Alaric pivoted his weight, squaring his broad back against the descending gallery stairs. Resting his heavy forearms across the chilled basalt coping of the balustrade, he leaned out over the drop, wedging his massive frame like a barricade between the two velvet armchairs and the swirling colosseum below.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. His hazel eyes swept the illuminated flagstones—not with the wide-eyed awe of a provincial spectator, but with the flat, defensive vigilance of an investigator who had spent his youth watching powerful men appraise prodigies like livestock.
"Catch your breath, both of you," Alaric rumbled, pitching his baritone low beneath the cavern's acoustic resonance so the words remained trapped within the perimeter of their private riser.
He did not glance back right away. His rugged profile remained etched against the diamond-bright glare of the arcane sconces blazing below.
"What you're staring at down there isn't an academic lecture, and it isn't a festival," Alaric continued, each syllable stripped of bureaucratic varnish. "The dockets call it the Mage Summit—a polished title minted to look dignified on official ledgers. In truth, it is an auction block."
An auction.
Within the quiet machinery of Arthur's chest, the definition locked into place with clinical precision.
Across the long months spent leveraging Alaric's protective guilt—extracting unmonitored clearance to the Inferior Archives, auditing sealed judicial briefs, probing every bloody scrap of the dormitory breach—he had never heard the former Vice-Commissioner assess the institution with such unvarnished bluntness. Even within the suffocating silence of the subterranean stacks, Alaric's cadence had always cleaved to the guarded, disciplined restraint of the Judicial Board.
Yet suspended here over the illuminated concourse, something about the spectacle had cleanly sheared through his administrative armor.
Alaric tapped a scarred knuckle against the chilled stone.
"Tuition alone doesn't keep eighty square kilometers of living rock aloft at ten thousand meters," Alaric murmured, his gaze tracking the iron stanchions partitioning the floor. "Levitation arrays demand staggering political concessions, rare mineral conduits, and institutional subsidies from continental superpowers. In return, Headmaster Agellid throws the gates of Sector Seven wide every autumn to grant those powers first claim on the Academy's finest assets."
He tipped his chin toward the heraldic banners draping the lower balustrades.
"Look closely at the regalia. Those aren't instructors. You have senior envoys from the continental Magic Towers, liaison commanders from ducal Knight Orders, trade arbiters from the merchant cartels, and chancellors representing sovereign thrones. Every one of them crossed our boundary with open coinpurses and signed charters."
Alaric turned his chin slightly, catching Arthur's calm, attentive gaze over his shoulder.
"And they came for exactly thirty students."
He pressed three fingers against the stone coping.
"The first-years are entirely barred—kept in quarantine until their probationary trials burn out the chaff. The fifth-years are already recruited, long gone, deployed across Geenna to serve their mandatory external apprenticeships. That leaves only the second, third, and fourth years—and strictly the apex ten of each cohort. That is why you two were brought here."
Down on the flagstones, Arthur watched the northern elder crowd into Vicktor's space, thrusting a crimson wax-sealed parchment toward the boy's chest; Vicktor's jaw knotted, his fists twitching at his sides like a leashed wolf fighting the urge to shatter bone. A dozen paces away, Alice tilted her braided head, her porcelain smile fixed in immaculate symmetry as an eastern envoy held up an ornate velvet case.
"Down on that floor, they circle Alice, Kaelen, and Vicktor because an uncommitted Honor Class ranking is the rarest currency in the magic world," Alaric said, the gravel in his throat hardening. "These organizations want early retainers, pledge sponsorships, and five-year indentures before you ever draft an independent research paper. They will offer private mana laboratories, baronial estates, noble commissions, and gold beyond reason."
Alaric let out a short, humorless exhalation through his teeth.
"They will smile, flatter your potential, and swear they desire only to cultivate your brilliance. But make no mistake: to the people on that floor—and to the administration watching from the high dais—you are not children grieving a loss or students seeking knowledge. You are living weapons, sovereign leverage, and investments to be bound before a rival tower takes you first."
Alaric paused. The hard line of his jaw eased, the cynical edge draining from his posture as his hazel eyes softened with fierce, paternal warmth. He turned fully away from the balustrade, looking straight down at Arthur.
"Celeste's house commands enough military iron that very few down there would risk cornering her without caution."
Beside them, Celeste lounged undisturbed, slouching deeper into the velvet cushions of her armchair as her boots rhythmically kicked against the polished mahogany legs. Her chin remained hooked over the padded armrest, amber-gold eyes idly tracking the kaleidoscope of heraldry below like a cat watching carp drift through a shallow pool.
"But for you, Cedric..." Alaric's voice dropped into a solemn, protective rumble. "They know the weight of the Saint's name. The second your boot touches those stairs, they will swarm."
He leaned down slightly, resting a heavy palm against the stone armrest of Arthur's chair, his broad shoulders casting a secure shadow over the boy.
"So hear me clearly: you do not owe them a single drop of ink tonight. You are under no obligation to touch their coin, pledge an oath to an Archmage, or indulge their flatteries. You sit right here, observe the room, and let them posture."
A resolute, unyielding conviction tightened Alaric's brow.
"If any envoy attempts to press past this balustrade and corner you into a covenant before you are ready, signal me—or anyone wearing these same colors. We represent the Central Mage Tower, and we are trained to intervene when guests become excessive."