After a while.
Watching the glint of Glintstone Pebble pop from the tip of Alistair's staff, Sellen fell into silent contemplation.
Something was definitely off about her pupil.
He didn't comprehend the foundations of magic at all—was bafflingly ignorant—but in the same breath, he waved a staff and cast sorcery cleanly. What she had dismissed as impatience now hovered on the edge of the uncanny.
More unsettling was that he had no Glintstone crown. No proper conduit. Just a chipped, low-tier staff without a polished focus. It shouldn't have been capable of drawing out even the most minor sorceries.
Yes, the Glintstone crown.
The reason every scholar at the Academy of Raya Lucaria wore bulbous stone helms wasn't some shared penchant for ridicule. Glintstone sorcery required communion with the stone, alignment with the stars. And the crown—set with Glintstone—served as the primary catalyst for that bond. Not just a symbol, but a tether.
The head was the clearest channel for magic, and that's why they wore it. Because channeling the magic of stars demanded focus. Demanded proximity.
And yet this boy stood here, bereft of any such augmentation, channeling magic as if born with it etched into his marrow.
There were exceptions, yes—Ranni, daughter of Rennala, and the Full Moon Queen herself, whose regalia and staff were bathed in celestial materials beyond the reach of any common mage. But they were lords of sorcery, not errant tarnished with sticks.
Even high mages required both Glintstone and sigil staff to manifest consistent power. But this boy, this ridiculous, grinning anomaly, had just pulled a Glintstone Pebble from thin air with a twitch of the wrist.
If this were still the Academy, that alone would've caused half the Grand Library to riot.
And then there was that other thing. The crystal.
Sellen remembered it too vividly.
The soul-forged crystal Alistair had shown her—briefly, as if even holding it too long might invite madness. She'd seen the delicate structure of it, the profound composition beyond what even the School of Graven Mages would dare. It was something utterly alien, yet familiar. Crafted by knowledge no sane man should possess.
That wasn't something one made. That was something extracted, possibly even lived.
She had once used a Graven-Mass talisman, etched her own soul into it in pursuit of power. But even her sins paled in comparison to the implications of that crystal.
She had seen the glint of a thousand minds collapsed into one.
No wonder Alistair was strange.
He was likely born of sorcery, not just taught, but forged. A construct of soul, crystal, and will.
And yet he was smiling.
"Oh, this spell fires three times if I time it right!"
Sellen sighed. A long, bone-deep exhalation of everything she once believed about magic and logic.
"Fine," she muttered. "I've drawn the short lot this life."
What else could she say? The fool had called her teacher, and whether he was forged in crystal or shaped by gods, she couldn't turn him away.
It would be like throwing a spark into a powder keg.
"Do not show that crystal to anyone. Not to a sorcerer, not to a cleric, not even to the twin husks if they promise you power. Do you understand?"
"Got it," Alistair nodded, genuinely unbothered.
That crystal magic wasn't for show. If someone pushed him far enough to bring it out, that person would already be an enemy. Secrets didn't matter to the dead.
Sellen exhaled again. Then something else struck her.
"You should be more cautious," she said. "You came in here knowing nothing, called me a witch to my face, and showed me the greatest taboo I've seen since the Fall of Nokron. Why?"
"Because you're my teacher," Alistair said simply.
Sellen stared. For a moment, her mask said nothing, but the woman beneath it smiled.
"You're truly a fool."
"I'm serious, teacher. Don't call me that other thing…"
"Which thing?" she asked, tilting her head.
"You know... that phrase. 'Stupid disciple.' I had a bad experience once..."
"Then it's settled," she said with mock solemnity. "Stupid disciple it is."
"Teacher, please—"
But she had already turned away, her laughter trailing behind like soft bells in an empty corridor.
---
After a bit more instruction, Alistair began casting Glintstone Pebble with increasing consistency. Even without a Glintstone crown, even with a poor staff, he could pull magic from the air like breath.
Sellen watched in silence. There was no explaining it. No foundation. Just instinct.
This was unnatural.
But she didn't stop him. How could she? The Academy of Raya Lucaria may have cast her out, but she still bore its wisdom. If the cosmos had sent her a fool, she would see what wonders he could extract from foolishness.
Eventually, day broke. Sellen stretched her limbs and sighed.
"We scholars prefer the night. The stars speak clearer when the world is asleep. Come again then."
She turned, entered her chamber, and shut the heavy door.
Alistair sat at the Site of Grace, gathering his strength and organizing the scattered runes. Then he stood, adjusted his armor, and began walking south.
The road was quiet, save for the distant groan of shambling undead. As the sun crested the hills, he noticed a strange hilltop ruin covered in small, spherical creatures with purple glowing eyes. They congregated around a circular structure embedded in the earth, radiating a sigil of faint magic.
A prompt appeared before him.
[Enter Evergaol: "Bloodhound Knight Darriwil"?]
Darriwil. That was the traitor Blaidd had mentioned.
Alistair made note of the location and doubled back toward the Mistwood Ruins. Blaidd wasn't there. So he left a message carved in stone, telling her the location and time.
Afterward, he resumed exploring the map.
As he passed a narrow bridge spanning a crumbling cliff, he heard a soft voice. Almost a whisper, buried under leaves.
It came from a tree.
Puzzled, he stepped close. Gently pushed the bark.
With a shimmer of magic, the tree transformed, revealing a trembling demi-human.
"M-my name is Boc," the creature stammered. "They cast me out of the cave. I was turned into a tree. You... you've saved me…"
Boc offered up eight mushrooms, the only thing he had.
Alistair accepted them with a nod.
"Do you want to go back?"
Boc flinched.
"I… I'm not ready. I still fear them. The others…"
Alistair thought for a moment.
"Then tell me where they are. I'll talk to them."
Boc hesitated, then pointed.
"There, northeast. In a cave near the coast cliffs. But be careful. They are not kind."
Alistair looked toward the direction Boc had indicated, the early morning fog still thick across the hills.
"I'll handle it."
To meet a demi-human who could speak was rare. To meet one who showed gratitude, rarer still.
And if there were more like him, maybe, just maybe, this world wasn't all ash and ruin.
***
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