Chapter 8 – The value of a Life
Emryr woke late.
His head ached, not the kind that throbbed, but the kind that lingered, like a thought you couldn't quite finish. The duel with Doe had taken more out of him than he'd expected. As everything in this world had a price.
He sat up with a quiet groan and rubbed his eyes.
The lilac decoction was gone. Of course. The vial sat empty, bone-dry. Doe had said he'd brew more. Soon. Until then, Emryr would have to deal with the echo of last night's spellwork like any responsible adult, by pretending it didn't bother him.
The manor was quiet, but not empty.
Olden shuffled somewhere down the hall, humming tunelessly while dusting furniture that had no dust. The woman, the one with the feather duster and a voice like a broom handle dragging across stone, gave Emryr a nod as he passed her on the stairs.
— "Alive, are we?" she muttered, not pausing her work.
— "Regrettably," Emryr replied with a thin smile. "But the day's still young. There's always hope."
He made his way through the manor with his cane tapping softly beside him. Not for support, just rhythm. A sound to think by.
Doe hadn't woken him. Likely a kindness, given the way the floor still swayed whenever he blinked too quickly. Or maybe Doe had simply decided he wasn't worth the effort that morning. Either possibility felt equally plausible.
The front door opened with a gentle creak, letting in a slice of pale, steady morning. London's sky stretched wide above, soft grey and luminous. Still. Intent. Smug, somehow.
Emryr stepped outside.
The cane struck stone. The Academy grounds loomed ahead.
Time to play nice. Or at least convincingly less bored.
The Academy grounds were calm.
Not quiet, exactly, but measured. Students moved in small groups along the walkways. Voices rose and fell in casual rhythm. Somewhere, a laugh echoed off marble.
It was the kind of day Albion excelled at: ordered, polished, quietly alive.
Emryr walked through it like a shadow with a schedule. He kept to the edges, half-present, watching everything with a detached sort of awareness. His headache persisted, but the open air helped.
"Day two," he thought, eyes half-lidded. " Already regretting consciousness. Again."
He turned a corner and heard raised voices.
A crowd had gathered near a marble bench at the edge of the east wing. At the center stood a blond student with a crisp coat and the kind of posture that implied generational arrogance.
— "You've drawn the stabilizer wrong," the blond snapped, pointing at an invisible formula in the air. "Again. That's the third time. You're going to collapse the spell structure if you keep improvising."
The boy across from him stammered an apology and started backing away.
Before the blond could press further, another student stepped between them. Dark-haired. Calm. He spoke with that careful friendliness Emryr had learned to mistrust.
— "Lucien, ease up," said the newcomer. "He made a mistake, no need to crucify him."
— "Alaric, are you truly suggesting we reward incompetence now?" Lucien replied, rolling his eyes.
— "Not reward. Just don't humiliate him in front of everyone," Alaric said evenly.
Emryr stepped into view.
— "Am I interrupting, or is this just the prelude to a duel?" Emryr said, offering a thin, ironic smile. "Because I'd really prefer to place bets before. It gives some advantage."
Lucien turned, gaze sharp. — "Ah. The assistant."
— "Emryr," said the dark-haired boy. "That was some demonstration yesterday."
— "Thanks. I'm still pretending I survived it," Emryr said, another smile ghosting across his lips. "The acting's going well."
— "Alaric Dray," the boy added, offering a hand.
Emryr shook it. Brief. Functional. Almost convincing.
Lucien folded his arms. — "Wonderful. Another one to pat the head of a dumbass?"
— "And you are?" Emryr asked, one brow rising.
— "Lucien Vaudren. Second-year. Dueling captain. Top of the class."
— "Charmed. Top marks, dueling captain, and humble? Should I get your autograph before you get too famous?" Emryr said, deadpan.
A few chuckles rippled through the students nearby.
— "You two done measuring egos?" Alaric asked, smiling as if out of habit.
Before Lucien could bite back, another voice slipped in, quiet, but with weight.
— "Mr. Emryr. Good morning."
He turned.
A girl stood just outside the circle. Younger in appearance, but not in presence. Her posture was precise. Measured. Controlled.
— "Good morning," Emryr said smoothly. "You're new."
— "Catherine."
— " Pleasure to meet you " he said, voice softer than expected.
There was no smile on her lips. But no scowl either.
— "Yesterday's class left me with some questions," Catherine said, voice calm. "Especially since you and your professor refused to explain anything about your friendly duel."
Emryr tilted his head, intrigued despite himself.— "That's the fun," he said, shrugging. "You get to guess. It builds character."
— "A little clarity wouldn't hurt either," Alaric added with a faint smile.
Lucien scoffed under his breath. Catherine ignored him.
— "What you and your professor used, that wasn't normal magic."
— "Maybe you just haven't seen enough to know what normal looks like," Emryr replied, sharp smile returning, she was too inquisitive…
— "Where did you learn it?" Catherine asked. "The way you cast… it was like you two were rewriting the room..."
Her tone was almost accusatory.
— "Do you interrogate everyone this much, or am I just lucky?" Emryr said. "Not the best way to make friends, by the way."
Catherine didn't blink.
— "Just curious about Lord Doe's disciple," she said lightly, though her eyes stayed sharp. "Funny, no one ever heard he had one."
That stopped him. Just for a breath.
So she does know something about him.
Before he could answer, the wind stopped.
Not slowed, stopped.
The leaves stilled. The breeze vanished. The quiet settled too neatly.
Emryr's fingers tightened around the cane.
Somewhere far off, a bell rang off-beat. A leaf turned the wrong way before landing. A bird shifted mid-flight. And many more strange things.
Dozens of variables aligning.
A whisper, too clean to be sound.
— "What is the value of a life?"
His breath hitched.
He knew that question.
And although he didn't exactly remembered the answer, he somehow knew it.
— "Infinite," he said softly. "Every life holds infinite potential, for good or bad."
Catherine watched him closely. Her eyes narrowed. Something had changed in him.
Gone was the slouch, the casual irony, like a mask dropped mid-performance.
In its place: the wide-eyed awe of someone seeing fire for the first time, dangerous, beautiful, and impossible to look away from.
He hadn't felt this way for as long as he could remember.
She stepped forward.
He moved first.
Not running. Not fleeing.
Walking. With purpose. His soul knew what he was looking for.
They tried to say something to him, but he ignored them.
Faster.
Past the courtyards. Down a corridor between the observatory and the old prayer hall.
Past three doors. He stopped at the fourth.
A room no one used. No one noticed.
He placed his hand on the knob.
Hesitated.
His fingers curled.
He opened the door.
And the world behind the door... was no longer Albion.