is how people manage to exist in the world without constant anxiety.

  And then, inevitably, the emotion would fade and he'd return to his normal state of perpetual worry.

  He decided to properly consider it later. Perhaps even apply it, though that would be difficult. It went against his very nature to not care.

  But for now, there were more pressing matters.

  "The people who have been Corrupted can be saved," Sael said, addressing the crowd now.

  No one had asked, he noted, but he said it anyway, since it was important to know.

  "Their minds aren't completely gone," he continued. "The Corruption is... intrusive. Parasitic. But it hasn't fully consumed them yet. It will take time to remove it safely. Weeks, possibly months depending on how deeply it's rooted. But it can be done."

  He paused, looking down at the struggling forms.

  "In the meantime."

  Sael began walking.

  He moved methodically through the pinned group, stepping carefully between bodies. He crouched beside the first mage; a woman in green robes whose face was pressed sideways against the stones, one eye visible and wide with terror.

  He placed his hand on her back.

  [Seal].

  The mana core sealing spell took effect immediately. The woman jerked, or tried to. Under the increased gravity, it was more of a full-body spasm. Her eye went wider, if that was possible, and a strangled sound escaped her throat.

  Sael moved to the next one.

  Professor Veric. The man's purple face had gone nearly gray now, veins still standing out on his forehead. When Sael's hand touched his chest, Veric made a sound like a wounded animal.

  [Seal].

  Another spasm. Veric's visible eye rolled back slightly.

  Sael continued.

  One by one, he went through the mages in the group. Some whimpered. Some tried to beg, but the pressure on their chests made speech nearly impossible, only fragments came out. Gasped syllables. Broken pleas.

  He sealed them all.

  The man named Robb. Three other professors whose names Sael didn't know. A guard who'd apparently learned some combat magic. Another. Another.

  When he reached the last one, he straightened and looked back at the group as a whole.

  Then he released the spell.

  The screaming started immediately.

  Not all of them screamed. Some didn't have the breath for it. But enough did that the sound filled the courtyard, raw and ragged and desperate. Bodies convulsed as blood flow suddenly normalized, as compressed organs expanded, as muscles that had been fighting impossible weight went slack.

  Two of them fainted outright. Just collapsed into unconsciousness, their bodies finally giving up.

  The others—

  "Please—"

  "I can't—"

  "—didn't mean—"

  "—mercy—"

  "SILENCE."

  The word wasn't loud. Not in volume, at least. But it resonated somehow, carrying weight that had nothing to do with sound. It pressed against the air itself, against the stones, and against the people listening.

  But Sael had filled it with mana, amplifying it, making it deeper, causing it to reverberate like sound in a vast cave. It pressed against the air itself, against the stones, against the people listening.

  The courtyard went quiet.

  Sael stood in the middle of the prone group, looking down at them.

  He was still angry.

  These people had whispered yes to Corruption. They'd accepted it. Welcomed it. And the outcome of this situation, for them, was not death. He considered that to be quite enough mercy.

  A sound pulled his attention. First a crack, then a rumble.

  Sael turned.

  A section of the Great Hall's wall—the part he'd... damaged... during his earlier confrontation with Carth—was listing. The stones had held together this long through sheer structural stubbornness, but gravity and physics were patient forces.

  The wall fell.

  It collapsed inward with a sound like thunder, stones tumbling and smashing, dust billowing outward in a great cloud. One of the ornate windows shattered. A piece of the roof sagged where a support had given way.

  The crash echoed across the courtyard, then faded into settling debris and the tinkle of falling glass.

  Sael stared at the destruction.

  He'd been... somewhat excessive during the fight.

  The Great Hall of House Eryndor, later given to the Astra Academy, had been built by Bran in the first year of his dukedom. Sael remembered watching the construction. Bran had been so proud of it. He'd personally overseen the placement of the cornerstone, had consulted with the architects about every detail.

  "That will stand for centuries," Bran had said, grinning in that way he did when he was particularly pleased with something. "Long after we're dust, that hall will still be standing."

  Sael looked at the collapsed wall, at the sagging roof, at the shattered window.

  Well.

  That was unfortunate.

  He should probably fix it.

  Richter's voice cut through the silence.

  "Guards. Arrest them. All of them."

  He gestured toward the people on the ground, some still gasping, others unconscious, a few whimpering. "Separate cells. No contact between prisoners. And someone find proper restraints for the mages; their cores are sealed, but I want triple redundancy."

  The guards moved quickly. They'd been waiting for orders, and now that they had them, the training took over. Boots on grass. The clink of manacles. Low voices coordinating.

  Sael didn't watch. He was already walking.

  He moved past the prone forms, past the guards beginning their work, past the Duke and Headmaster Koleen and the woman named Ophelia. He walked toward the Great Hall.

  Or what remained of it.

  The collapsed wall looked worse up close. The section that had fallen inward had taken part of the roof with it, and the structural damage extended further than he'd initially thought. Cracks spider-webbed across the remaining stonework. One of the support columns had a visible tilt to it.

  Sael stopped at the edge of the debris field and looked up at the damage.

  Behind him, he was aware of people following. Not all of them—some of the guards were occupied with the prisoners—but enough. The Duke. Koleen. Several others whose footsteps he could hear on the courtyard stones.

  They stopped a respectful distance away. Watching.

  Sael studied the wreckage. He didn't remember every exact detail, it had been centuries, and even his memory wasn't perfect. But he'd been there when this hall was built. Had watched the foundation being laid. He knew how it fit together. The logic of load-bearing walls, the pattern of roof beams, the way dressed stone should sit in courses. The general impressions were enough. [Greater Arrangement] would handle the rest, the spell worked with both memory and structural logic, filling in gaps based on how matter should be arranged.

  He crouched and picked up a piece of rubble. A chunk of dressed stone, about the size of his fist. Part of the wall, he thought. Third course from the bottom, eastern section.

  He turned it over in his hand, examining it.

  "[Greater Arrangement]."

  The mana flowed out of him, a steady, significant drain. The spell was expensive. A bit more than it would cost to simply conjure a new stone. But this wasn't a new stone. This was Bran's stone, from Bran's hall, and Sael was going to put it back the way it had been.

  The chunk began to change.

  The broken edges smoothed. The cracks sealed. Pulverized sections reconstituted themselves, matter rearranging at the molecular level as the spell reached into the fundamental structure and reshaped it. The stone grew, filling out to its original dimensions, the rough texture of freshly quarried limestone giving way to the smooth, weathered surface it had possessed before being smashed to pieces.

  Sael stood and walked over to the damaged wall. He placed the stone in its proper position: third course, eastern section, exactly where it belonged.

  It settled into place with a quiet click.

  He turned back to the debris. Now confident about the arrangements, Sael raised both hands.

  "[Greater Arrangement]."

  The mana flowed out and this time, it targeted everything. Every fragment of stone, every splinter of wood, every shard of glass within the damaged section. All at once.

  It started with the smallest pieces. Dust and fragments lifting from the ground, glowing faintly as the spell took hold. Then larger chunks. Stones rolled, shifted, rose into the air. Splintered beams straightened, the wood grain flowing like water as cracks sealed and reformed. Shattered glass merged, becoming whole panes again.

  And then they began to move into position. Stones clicked into place in the wall—third course, fourth course, fifth—building upward as if construction was happening at impossible speed. The spell arranged them according to Sael's structural logic, each piece finding its proper place in the load-bearing pattern. Beams slotted into their supports. Tiles arranged themselves in perfect rows across the reforming roof.

  It looked like the building was reconstructing itself backward through time.

  Behind Sael, someone made a choked sound. And by now, he could hear more footsteps approaching. Running. Students from the academy, probably, drawn by the light and the sound of grinding stone. Professors. Staff. etc.

  He didn't turn to look. He maintained his focus on the spell, on the logical reconstruction of how the Great Hall should fit together.

  The final pieces slotted into place. The keystone at the top of the eastern arch. The last few roof tiles. A decorative finial, he remembered Bran had commissioned one from somewhere, though he couldn't recall the exact design.

  Everything settled with a series of quiet clicks.

  The glow faded.

  Sael lowered his hands.

  The Great Hall stood before them, completely restored. Every stone hopefully in position. Every beam straight. Every window intact. It looked exactly as it had, or close enough that any differences would be invisible to anyone who hadn't memorized the original.

  Behind him, the silence was absolute.

  Then he heard more footsteps, many more. The crowd was growing. Students, professors, guards. All of them stopping to stare at the impossible thing they'd just witnessed.

  They were talking about time manipulation.

  Time manipulation was impossible. He'd tried, many times over the centuries. Had researched it, experimented with it, pushed magic to its absolute limits trying to bend time itself. It couldn't be done. Time, death and true creation were the three things magic couldn't touch.

  But [Greater Arrangement] didn't manipulate time. It just... made it look that way.

  He turned and found the crowd had grown substantially. Dozens of people now, all staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to awe to something approaching fear.

  The Duke stood at the front, his sword forgotten in his hand, his eyes fixed on the restored hall with an intensity that suggested he was trying to process what he'd just seen.

  Koleen's weathered face had gone pale. The old Headmaster stood frozen, staring.

  Then the whispers started.

  "By the One God—"

  "Who is he?"

  Sael cleared his throat quietly. That was a lot of people, all things considered. What was I thinking...

  "There," he said. "That's better."

  The crowd shifted, murmuring growing louder. People craning to see better. Students asking questions their professors couldn't answer. Guards exchanging uncertain glances.

  Then Sael noticed movement at the back of the crowd.

  People were stepping aside. He could hear a voice, elderly but clear, speaking gently.

  "Excuse me, dear. Yes, thank you. Just... if you could make a bit of space..."

  The crowd separated further. Two women in servant's dress were helping guide someone forward: an old woman, moving slowly with a cane. She was small, her back curved with age, dressed simply but well. Her hair was white, bound in a neat braid. Her eyes were milky with cataracts, clearly blind.

  But... there was something about her face.

  Sael found himself squinting without quite knowing why. The features were familiar in a way that made his chest tighten uncomfortably. People who looked familiar to him were rare enough to be an event.

  "Just a little further, my lady," one of the maids said softly.

  The Duke turned at the commotion. His expression shifted immediately; surprise, then something like concern. He crossed to her in three quick strides, sheathing his sword.

  "Grandmother," he said, offering his arm. "You shouldn't be out here. The courtyard is—"

  "Is where something extraordinary just happened, from what I'm told," the old woman said mildly. Her voice was steady despite her age, with an underlying strength that belied her frail appearance. "I may be blind, Your Grace, but I'm not deaf. Half the manor is talking about it."

  "Still, you should be resting—"

  "I've been resting for years," she said with a touch of asperity. "Now be a dear and take me to him."

  Something in Sael's chest clenched. His heart was beating harder than it should have been. Faster.

  The Duke looked uncertain but offered his arm properly. "Of course. This way."

  They crossed the courtyard slowly, the old woman's cane tapping against the ground. The crowd parted further, students and professors stepping back respectfully. One of the maids stayed close, hovering protectively.

  Sael stood very still as they approached.

  The woman was small. Very small. The top of her head would barely reach his chest. Her face was deeply lined, her hands spotted with age as they gripped both the cane and the Duke's arm. And yet... there was something in the set of her jaw, the shape of her cheekbones...

  The Duke stopped a few feet away. "Grandmother, this is..." He hesitated. Then something shifted in his face. He nodded, almost to himself, and when he spoke again his voice was firmer. "This is Sael."

  The old woman smiled faintly. "That's quite alright, Your Grace." She turned her face toward Sael, those milky eyes directed at him with uncanny accuracy. "Good afternoon, sir mage."

  Sael found his voice. It came out rougher than he'd intended. "Good afternoon."

  "I was told a young man had come back from Gatsby with Ilsa, my great-granddaughter," she said. Her blind gaze remained fixed on him. "Would that be you?"

  "Yes," Sael said quietly. "That would be me."

  The old woman's smile widened slightly. "Your voice..." she murmured.

  She took a step forward, releasing the Duke's arm. The cane tapped twice. Three times. She was very close now, barely an arm's length away.

  Sael didn't move. She was so small. Tiny, really. The years had shrunk her.

  She looked up at him—or where she sensed him to be. "Forgive me, but... may I touch your face?"

  Sael blinked. "That is quite an odd request."

  "I know," she said gently. "But I'm blind, you see. It's how I know people now." A pause. "May I?"

  "...Yes."

  "Thank you."

  Sael lowered himself slightly, bending so she could reach. The old woman raised one trembling hand, her fingers finding his jaw first, then moving upward with surprising gentleness. She traced his cheekbones, his brow, the bridge of his nose. Her touch was feather-light.

  She murmured something under her breath—'Still so young...', Sael heard— as her fingers moved to his temples, his hairline. They trembled slightly.

  Then her hands stilled. She traced the line of his jaw again, more carefully this time. Her fingers moved to the corners of his eyes, the shape of his ears.

  Her breathing had changed. Shallow and uneven.

  "Are you alright, old one?" Sael asked quietly.

  The old woman made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. Her hands were shaking more noticeably now, still pressed against his face.

  "What's wrong?" Sael said.

  Her fingers traced his cheekbones one more time. When she spoke, her voice cracked.

  "Do you not recognize me, Grandpa Sael?"

  Sael's heart stopped. Then started again, too fast, too hard. The ground beneath them trembled, just slightly, a vibration that ran through the courtyard stones.

  "Sir—" The Duke took a step forward, concern flashing across his face. "Please, control yourself. The ground—"

  Sael barely heard him. He was staring at the old woman's face, his mind racing backward through decades, through the fog of years and faded memories.

  Only one person called him that.

  The shape of her eyes. The stubborn set of her chin. The way her smile curved slightly higher on the left side. It made sense now. It made so much sense!

  He knew that smile.

  He'd seen it on a little girl who'd followed him around, who'd sat on his knee and demanded stories about magic, who'd cry whenever he'd leave, making him promise to come back.

  The last time he'd seen her, she'd been twenty years old. A young woman, eager and bright-eyed, about to leave on an expedition to the Fey realm. He'd warned her it was dangerous. She'd laughed and told him not to worry so much.

  He'd been in the far north when the news reached him. Dead, they'd said. Lost in the Fey realm with her entire party.

  That had been centuries ago.

  "Little Margaret?"

  Fun fact: When I was developing the concept of Corruption for this story, I drew inspiration from the temptation of the One Ring in The Lord of the Rings. For the actual voice of the Corruption, I had a different reference in mind. If you have seen the movie The Witch with Anya Taylor Joy, the tone of Black Phillip during the scene where he tempts her is almost exactly how Corruption is meant to sound when it speaks to someone. If you are curious, look up “Black Phillip speaks” on YouTube and you will get the idea immediately.