Chapter 393

Although Devon clearly wanted a private conversation, the Grandmaster was not one to interrupt a training session for a quick reunion, so Nick had to wait for his brother to finish the long series of sword forms he was learning.Usually, it would have been a good time to catch up with Sonya or even get some martial training himself, but during his absence, things had changed within Wolfram Manor.

Three more servants had been hired, all strong enough to easily pass as veteran soldiers if his senses weren’t lying. After greeting him, his brother’s girlfriend disappeared into the back garden to tend to the plants.

His curiosity was starting to stir, but Nick could only wait in silence since Devon was clearly learning an advanced skill, and no one else seemed interested in explaining the mystery to him.

An hour later, he was released from his duties, and Devon finally led Nick away from the courtyard into his room. It was still sparsely furnished, mainly with training gear and well-used books on swordplay, but the odd tension in the air made it feel cramped.

"She won't tell me everything," Devon admitted, his voice low as he closed the door. He paced the small room, frustration clear in his demeanor. “But I can tell she’s genuinely scared about something, and Master won’t explain either as long as she doesn’t.”

“Was there any explanation for the increased security and staff, at least?” Nick asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“We’ve had a few people snooping,” Devon said distractedly. “Nobody that could be a threat, of course, but they were annoying enough that Master decided to have someone else deal with them.”

Devon stopped pacing and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "She… she grew up near the coast, and I know her family was involved in running the city, so I imagine it’s related to the number of priests that have come to the city.”

Nick frowned. “Do you think they might be looking for her? Or is it just bad memories?”

“That’s the part she won't explain,” Devon said darkly. “But when she saw a priest carrying a coral staff in the market last week, she nearly fainted, and she’s basically refused to leave the manor ever since.”

“So there’s clearly something going on,” Nick mused. He couldn’t come up with a more specific explanation, not with how little information he had, but that wasn’t normal behavior. Sonya was pretty reserved, but as far as he knew, she’d been coming out of her shell lately. For her to regress this much…

“Are you sure nothing else happened? You told me you took her to a few events for nobles. Did anything happen there?” he asked.

But Devon was already shaking his head. “Nothing that would explain this. She was nervous about being isolated or rejected by the others, but my friends were all welcoming, and even those who are usually more standoffish, like Drusilla Boer, never treated her badly. No, until Ulter’s priests started flooding in, she was fine.”

Seeing his brother’s helpless frustration didn't feel good, but Nick didn’t think his usual methods would help much here. Sonya was as well protected inside the Manor as anyone could reasonably be.

With the Grandmaster taking extra steps to protect her—because he doubted the old man was truly bothered by a few people snooping around—it would require a truly catastrophic event for her to be in danger.

No, this whole matter would need to be handled carefully, and given how busy his near future was likely to be, Nick didn’t think sticking his nose into it would help.

“Has anything else changed while I was gone?” he asked, more to distract his brother than anything, but surprisingly, Devon grunted in the affirmative and walked over to his desk, where he plucked a letter from a drawer and handed it over.

Nick quickly skimmed its contents, feeling his eyebrows raise as he read about their father’s exploits in the north.

“Huh, he seems to be having the time of his life hunting dwarves,” he chuckled. His own experiences with psychics weren’t nearly as satisfying, but he supposed a Prestige class didn’t need to worry as much about their tricks.

“He’s been winning a lot, but there are a few concerning issues,” Devon explained, clearly setting aside the matter of his paramour for the moment. “His company is pushing further than many others who have greater support and equipment, so they’ve been working to throttle the aid he receives rather than increasing their own efforts.”

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Nick exhaled, feeling deeply annoyed but not surprised. Not every nobleman he’d met was a scumbag, but enough of them were that he couldn’t say he was surprised. Especially with how much House Crowley had grown, their rise must have made many older lineages envious.

“Is there anything we can do?” He asked.

Surprisingly, Devon nodded. “I’ve been working with other nobles to prevent them from becoming completely isolated, and I believe your presence could make a difference. You should join us at the next ball.”

Nick pursed his lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Devon looked at him in surprise, prompting Nick to quickly recount everything that had happened in the dungeon and his subsequent return to the Tower.

“Gods, you can’t catch a break, can you?” Devon asked, and Nick was so surprised by the sentiment that he burst out laughing.

Chuckles shook his frame for a while until he finally composed himself. “Sorry, it’s been a stressful time.”

“I get that,” his brother replied, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder. “I should probably take a bath before the smell makes one of the new maids come. They are burly enough to put Akari to shame, and I don’t want to find out what they’d do to me.”

Nick chuckled and put the letter back down. “Yeah, I need to go anyway. Master Tholm will probably want to discuss the trial with us, so I shouldn’t stay out for too long.”

As he walked back down, he found Xander standing near the door, clearly waiting for him. "Walk with me to the gate, Nicholas," he rasped.

They stayed silent for a while, the gravel crunching under their boots. "The city is changing," Xander said. "The Duke is consolidating power. The nobles are panicking. And now the temples are flexing their muscles. Be prepared for things to get even more chaotic.”

Given what Nick expected his next few days to be like, he had trouble imagining the situation could get any worse. “I will try to stay at the Tower, then.”

Xander chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "The Tower is not much safer than the rest of the city. Tholm has many enemies, and they won’t hesitate to attack you to hurt him, especially since you have risen so high. Do not assume that just because you are innocent, you are safe. In Alluria, innocence is just a lack of leverage.”

They reached the iron gates, and Xander turned to face him. “Do not worry too much about your brother and the girl, I will keep them safe. Worry about yourself.”

Unfortunately, Xander didn’t seem intent on saying more and was already leaving.

Tholm didn’t let them rest for the next two days. He transformed his study into a war room, covering the blackboards with diagrams of Tower Law, precedents from the last century, and possible lines of questioning.

"Raphael," he barked, pacing in front of the exhausted spatial mage. "The prosecutor asks why you didn't try to capture Joran alive. Answer.”

“Because he was using lethal force,” Raphael recited dutifully. "Tower Protocol 44, Subsection C: When in a combat zone, if a rogue mage employs Class-3 alchemy or actively endangers the other team members’ lives, lethal force is permitted."

"Good. But don't sound like you're reading a manual," Tholm corrected. “You should sound like a leader who made a hard call. You saved your team! Believe it, and make the others believe it.”

He turned to Nick. "And you, Crowley. Nalia is going to focus on the 'Forbidden Magic' aspect once she fails to charge any murder charges. She will ask how a student disrupted a Prestige-tier ritual without using dark arts.”

"I took advantage of the disruption caused by the artifact used by Captain Vane," Nick said smoothly, using the cover story they had crafted. It even had the benefit of being partly true. "Leveraging the instability of the incomplete ritual against itself, I caused it to collapse, and the backlash killed the Guardian.”

"Keep it vague," Tholm warned. "If you start explaining how, the prosecution will twist it into reckless endangerment, considering your lack of experience. Stick to the results unless they ask specific questions. You were successful in defeating the enemy and even gained recognition from the King’s Shadows. That is worth a lot even within the Tower.”

The wait was the toughest part. Confined to the seventy-seventh floor, Nick spent his free hours in the lab, refining and exploring the depths of his soul, or staring out the window at the city below, watching the currents of mana shift as the clergy’s influence spread like oil.

Finally, the morning of the third day arrived.

They were awakened before dawn and dressed in the formal robes Tholm had provided for everyone, deep blue silk embroidered with the silver sigil of the Tower, but without any personal or House markings. They were to present themselves as students, nothing more, nothing less.

"No foci," Tholm ordered as they gathered in the library. "Leave your staves, your wands, and your artifacts here. The Hall of Judgment has absolute suppression wards, so they won’t work, and anything that could be misconstrued as aggressive will be seen as an insult to the Court.”

Nick left the Shard on his desk with a pang of reluctance. He felt exposed without it, but he could feel the Tree of Life humming in his chest, a reassurance that he was never truly unarmed.

They took the elevator up, passing all the Archmages’ private floors, the forbidden libraries, and reaching the ninetieth floor, almost at the top of the Tower, just below the Spire itself, where Horatio Bluetear lived.

The doors opened onto a massive, circular hall.

The ceiling was a domed glass canopy, enchanted to display the dawn sky in all its splendor. The floor was polished marble, reflecting the light like a mirror, and in the center of the room stood a raised dais for the accused, surrounded by a semi-circle of twelve high-backed chairs that loomed over them like gargoyles.

The gallery above was crowded. Nick noticed the sparkle of jewelry, the robes worn by senior mages, and even a few shrouded presences that could only belong to other Archmages.

“Steady now," Tholm whispered to his apprentices as he led them toward the center. “Keep your heads up. You have done nothing wrong.”

He left them at the dais and moved to take his seat in the observer’s box reserved for Archmages, leaving the students standing alone in the center of the vast, silent room.

Nick took a deep breath, soaking in the emotional tone of the room.

It was a cacophony of curiosity, greed, and boredom from the gallery, but his focus was on the twelve judges who were just filing in.

They were elderly men and women, their faces obscured in the shadows of their hoods, dressed in the blue and gold of the High Tribunal.

The judge on the far left—a wizened woman with hands like claws—glowed with a cold, greasy yellow. She stared at Raphael as if he were a stain on the floor.

Three seats down, a heavyset wizard sat with his arms crossed. His aura pulsed with an angry, red glow. Personal, deep-seated hatred.

He scanned the rest. Four were a muddy gray of neutrality. Two had a faint blue hue, curious or perhaps sympathetic. But another one, near the center, radiated the same sickly red malice.