The door pulsed with a soft rune-glow, and a moment later, it slid open with the quiet hiss of magic under strain. The light in the room adjusted automatically to account for the new presence.
Belisarius stepped inside.
His black robes rustled faintly as the ambient wards acknowledged his clearance. He paused in the threshold, and for the first time in the last several decades, he allowed himself a very small, very human sigh.
The once-pristine room now resembled the halfway point between a war bunker, an alchemical facility, and a cursed museum. Shelves had self-assembled out of ambient stone, braced with stabilizer glyphs. Spells shimmered in the air like lazy fireflies, rotating containment seals and converter cores in unending arcs. The Reactor—the divine-spirit-turned-power-source—glowed on its conjured pedestal like a silent accusation. Metal parts had been sorted with neurotic precision, forming geometric clusters across the floor. A preserved, rune-engraved spine floated gently in a vial near the far wall.
"Where is he?" Belisarius asked, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
Roen looked up from the foldable table, hunched over, sipping some concoction Martin had brewed for headaches. "He's been nesting."
Behind a stack of reinforced cannon components, Martin's voice piped up. "Efficient nesting."
Belisarius walked past the armory-turned-living-space and stared at the array of artifacts with academic horror. "Why do you have cannons if you don't have anything to mount them on?"
"That's the first thing you ask?" Roen said, blinking.
"What should I ask, then?"
"About the dead cult leader's spine that he has?" Roen jabbed a thumb toward the floating remains.
Belisarius glanced briefly at the preserved vertebrae. "Let's save that discussion for later. I assume it's still inert?"
"For now," Martin muttered, not even looking up.
Belisarius exhaled slowly and held out a datapad. "The report's been filed. You're officially registered as an 'Independent Mage: Restricted Classification, Off-Grid, Conditional Clearance.'"
Martin blinked. "Explain in human, please."
"It means," Belisarius said, "you don't belong to any known mage faction. Varncrest has no prior contracts on you, no oaths binding you, and no ownership to invoke. You're a wild variable. That means privileges—along with scrutiny."
Martin tossed a wrench onto the table. "Sounds accurate. What's the catch?"
"No open research or experiments related to soul transference, animus harvesting, blood sacrifice, death curses, or time manipulation," Belisarius said flatly. "Those are absolute. Any violation means your clearance is revoked, your access to Varncrest systems is terminated, and you'll be subject to live enforcement from the Hunting Division."
Martin barely flinched. "I've buried more pursuers than you've recruited this decade."
"Then let's try to avoid another burial," Belisarius replied dryly.
Roen glanced between them. "Wait—you've worked with those categories before?"
"I told you," Martin said, pulling a small alchemical stabilizer from a drawer. "I used to raid cults for a living. Breaking blood circles and death rituals was half the job."
Belisarius's tone darkened. "Regardless of your intent, the rules aren't negotiable. You want to stay here, you stay within them. No exceptions."
"Fine." Martin flipped a rune over in his hand. "I have no interest in soul-stuff unless someone makes it my problem."
"Good."
Roen, looking slightly less nauseous, turned to Belisarius. "So, when does training start?"
"Tomorrow morning," the Warden replied.
Martin raised an eyebrow. "You're his mentor?"
"Who wouldn't want him?" Roen said. "I mean, aside from being a Warden, he's the guy they called the 'Ruin Bringer.'"
Martin stared at Belisarius more carefully now. "So you're that Belisarius. The one who collapsed the Void Channel in the Ul'dam Spiral."
Belisarius inclined his head. "Among other things."
"You also buried a war god in molten salt and personally forced the Enshrined Beast of Witherhall into cryo-seal," Martin said, half-impressed, half-stunned.
"Yes," Belisarius said again.
Martin clapped his hands once. "Okay. I respect you now."
Roen frowned. "Now?"
Martin shrugged. "I thought he was just a bureaucratic hardass who happened to share a name. I mean, look at him—he dresses like a philosophy lecturer who sends students to detention for citation errors."
"I do send students to detention for citation errors," Belisarius muttered.
Martin tossed his stylus aside. "Alright then, Warden. If I'm such a variable, what now?"
"Now, you integrate," Belisarius said. "Orientation is mostly ceremonial. Skip it. Here—" he handed Martin a small book, bound in runeleather. "Varncrest Academy Student Handbook. It has the laws, privileges, map overlays, dorm guidelines, and contact runes."
Martin flipped through it. "Okay, useful."
"More importantly," Belisarius said, eyes narrowing, "there are others."
Martin froze. "Others?"
"You're not the only one who got brought in under a Restricted Classification. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who thought a wild variable might be useful."
"Others like me?" Martin asked slowly.
"Not exactly," Belisarius replied. "Each one has a different origin. Different politics. Some were chosen, some were accidents. All of them are unpredictable. Dangerous. Volatile."
Roen frowned. "So this year's intake is a collection of experimental disasters."
"Controlled volatility," Belisarius said. "You'll be monitored, yes. Tracked, tested. But you'll also have access others won't. Resources, clearance levels, labs."
Martin closed the book. "Faculty or students?"
"Both," Belisarius said. "I don't have their names or details. Just confirmation of their existence. That should be enough."
Martin leaned back in his chair. "So you're saying I should expect to run into someone with the same kind of clearance as me—only with different scars and baggage."
"Correct."
"And if one of them decides to go off-script?"
"We handle it," Belisarius said coldly. "Together, if needed."
Martin chuckled. "This place gets more interesting by the day."
"I doubt you'll be bored," Belisarius said, already turning to leave. "Roen, walk with me. We need to finalize your combat schedule."
Roen stood, downed the rest of his herbal drink, and followed without a word.
As the door hissed shut behind them, Martin leaned back in his conjured chair, eyes drifting toward the Reactor. Its divine glow pulsed gently in rhythm with the ambient mana.
"Others, huh?" he murmured to himself. "Guess I won't be the weirdest thing on campus for long."
With that thought, he lay down on a conjured hammock, set a ward to wake him in six hours, and drifted off to sleep under the faint shimmer of cursed stars visible through the window.
To be continued...