Chapter 1 #2
He had sensed it the very first time he’d been summoned here; but sensing that magic had been his first test from the Mage Princeps, and passing it proved that he had the potential Tessarion was looking for.
Every time he stepped into the office reminded him of that initial interaction, the pride that had filled him to know that such a powerful sorcerer believed he was capable of so much more.
Even the more mundane features of the office were as intimately recognizable to him as his own dormitory.
Every wall was covered with bookshelves, which were in turn filled to the brim with tomes and scrolls.
Interspersed between them stood all sorts of armillary spheres and star charts, bowls of precious gems and alchemical ingredients, and other various curios and magical components.
On the far side of the office was a heavy wooden desk—organized and sparse compared to the shelves and stands surrounding it—and sitting on the far side was his master.
His gaze had not lifted from the parchment before him, a quill in hand as he wrote in his measured, even script. Still, Alwyn felt the Mage Princeps’ focus on him as acutely as if he were staring him down.
Though his head was downturned, the elf’s silvery hair fell in a long, even sheet behind his shoulders with not a strand out of place.
His robes, dark and plain, looked freshly pressed without a wrinkle or speck of lint.
He was the ideal image of elven stoicism—Alwyn had never seen him look anything less than perfectly put together in all his years.
“Sit, Alwyn,” he said, still not looking up.
He didn’t sound angry; but then, he never sounded angry.
Even when Alwyn knew Tessarion was disappointed, or annoyed, or furious—with him or with anything else—his voice never betrayed it.
This part of his vocation had never been Alwyn’s strong suit: learning to read the intent behind another’s eyes, while keeping his own mask carefully in place.
But he had never needed it; instead, his deep well of magical power, and his skill in wielding it, had so far more than made up for any of his deficiencies as an assassin.
He obeyed, sitting silently in one of the two chairs on his side of the desk. Tessarion continued writing with no sense of urgency in his movement; so Alwyn waited in silence, looking at his mentor’s face for any sign of what was to come, despite knowing the futility.
Finally, the older elf gave one last flourish of his quill, then set it down—only then did his pale lilac eyes lift to meet Alwyn’s gaze. He felt himself straighten in his seat subconsciously, working hard to keep his facial features even and emotionless.
“You have not yet been pardoned for your last job,” Tessarion finally spoke, and it was all Alwyn could do not to flinch at the admonishment.
“But a mission of utmost importance has been assigned to our Order. You are among the most suited to accomplish it. And perhaps I have some hope you may yet redeem yourself in its success.”
“Yes, Master Tessarion,” Alwyn said, wincing internally at the edge of eager hope in his voice. He swallowed before adding in a more neutral tone, “Failure is as unacceptable to me as it is to the Order. I intend to redeem myself through whatever opportunity you deem fit.”
The silent stare went on just a beat longer than Alwyn expected, and he knew it was an unspoken sign that his master was still cross with him. The even tone of his voice somehow felt cold and distant, though surely it had not outwardly changed.
“You will not work alone this time,” Tessarion said.
It was matter-of-fact, but still Alwyn felt a sting that he couldn’t quite keep off his face.
“A group of High Sorcerers from the Library, both within our Order and outside of it, will work with a group of orc spies sent by King Zorvut to quash the rebellion mounting in the northwest.”
Back into orc lands. Alwyn tried to suppress the fear that squeezed at his chest. Part of him would have been happy to never return to that place; but Aefraya was fighting tooth and nail to avoid another war from erupting with the rebel orcs, so of course all of its resources would be poured into the neighboring land.
More importantly, he reminded himself, it wasn’t up to him: he was a weapon to be wielded by the Order, and weapons did not complain.
“This will be a critical mission, and you will have a unique goal,” Tessarion continued. “It is too important to fail. But I wish for you to prove yourself, Alwyn. And so, perhaps against my better judgment, I am assigning you the most crucial task.”
A flare of mixed emotions burned inside his chest. This was a sign of Tessarion’s favor, as close as the Mage Princeps could get to saying it outright.
Despite the added pressure of the elf’s words, something in Alwyn was strangely comforted by the barely disguised favoritism.
It meant Tessarion still acknowledged his skills, and he might win back his respect.
“Yes,” Alwyn said firmly. “Tell me what I must do.”
Tessarion’s eyes briefly flickered away from Alwyn, back down to his desk. He carefully rolled the parchment he’d been writing on, placed it in a small scroll case meant for travel, and handed it across the desk to Alwyn, who took it without question.
“That scroll describes the mission as it will be explained to you, when you and the other elves assigned to this matter meet with the orc contingent led by Gorza Silvertongue,” he said.
Alwyn looked down at the scroll, which fit neatly in his palm.
“This mission is to find and capture Zesh, the leader of the rebels. He is to be brought to King Zorvut in Drol Kuggradh and receive the king’s justice. ”
Alwyn nodded, but his mentor’s eyes grew cold. “You, however, will have a different mission. You will kill Zesh before he can be captured.”
At that, Alwyn hesitated. It was not his place to question orders—and assassination was what all Order mages were ultimately trained for—but he imagined that King Zorvut himself had ordered Zesh to be brought to him alive.
King Ruven and the orc king were supposed to be working together, weren’t they?
His conflict must have somehow shown on his face—or perhaps Tessarion just knew him that well—because the older elf’s cool gaze softened for the briefest moment.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Tessarion continued.
“However, the purpose of the Order of Twilight is to do what weaker men cannot. King Zorvut may have believed the mercy he showed his half-brother in their duel was strength. You and I know it is not. I cannot, in good conscience, allow such weakness to be shown again, so Zesh must die before he is brought to Drol Kuggradh. Anything less will not end the rebellion, but will only allow it to continue festering. We must cut it off at its source, before this rebellion grows into open warfare.”
“Of course, Master Tessarion,” Alwyn said, bowing his head.
Some part of him still felt unsettled, wondering what King Ruven must have thought to make such an order against the orc king’s wishes; but he had to trust in Tessarion’s wisdom.
Not even trust—only obey. That was what the Order of Twilight expected from its mages.
Their whole purpose was to handle the difficult, dirty, but necessary work needed for the good of Aefraya.
Besides, it would be easy to accept that during such a dangerous mission, some lone agent might find it necessary to end the rebel warlord’s life in defense of their own, or another’s.
And in the aftermath, positive relations between the kings and their nations could be better preserved.
“Alwyn,” Tessarion said, and his head snapped up attentively once more.
“I know you are capable of greatness. You just need to prove it. To me, and to yourself. That is why I am entrusting you with this. Because I want to believe your last mission was a fluke, and that you are capable of accomplishing a feat of the highest caliber. Success in this will mean the continued peace between Aefraya and the wildlands. Your name may not be known as that of a hero, but you and I will know what you have done.”
Alwyn swallowed hard, willing his racing heart to slow.
He could hear the unspoken sentiment—that failure was not an option.
More than anything, he wanted Tessarion to be proud of him again.
His mentor’s cold disappointment these past weeks had been unbearable.
Alwyn had never been out of his good graces for so long, and he intended to never experience that again.
“I understand,” he said, not quite able to stifle the burgeoning hope in his voice. “I appreciate your belief in me, sir, more than you know.”
The Mage Princeps regarded him silently for a moment, and Alwyn was sure he could see the barest hint of a smile in his lilac eyes. He recognized it readily now—it was the expression he had chased from the moment Tessarion first recruited him into the Order as a child.
He had been the first to truly see Alwyn—to recognize the deep well of magic in him and all the potential that came with it.
The Mage Princeps had been not only a mentor, but a caretaker, giving Alwyn all the necessities and opportunities to find success by his side as a mage.
Alwyn had never known what a parent was supposed to be, but he knew he would have followed any instructions out of respect and reverence for the man who had all but raised him.
“Good,” Tessarion finished simply. “Everything you need to know is in that scroll. You are dismissed for now.”
Alwyn bowed deeply before quietly stepping out of the Mage Princeps’ office. These things moved quickly, so he had to prepare.