Paragon of Destruction

Brightblade guided Arran to the stronghold’s main keep, a towering building with thick walls that loomed over the training grounds as a permanent reminder that war was coming.

"It seems a bit much," Arran offered as they approached it.

"Maybe," Brightblade replied. "But it’s necessary. Most of the mages in the Valley have never seen a real battle. You saw the novices’ reactions when you attacked them — even without any real danger, their instinct was to flee. They need a reminder that these are no games, or most of them will perish in their first battle."

"You speak as if war is a foregone conclusion," Arran said. At the banquet eight months earlier, the Matriarch had said she meant to rebuild the Valley’s strength merely to deter enemies. Yet Brightblade’s efforts were clearly aimed at more than just deterrence.

"Because it is," Brightblade said. "If the Hunters do not attack, others will arrive. In the few centuries I’ve been alive, I’ve seen the Shadowflame Society face dozens of enemies. Even if the Hunters somehow disappeared, it would only be a matter of time before others took their place."

"But you believe the Hunters will attack."

It was a statement rather than a question. Arran did not believe for a moment that the preparations he had seen were merely a precaution. Brightblade was clearly readying the Valley’s mages for war against the Hunters, and she was wasting no time in doing so.

"Perhaps," she replied. "But we will continue this conversation in my quarters. Now follow me."

Some minutes later they stepped into a large chamber inside the keep. To call it austere would be an understatement — it was empty except for a single wooden desk and three chairs, and the walls were made of bare stone that reached all the way up to the high ceiling.

Brightblade dismissed her guards with a gesture, and when the two had left the chamber and shut the door behind them, she sealed it with a small but powerful ward.

"Come," she said, then walked straight at the far wall — and passed right through it.

Arran blinked in surprise. He understood she had placed a concealment ward inside the chamber, but although he had already learned several such wards himself, the one here was so masterfully made that he never would have noticed it.

He quickly followed behind Brightblade and passed through the wall, though not without noticing that even up close, it seemed completely real. Combined with a blocking ward, it would be completely indistinguishable from a real wall.

When he stepped through the illusory wall, he found another chamber. And unlike the first, this one was anything but austere.

Richly filled bookcases and fine paintings lined the walls, and several velvet-clad sofas stood in the left corner of the chamber. On the right was a large wooden desk, upon which lay various opened books and half-read scrolls, along with several empty bottles of wine.

Arran raised an eyebrow as he examined Brightblade’s quarters. Somehow, he doubted her students had any such luxuries.

"Sit," Brightblade said, taking place on one of the sofas. "What you said earlier was correct. I have no doubt whatsoever that the Hunters will attack."

"Why?" Arran asked, taking a seat on the sofa opposite Brightblade’s. It was even softer than he had expected.

"Because they have to," she replied. "With the numbers Rhea has amassed, a few short decades will be enough to fortify the Valley to withstand any assault they can launch. By then, they will be trapped between the Valley and whatever it was that drove them here."

"Something drove them here?" Arran looked at Brightblade in confusion. This was the first time he had heard anything of the sort.

"You didn’t think they just appeared out of nowhere, did you?" She shook her head. "They only began to appear a few thousand years ago, and under a thousand years have passed since they arrived in numbers. They’re fleeing something — though I don’t know what."

The words briefly left Arran speechless. For all its Grandmasters and Archmages, the Valley had been brought to its knees by the Hunters. But now, Brightblade casually suggested that those same Hunters were fleeing an even greater danger.

"So they could attack at any moment," he said after some moments.

Brightblade responded with a quick shake of her head. "They could, but they won’t. Assaulting the Valley is no simple matter, and just readying their troops will take years. More, if they have another enemy to the west."

"How long do we have?" Arran asked.

A pensive expression appeared on Brightblade’s face, and her eyes narrowed as she considered the question. Finally, she said, "If I were to guess, I’d say we can expect the attack to happen in a decade — long enough for them to prepare a full assault, but not long enough for us to train a new generation of mages."

That was far longer than Arran had expected, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the answer. He had trained for less than that, and with another decade of training to go, there were few enemies he wouldn’t feel confident in facing.

"And that brings us to you," Brightblade said. "You are struggling to learn the Shadowflame spell, correct?"

Arran nodded. Brightblade hadn’t been able to follow his training as closely as before in recent months, but it came as no surprise that she’d kept abreast of his progress. And his struggle in learning the Shadowflame spell was no secret — every single one of his teachers was well aware of that.

"Many novices face the same obstacle," she said. "And in most cases, it’s nothing that a few years or decades of training can’t overcome."

At this, Arran’s face fell. He was well aware that it wasn’t uncommon for novices to spend decades learning the spell, and that more than a few never succeeded at all, remaining novices until the day of their death.

Yet Brightblade ignored his troubled look, and continued, "There’s another matter to consider. To gain the title of novice, you will have to spend a year in the borderlands. You have long surpassed the skill of a mere initiate, and it’s high time that you take a rank more befitting your strength."

Arran frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"I have discussed the matter with Rhea, and we have decided to address both matters at once." A small smile formed on Brightblade’s lips as she spoke. "You are to travel into the borderlands, where you will go into secluded training until you master the Shadowflame spell. Once you return, you will be made an adept."

"An adept? Not a novice?" Arran looked at Brightblade in surprise.

"You have the skills to qualify for the title, if only barely," she replied. "A year or two of secluded training will further add to that. Once you learn the Shadowflame spell, you will be more than ready to become an adept."

Arran felt a brief flash of joy at the prospect of becoming an adept, but it disappeared a moment later, suspicion taking its place.

"Why not have me train at your estate?" he asked. "I’ve already spent plenty of time in the borderlands, and having teachers to guide me will help me progress faster."

"We could make an exception," Brightblade admitted. "But secluded training has its own benefits. And after you succeed, you will have the opportunity to recover Elder Nikias’s writings. You still intend to study the Forms, do you not?"

While the answer seemed straightforward, Arran could not help but think something was lacking. And after a moment’s thought, it struck him.

"Snowcloud," he said, brow creased in confusion. "You want to keep us apart. Why?"

Brightblade smiled regretfully. "That is part of it, as well. The ember that has grown between you two could easily grow into a fire. And if it does, it would serve as a distraction from training."

"Nonsense," Arran said bluntly, some anger in his voice now. "I won’t be distracted that easily."

"Perhaps not," Brightblade replied. "But you are not the one I’m worried about. You are already strong enough to defend yourself, and even without training, your strength will grow further. But Snowcloud..."

"She’s more skilled than I am," Arran interrupted her. "More skilled than any novice in the Valley — and most of the adepts."

"True," Brightblade said. "In combat, she should be a match for any adept in this entire Valley. But how much effort would it take you to kill even the strongest adept we have?"

Arran gave Brightblade an uncomfortable look. There was no need to answer the question — he could kill any adept in the Valley effortlessly. With his strength and resistance to magic, it would be like butchering a lamb.

"Hunters have powers similar to yours," Brightblade continued. "And the Valley’s mages will face thousands such enemies when the war begins. If Snowcloud is to have a chance of surviving, she cannot afford even the slightest distraction from her training."

To this, Arran had no response. When it came to Snowcloud’s safety, he wouldn’t take risks — even if they were ones she herself might accept gladly.

"It doesn’t seem fair," he finally said, though not before letting out a deep sigh.

Brightblade shrugged. "You are both mages, and talented enough to live another thousand years. You will have plenty of time to roll around in haystacks in the future."

Arran glared at her, but there was no point in refusing. As much as he wanted her to be wrong, he knew she was right. If the Hunters’ powers resembled his own, Snowcloud would need every second of training she could get.

Yet Brightblade wasn’t done yet.

"There remains one final matter," she said. "We know little of the Hunters — too little. And although the Ninth Valley has sent plenty of spies their way, they have an unfortunate habit of killing any mages who set foot in their lands."

Arran groaned, immediately understanding what she was about to say.

"But, as luck would have it," she continued, "your powers not only match theirs, but you can also hide your Realms better than anyone else in the Valley."

"You want me to spy on them," Arran said.

"Correct," Brightblade responded, a cheerful smile on her face.