Adela, as usual, had been incredibly chatty: a nod, and there's the door, Laurentius. No, thank you for infiltrating the palace, Laurentius, no how's Volstad doing Laurentius? She just closed the door behind him, almost pushing his shapely butt with it, by the way. He smoothed his doublet. He was still wearing that white uniform: thank the creators it was late and everyone was in bed, none would see him like that, Ontur forbid. He was exhausted and hungry and reeked of wet cat, thanks to the city's fog. The forecast on the daily newspaper announced an ethereal tide in two days' time: that, he didn't look forward to. It was bad enough as it was, his hair got frizzy with the humidity and his potions and oils weren't enough. He'd have to give up and let it go free, in all its curly glory. Maybe have it braided, he could make it work, maybe some golden chains twisted in-between? He glanced at his reflection on a mirror on his way to the common dining area. He looked like a revenant, tired and ashen. The golden dust on his cheeks was a joke, it only made his tired skin more evident. Golden. Onturians. Markolf. Ugh. He had pushed it aside all day, being alone with his thoughts was torture but he could choose to ignore them, and those images of dimpled smiles with a side of guilt, until the morning.
The dining room was empty, for obvious reasons, but the kitchen was still there, inviting and just as unattended; hopefully. He undid a couple of the doublet's buttons, it was getting stuffy in there. He rolled up his sleeves and pushed the door, like he owned the place. Breakfast had a whole new meaning when you actually had to break into kitchens to grab a bite. It counted as breakfast, didn't it? It was early morning, he hadn't eaten, at least anything of significance, since, creators, all day. None right, none left, except for the sleeping dog by the kitchen's back door. The mutt was so used to seeing people coming in and out that he didn't even flinch when he kneeled to pet him behind the ears. Mice were a completely different matter, he learned it the hard way one night during his first week in the college.
He was in the middle of a cheese sandwich when a faint noise made him jump off the chair and almost drop his warm milk with spices. There was no way he wouldn't finish that sandwich: he shoved it into his mouth, almost choked, drank all the milk to pass it down, and turned into a moth. He hated moths, but he couldn't think of anything else in such short notice and he had to blend in. His wings looked like wood, just like the cupboard to the left. Moths on cupboards, a better concept than flies on walls, less likely to be chased with a shoe. He shifted his wings and antennae, uncomfortably. He hated digesting food in other shapes, his stomach was all wrong, it felt strange, too far away. He waited. He felt a current, coming from the door, the light suddenly felt too bright, he needed to close his eyes or fly somewhere really dark, like around that firedust fixture at the other side of the kitchen, its edges looked dark, like those black holes the alchemist astronomers talked about. No. His moth brain was tricking him: he had to stay put. Stupid moth brain.
Hushed whispers, the ruffling of fine silk and the clink of custom-made jewelry: Adela. Followed by clumsy feet and the rattle of staves, hung too low for their wearers' heights. Novices, probably, not younger than sixteen. Older mages, like himself, knew how to fit the straps of their staves properly, of course. The four of them, clad in impermeable robes and hoods, their faces covered in ornate fog repelling masks with frozen smiles painted on them, surrounded Adela in a tight circle. They whispered, but his moth hearing, thank the creators: one good thing about it, enhanced their voices.
"This is what you've been practicing for," Adela said, her voice low and sharp. If his blood had been warm, it would've frozen in his moth veins. His antennae twitched.
"What if they see us?" one of them said, their voice shaky.
"They won't. I'll cast a shrouding spell around you, they won't even see you coming," he could imagine her icy smirk, "you'll go out, strike from the shadows. It won't even need to be bloody, they won't feel any pain at all, if you do it correctly, like I showed you," she fixed her dress.
"But the door," another added.
"Soundproofed," Adela dismissed every single possible problem: she was prepared.
"If King Volstad says so, then I'm in, no matter what," someone was trying to make his voice deeper than it was, to hide his fear. He had seen Alaric do it, he knew the tone. He would've smirked, but moths didn't have lips. He twitched his mandibles. Going after Onturian Knights was suicidal, what was Adela planning? What had they trained for, exactly? They could barely wear their capes properly, all crooked and tangled on their staves, why would she trust them with such a delicate endeavor? Why not him? Or a Senior Enchanter? Or one of the Masters, specializing on something? His moth brain kept distracting him, signaling his wings to move and fly towards the utter darkness: a trick of the mind. His human mind knew that darkness was just an illusion, and flying towards the light only brought bad things for stupid moths who believed.
"Yes, rest assured, my dear students: Volstad has our backs. He's asking this of you, and he'll reward you, once he's officially on the throne. Make him proud: make us, mages, proud," she pat everyone's cheeks over the masks, one by one, like a mother. Softly. Lovingly, almost. Only Adela was anything but. There was something wrong about all that, incredibly so. He had to fly away from there, quickly. "Get ready, eat, and we'll meet at the foyer in thirty minutes," she said, opening the door. "I still have something to take care of, in my chambers," she yawned. Yes, Adela, too, needed to sleep sometimes. Perhaps.
His little moth heart, or was it hearts? bumped in a weird part of his anatomy, it was driving him insane. He flew towards his room, where else could he be without attracting attention at that hour? He changed back into himself, his hands shook as he unlocked the door, the key struggled to get into the keyhole. He should've drunk coffee instead of milk, damn the creators. He couldn't go back to sleep after hearing that, not anymore.
He changed his clothes as he pictured Adela and her young crew of acolytes. Volstad wouldn't do that, would he? According to the Onturian church and Jo's grandmother: yes. He was a monster, he wanted to end the world. But no, it didn't make any sense. He had spoken to him, he had told him about Laverna, a little bit. He didn't know the whole picture, but he knew, he hadn't gotten that far by being an idiot, that Volstad was telling the truth. He didn't want a war with the Onturian Church. Killing the Onturian Knights outside was a sure way to make the Onturian Knights retaliate and the Onturian Church have proof of the mages "dangerousness". He couldn't allow that. A war? It was insane. He was just beginning to settle in the City of Ontur, he wouldn't let anyone ruin it for him. And that thing that scared Volstad? The matter that kept him awake, night and day? There was something else going on. War would only make matters worse. Volstad wasn't an idiot, he had questionable taste in books, yes, but he was not stupid.
He had to stop the students, but they followed Adela blindly, it seemed. He looked at the timeteller on his desk, there was still time. He'd need an ally, didn't she say she wanted to help? He hoped she wasn't a heavy sleeper.
He didn't bother knocking. Irene stroke him as the kind of person who always misplaced her books in public places and forgot to lock her doors. She would've lost her room if she hadn't put that ridiculous bow on the doorknob. He was right. Her room was tidy, unlike his own, every crystal and book properly stacked on their shelves. Lots of notes scribbled on papers: return this book by the end of the week, don't forget to buy new firerock for alchemy class (I keep losing it). All that tidiness had a very good reason. He crept near her bed. Her hair was up in a messy bun, her mouth agape. He chuckled. If he had one of those image-capturing trinkets they sold from Ampuria, it would've made a hilarious portrait. He nudged her while muttering a protective ward around him, just in case she was one of those jittery mages who set their houses on fire every time they heard a noise outside. They usually were masters at fireguards to protect their things, but one couldn't be unprepared.
Irene jolted off her bed, grabbing her staff from near her bed.
"How did you get in? What time is it?" she whispered, angrily.
"You know? You should probably lock your door, I hear that keeps people from entering unannounced in the middle of the night. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'd never break into anyone's room to hurt them," he smoothed his clothes. "Unless they're evil and need a knife to the throat, but that's really not my style, this is Fonterran fine silk and blood is terribly hard to remove, you see. Put that staff down, we're wasting time," he whispered.
He didn't blame her for being cautious, but it hurt that the thought even crossed her mind.
He told her, quickly, as he tossed her a robe and a pair of shoes, about Adela and her plan to have those novices kill the Onturian Knights standing guard outside the College.
"And you'll help me stop them," he said.
"Are you sure you heard alright? You look a little, huh, tired," she said. Her voice was soft, shy. She meant: awful. But she wouldn't say it, would she? He liked her.
"Nothing a little adrenaline can't take care of, and right now I have plenty of it," he shook his arms, jogged in place. "Now let's move, before it's too late. I'll cast an invisibility spell around us, I wish I had Koldo's—" he coughed, hard. The tattoos in his arm stung. That had been close. Irene had been too busy trying to collect herself to notice, thank the creators.
The corridors were deserted. The four young mages waited by the foyer, shifting their weights from one foot to the other, silent, inspecting their staves. Laurentius and Irene stood by the front door, immobile, breathing just enough not to faint. Adela walked downstairs, rubbing her hands. If he hadn't known better, he would've thought, well, how melodramatic of her, doing the evil hand-rub move, but that was no casual hand-rub. As she reached the foyer, he could see her fingers, moving in patterns across her palms. She was healing her hands, from what? Maybe a certain enchanted letter, meant to go pinned on a certain door, written by a certain gorgeously bearded man in a tower, that couldn't be destroyed. Proof that what she was about to do wasn't condoned by him: he wanted a truce. She was giving him the opposite. Volstad hadn't predicted it would be her he was warding that letter from, not the Onturian Knights. And there he was, on his way to risk his life to save a couple of Onturian Knights. Insane. But they were innocent, they were just standing there, for the moment, all they did all day was read and play cards, and get bored until their relieves came by. He didn't know if they agreed with Laverna or not, but from what he'd gathered from Alaric and what happened if you dared to disobey, like Gerard, he knew they didn't have much choice. The mages, standing on the foyer, were being manipulated by Adela: he had to be careful with them too. No blood would be spilled, if he could help it. Irene had agreed, on their way there. They'd try to immobilize them all, stun them, Laurentius would cast a ward around the Onturian Knights, then bring them to safety. Then, they would see. Maybe they could spill some beer around them, make it look like they left their posts and everyone would be safe, sort of. Adela would try again, no doubt, but at least their little stunt would buy them a day to plan what to do next.
Adela opened the door from afar, using air magic. It didn't make a sound. Outside, the Onturian Knights sat on the tall steps of the College, playing a round of cards. Irene and Laurentius went out, swiftly, then hid by a pillar. He could hear a familiar laugh, warm and lively: Markolf's. He was on duty that night, guarding the College. If he had any doubt of the Onturian Knight's innocence, it died right there. The man was pure, more simple than Alaric, even. Alaric only pretended to be clueless, Markolf was, well, he was handsome. He had to take him out of there, it was the least he could do for him before— well, he could think of it later, he could hardly do it there. Terrible timing.
Irene looked at him, waiting for a signal. They'd strike once the four mages were outside, close the door so Adela wouldn't have a chance to come to their rescue, he'd seal it with a ward, which she'd breach in minutes, but he hoped it would be enough. Irene would take care of the students and lend a hand with the ward once she was done, placing one on top of it if needed. And another.
The four students came outside, they were invisible but the fog around them gave way to their bodies, moving in ripples. Irene closed the door with her magic, then trapped them, or attempted to. Her staff slipped from her hands, he had already stunned the Onturians who lay on the floor, helpless, their cards still in their hands, smiles on their faces. Letting go of them or the door's ward to stun the students would mean having the Onturian Knights kill the students on sight: that wouldn't go well either. It would work in Adela's favor as well, either way, maybe even better. Maybe that had been her plan all along, sending novices to murder Onturian Knights, by themselves? They couldn't even hold their staves properly, creators. She had sent them as sacrifices. Revolting. Brilliant, so like Adela. It all made sense, now.
A flash of lighting came rushing in front of Laurentius. Irene struggled to stun them, she managed to do it one by one, but she was slow. Three down, one panicked mage to go. The student hit and missed the still Onturians, his staff shaking. Irene struggled to hit him on the move with one hand and keeping the others under her spell with the other. When she finally managed to bring him down, a final stray lightning bolt made his way to the knights. To Markolf. Right on the chest.