Chapter 190. Official Visit .Part II

So this was the famous Adom Sylla.

Magnus had heard plenty about Arthur's son over the years. The prodigy. The youngest magus in living memory. The boy who'd accomplished in five years what took most mages three decades, if they managed it at all.

He'd expected someone smaller.

The tales always made powerful mages sound like wizened scholars hunched over spell books, or thin-limbed academics who spent their days locked in towers studying theory. Good mages rarely had anything that could be called muscles. Their power came from runes, spell weaving and complexity, elaborate nonsense dressed up as strength. Not from their bodies. Not from real discipline.

But Adom Sylla stood almost as tall as Magnus himself.

That was the first surprise. The second was the way he carried that height. Not hunched or apologetic about it, not trying to make himself smaller the way some young men did when they were still growing into their frames. He stood straight. Shoulders back. Feet planted, like someone who knew exactly where he was and had every right to be there.

Typical mage arrogance.

Magnus started forward, his boots striking the stone with an authority fit for a man of his stature. The knights parted for him without needing to be told.

Nineteen years old.

The thought just did not make sense. The boy was nineteen, and he'd already climbed higher than officers Magnus had known who'd given forty years to the empire. Officers who'd bled for their ranks, earned every promotion through sweat, sacrifice and loyalty that didn't waver when things got difficult. Some of them had learned to swing a sword before they could write their own names.

This boy had taken five years.

Five!

Tracing symbols and weaving energy while real soldiers did the actual fighting. And somehow that was supposed to be impressive. Somehow, that made him important enough that generals were expected to defer to him.

It was an offense to nature itself.

Magnus had never understood why the empire tolerated them. Mages. They were parasites, really, when you stripped away all the flowery language about magical theory and ancient tradition. Born with something they didn't earn, something they didn't deserve, and they spent their whole lives acting like it elevated them above normal men.

A soldier trained for years. Decades. Built his body into a weapon through discipline and pain, learned to move and fight and kill with nothing but his own two hands. That was honest. That was real.

But mages? They just drew their little pictures in the air, wove their little patterns, traced their runes, and the world bent for them. No effort required beyond memorizing symbols and formulas. Just an accident of birth that let them bypass everything that made a man worth something.

And they looked down on everyone else for it.

Magnus let his gaze travel over Adom as he approached, taking inventory the way he would with any potential threat. The way he'd been trained to assess an enemy across a battlefield before the fighting started.

Tall, yes. Broad enough in the shoulders that he clearly wasn't starving himself over books, though Magnus would bet his commission the boy had never held a real weapon in his life. Never felt the jar of steel meeting steel. Never stood in a shield wall with men depending on him to hold his position or watch them die.

Never earned a single thing with his body.

Just his magic. His gift. His undeserved power that he probably thought made him superior to every knight standing here.

His clothes were well-made but not ostentatious—practical choices, though Magnus had no doubt they cost more than a soldier's monthly wage. Dark hair. Caramel skin that marked him as his father's son before he ever opened his mouth.

And those eyes.

Magnus saw them clearly as he closed the distance. Watching him. Steady and unwavering in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Arthur Sylla standing in a council chamber almost twenty years ago, refusing to back down from a position the Emperor had made very clear he wanted abandoned.

The same glare.

The same self-righteous certainty that he knew better than the empire he'd sworn to serve.

Of course he had his father's eyes. Arthur Sylla had been a soldier once—a real one—before he'd forgotten what that meant. Before he'd let his association with mages corrupt him, before he'd chosen Soren over his duty.

And now here was his son. Not even pretending to be a soldier. Just a mage through and through, standing there like the world owed him deference.

The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

A renegade's son, and from what the reports suggested, a renegade-to-be himself. Magnus had always seen the boy's ascension to Magushood as a final insult to the empire. Arthur Sylla turns his back on his oaths, arrests the crown prince, and his son gets rewarded with the highest distinction in the Magisterium. Nepotism dressed up as merit. Had to be. Nobody rose that fast without someone pulling strings behind closed doors.

The mages always protected their own. They sat in their towers, looking down on the soldiers who actually kept the empire safe, acting like their ability to draw glowing symbols in the air proved some kind of superiority.

It made Magnus's blood simmer. The way they were given everything: respect they hadn't earned, positions they didn't deserve, authority over men who were worth ten of them.

And the worst part? They believed it. Every last one of them thought they were better. Thought their magic was proof of some inherent superiority rather than what it actually was—a quirk of fate. An accident. Something that should have made them humble, grateful even, but instead only made them insufferable.

They were unnatural.

That was the word Magnus's father had used, and the old man had been right. Magic wasn't like strength or skill or intelligence. Those things came from effort, from choice, from the content of a man's character.

Magic was just... there. In some people. For no reason anyone could explain. Like a disease, except society had decided to treat it like a blessing.

The Chancellor had his suspicions about what the boy was planning. Magnus had his orders about what to do if those suspicions proved correct.

But first, he had to see for himself what kind of man—no, what kind of boy—stood behind all those stories. Had to look this mage in the eye and see if there was anything worth respecting underneath all that unearned power.

He stopped directly in front of Adom. Close enough that he could see the exact shade of blue in those eyes. Close enough to make it clear this wasn't a conversation between equals, despite what the boy's token said about his rank.

Because they weren't equals.

Magnus had spent forty years serving the empire. Forty years of sweat and blood and sacrifice. He'd earned every scar on his body, every commendation, every rank. He'd built himself into what he was through sheer force of will and discipline.

This boy had been born with power and spent five years learning how to use what he'd been given for free.

Adom didn't step back.

Didn't even blink.

Just stood there, meeting Magnus's gaze without flinching, without the nervous energy most young men showed when a general in full regalia planted himself in their path. Waiting for Magnus to speak first.

Insubordinate. Arrogant. Everything Magnus had expected from a mage who'd been told he was brilliant since he could barely walk, who'd probably never been challenged in his life. Never had a commanding officer scream in his face when he made a mistake. Never had to learn the hard way that respect was earned, not given.

Never had to earn anything at all.

They were all like this. Thought their magic excused them from the rules that governed normal men. From duty, honor and the chain of command that held an empire together.

Despicable mistakes of nature, the lot of them.

And this one was worse than most. At least the older mages had the decency to look the part—frail, scholarly, removed from the real world. You could almost forgive them for thinking they were special when they looked so obviously different from real men.

But this boy? He looked like he could have been a soldier. Should have been a soldier, with that frame and that bearing. Instead, he'd chosen the easy path. The coward's path.

Magic instead of steel.

Runes instead of discipline.

Magnus held the moment longer than he needed to. Let it stretch. Watched for any sign of weakness, any crack in that calm exterior that he could file away for later use.

Nothing.

The boy just stood there like he had all day. As if this was his empire, his Magisterium, his world to command.

As if... Magnus was the one who should be nervous.

The audacity of it made something cold settle in Magnus's chest. This was what they produced, these mage institutions. This arrogance. This certainty that they were above everyone else.

This disease.

Fine.

Magnus let his expression shift. Softened it into something that might pass for warmth if you weren't looking too closely.

He extended his hand.

"Magus Adom Sylla," he said, letting his voice carry just enough weight to remind everyone listening exactly who was offering this handshake. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he said them anyway.

Because that was what real discipline looked like. Real control. Not waving your hands and bending the world to your will like some kind of god, but mastering yourself. Your emotions. Your disgust.

Doing what needed to be done, even when every fiber of your being wanted to do something else.

That was the difference between them.

And it always would be.

Adom smiled.

Just a slight upward curve at the corners of his mouth, natural and easy, and he reached out and took the general's hand without hesitation.

"General," he said. His voice was warm. "The pleasure is mine."

Magnus felt the grip. It was firm and steady. The boy's hand was larger than he'd expected. Not soft, either. There was some kind of work in those hands, though Magnus would bet his pension it wasn't the kind that mattered.

"Oh?" Magnus let his eyebrows rise, friendly surprise. "You know about me?"

"My father talked about you quite a bit."

Of course he did. Magnus kept his expression pleasant while his mind supplied a dozen different contexts for that statement, none of them flattering. Arthur Sylla sitting around whatever dinner table he shared with his mage son, poisoning the boy's mind against honest soldiers who'd done nothing but serve the empire faithfully.

"Kindly, I hope?" He let himself laugh as he said it and reached up and clapped the boy on the shoulder while at it.

Adom didn't move.

Didn't shift his weight or lean away or give any of the small tells most people gave when someone bigger invaded their space. He just stood there with that slight smile still on his face, like Magnus's hand on his shoulder was exactly where it should be.

Magnus let his hand drop. His laugh tapered off naturally.

Interesting.

Either the boy was genuinely unafraid—which would make him dangerously naive—or he was better at controlling his reactions than Magnus had given him credit for. Neither option was particularly appealing.

His gaze drifted past Adom to the other young man standing a few paces behind him. A bit smaller in frame. Dressed in academy. Black hair. Pale skin. Amber eyes. The sort of face you'd forget five minutes after meeting him.

And the moment Magnus's eyes landed on him, the boy flinched.

Not much. Just a tiny hitch in his breathing, a fractional widening of his eyes.

Good.

Magnus felt something settle in his chest. This one, at least, understood how things worked. Knew his place in the world. That a general's attention wasn't something to meet with casual confidence but with appropriate deference.

"And who might you be?" Magnus kept his tone light and pleasant.

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked briefly at Adom like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to answer.

"This is Eren Raubtier," Adom said before the silence could stretch too long. "He's the Archmage's disciple."

Magnus kept smiling.

The Archmage's disciple.

Of course he was. Of course this nervous, flinching child who had done absolutely nothing to earn his position beyond being noticed by the right person at the right time was connected to the most powerful mage in the empire.

These people were destroying the nation.

That was the thought that flashed through Magnus's mind, clear and cold. Not with anger but with certainty. This was what the Magisterium produced: boys who got handed opportunities based on who they knew instead of what they'd earned. Nepotism dressed up as mentorship. Favoritism called tradition.

The empire was supposed to be better than this.

But he kept smiling. Kept his voice... warm.

"Eren." He stepped forward and offered his hand to the boy the same way he'd offered it to Adom. "A pleasure."

Eren took his hand. His grip was weak. Clammy.

"G-General," he managed. "The honor is mine."

At least he knows how to grovel, Magnus thought. Small mercies.

He released Eren's hand and let his smile widen a fraction. "You're in excellent company. The Archmage doesn't take on students lightly."

"I—yes, sir. General. I'm very fortunate."

Fortunate. That was one word for it.

Adom shifted slightly, drawing Magnus's attention back to him. "General," he said. "May I ask what brings you to Arkhos?"

There it was.

The question Magnus had been waiting for since he'd walked through the gates. Direct. Almost pointed. Like the boy thought he had a right to question a general's movements.

Magnus let out a small laugh.

"Why would we not be here?" He spread his hands, the picture of openness. "Arkhos is part of Sundar, is it not? The Chancellor likes to see all corners of the empire with his own eyes from time to time. Makes sure everything is running smoothly. Shows the people that their leaders care about them, even in the smaller cities, let alone Arkhos."

He let that sit for a moment. Watched Adom's face for any reaction.

"Of course," the boy said. "You're absolutely right."

His expression hadn't changed. Still that same calm, slightly pleasant look.

Look at him, Magnus thought. Standing there like he's got nothing to hide.

But he did have something to hide.

That was why Magnus was here. That was why the Chancellor had sent him to this backwater city in the middle of the ocean. Two agents had been assigned to watch Adom Sylla. To track his movements. To report on who he met with and what he did.

They'd disappeared.

Both of them. And both of them had last been seen in proximity to this boy, sending one of them in the sky, and knocking the other out.

The Chancellor's orders had been clear: investigate the disappearances. Assess whether Adom Sylla posed a genuine threat to imperial stability. And if he did...

Well. The Chancellor would decide what came next.

What a snake, Magnus thought, looking at Adom's calm face. These mages.

"The Chancellor just felt like coming," Magnus said aloud, keeping his voice easy.

Adom's slight smile didn't waver. "He's dedicated."

"That he is."

Magnus let another beat pass. Then he gestured back toward the Magisterium entrance. "But please. Don't let us keep you standing around. The guards were merely doing their duty, standard procedure for anyone entering a secure facility. I hope they didn't offend you?"

"Not at all," Adom said.

"Good. Good." Magnus nodded like that settled something important. "Why don't you come with me? We can talk more comfortably inside. The Chancellor will want to greet you properly."

He started walking without waiting for an answer, expecting Adom to follow.

The boy did. Magnus heard his footsteps behind him, steady and unhurried.

And then he heard a second set of footsteps.

Eren.

Magnus felt heat flash through his chest. Not on his face—he was too disciplined for that—but inside, where it could simmer without being seen.

How dare he?

Where did he think he was going? Did he think this was the academy, where apprentices and disciples could just wander into important meetings because they happened to be standing nearby when they started? Or that his position as the Archmage's student gave him the right to insert himself into conversations between a general and a magus?

These people had no sense of hierarchy. No understanding that some things were above their station. Important matters were going to be discussed. Matters of imperial security. Of loyalty. Of potential treason.

Why would a disciple—a mere student—be present for that?

Magnus stopped walking. Turned. Kept his expression pleasant.

Eren froze mid-step.

"Ah," Magnus said gently. He held up one hand, apologetic. "I should have been clearer. This will be a private meeting. Just me, the ten magi, the Archmage and the Chancellor for now."

Eren's eyes went wide. He looked at Magnus, then at Adom, then back at Magnus.

"Ah. Uh." His mouth worked soundlessly for a second.

Then he looked at Adom again. Not at Magnus. At Adom. Like he was waiting for permission and thought the magus could override what a general had just said.

As if Magnus's authority meant nothing if Adom—

"I'd like him to come, if you don't mind."

...What?

Magnus turned to look at him fully.

Adom met his gaze.

"If you don't mind," Adom repeated. Softer this time. Almost gentle.

But not yielding.