As countless mythical spells were being readied around him, Billy relaxed back into his chair. He sat surrounded by a power he hates — the power that runs through his veins with such purity that no one he knows comes close to rivaling it — and his smile felt different. He could feel the whisper of desire, the animalistic bloodlust running through him, making him wonder for a moment whether there was any truth to all the racist bullshit he'd heard as a kid. But he brushed it off. He's just full of energy. That's no reason to be cruel.

  He stands, eyes wide, grinning at his own joke.

  Yet a small bead of sweat falls on his forehead. That situation could kill even him — but he doesn't flinch. His smile only widens as Jack calls them off.

  "Like always — all talk, no action. Even surrounded by all this power. Old man... or maybe I should call you old mouse. You know, that bloodline would've suited you far better." It wasn't his best joke, but he broke into a small laugh at it all the same.

  "Says the fox who ran from his cause chasing a noble girl like a lovesick dog." Jack retorted, his voice bleeding venom. Blood covered the table, spots of black ink forming like swamps through the red, as if ready to jump.

  "So you're all fine with your great patriarch selling you out?"

  The crowd's animosity dwindled, replaced by shock.

  "Nonsense. You left us when we needed you — when the cause needed you — and now you come here to complain when paradise is in ashes." Jack stopped for a moment, as if collecting himself.

  "Do you have any idea how diff—" he caught himself. "No, it's you I'm talking to. Of course you do." Jack finished the sentence with a hard glare at Billy, who received it with a colorful smile.

  Voices behind him began rising. They blended together, filled with aggression, the air growing thick and suffocating under the weight of their stares.

  They all said the same thing — *"You left us. How would you know?"* — again and again, like a tide pulling at the same shore.

  "Oh, I don't know." He laughs a little. "No — I *fucking* know how it feels. To be born when it's all over. To live after everything has already been decided. To read history books, dwelling on where it all went wrong, and to come out among those who read and aren't delusional. How does it feel? You tell me I don't know — yet here you are with a bunch of delusional people, dwelling on a past that barely existed, calling draws from a long-forgotten era victories to be proud of. Meanwhile, those who once caused the torment look back on that era with sadness and disgust — not pride, like the pathetic followers I'm looking at." He turns and shouts at the crowd behind him. They scoff, unbothered — the insult of a traitor means nothing to them.

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  "If you want something real — stop being delusional and do something instead of waiting for a chance that won't come. It's already over. So either die for something impossible, or accept the fucking reality." There was something in Billy's words this time — some weight behind them — and for just a moment, his smile fades.

  "Look at old man Jack — he got it right. He accepted his bargain. The only one that was ever realistic."

  Billy moved to leave. Some tried to stop him, but Jack gestured for them to stand down, clutching his injured hand, a deep frown carved into his face.

  ---

  As he stepped outside he pulled the black robe back on and looked up at the sky.

  "One last thing before I regroup with Lucy," he whispered to himself, and started moving again.

  His throat was sore. His eyes were dry. His legs were heavy. But more than any of that, his stomach felt bloated — like something was lodged in his chest that wouldn't shift. He took a slow breath and tried to steady himself, pressing a hand to a nearby pillar, doing his best not to be sick.

  *It's over*, he told himself, and left the bar district behind.

  It didn't take long before the streets began to look better. He was moving faster now, as though running out of time.

  He changed into his finer clothes and stopped in front of the academy.

  It sat between a butcher's shop and a boarded-up storefront — three storeys of dark stone gone nearly black from years of chimney smoke. No sign above the door. No gate. Just a low iron railing along the front, bent at one end where something heavy had caught it once and no one had ever bothered to straighten it back.

  He stopped on the opposite pavement and looked up.

  The windows were tall and narrow, the glass old enough to carry a faint ripple in it. A few panes had been replaced with newer glass and you could tell immediately — they looked too clear against the rest. On the second floor, someone had left a window slightly open, and a piece of cloth hung out of it, shifting faintly in the cold air.

  The stone around the front door was darker than the rest of the wall, worn smooth at shoulder height on both sides from years of hands steadying themselves on the way in. The door itself was heavy wood, painted black a long time ago. The paint had gone pale and cracked, bubbling along the bottom edge. There was a bell pull — the chain too long, clearly replaced in pieces over the years, the links not quite matching.

  He crossed the street.

  The guard at the front gate was asleep.

  Up close, the building smelled of coal smoke and wet stone. Moss had taken hold in the corner where the wall met the railing, thick and deeply green against all that grey. The front step was a single slab of stone, dipped in the middle from use, its edges still sharp.

  He put his hand to the door and pushed.

  From somewhere above came a voice — flat and steady — then silence, then many smaller voices all at once, then silence again.

  He stood in the entrance and let his eyes adjust.

  He was waiting for someone.