Paragon of Destruction

Arran reluctantly accepted the unhelpful attention. If he was to play the part of a shocked initiate who had just barely escaped death, he couldn’t seem too confident.

When the Matriarch arrived a short while later with several dozens of mages following behind her, there was a look of relief on the guardswoman’s face. At once, she left Arran’s side and hurried toward the Matriarch.

"Lady Matriarch," she began. "There was an ambush. When we—"

The Matriarch cut her off with a gesture. "My apprentice will tell me what happened." Paying no further mind to the guardswoman, she approached Arran, then knelt beside him. "Are you all right?"

Arran nodded. "Other than a few bruises, I’m fine."

The Matriarch frowned, clearly not content to take his word for it. She reached out with her right hand and placed it against his chest, and briefly, a look of concentration appeared on her face. "You have three broken ribs."

"I’ve had worse than that," Arran replied truthfully. "A few days of rest, and I’ll be all healed."

The Matriarch looked him in the eyes for several seconds, her eyes betraying concern. But then, she sighed, and her expression softened. "I suppose so," she said. "But tell me what happened. In detail."

Arran did as she asked, describing the attack in as much detail as he could. Yet rather than reveal his resistance to magic, he attributed his survival to Brightblade’s amulet, exaggerating its power more than a little.

The Matriarch listened intently as he spoke, and when he finished, she nodded thoughtfully. "This amulet. Show it to me."

Arran handed her the amulet without hesitation, silently hoping that she would not see through his lies. Deceiving someone of her strength was the last thing he wanted to do, but there was no other choice — not without revealing his true strength.

By now, he trusted the Matriarch enough that he would have done so gladly, but the secret was one that Brightblade had instructed him to keep.

The Matriarch studied the amulet for several moments, and from the scowl that appeared on her face, Arran feared that his deception had failed.

Finally, the Matriarch shook her head. "It’s gone," she said in a regretful tone. "I’m afraid that not enough of the enchantment remains for me to restore it."

"That’s a shame," Arran said, taking care to hide his relief. "But it served its purpose."

"You don’t understand," the Matriarch replied in a sharp tone. "A treasure like this... Even an amulet that can protect against novices’ attacks is a priceless artifact. But this..." She shook her head ruefully. "Brightblade will not take its loss lightly."

Arran stared at her in disbelief. He had just suffered an attempt on his life, but the Matriarch seemed more concerned with the loss of an amulet. That he had never been in any real danger hardly mattered — she didn’t know about that.

Moreover, even if his attackers now lay dead on the road, there was no reason to believe they didn’t have more powerful backers. And although Arran had little reason to worry about adepts, he wasn’t nearly as confident in his chances against a group of Masters — or worse.

"That’s what you’re worried about?" he asked. "The amulet?"

As the Matriarch took her eyes off the now-useless item, there was a brief look of confusion on her face before understanding dawned in her eyes.

"Your safety is more important, of course," she said. "But you survived the attack. And there won’t be another."

"How do you know?" Arran asked, not at all convinced by her reassuring words. He had been attacked within the Valley, in broad daylight, barely a quarter-hour from the Matriarch’s own House of Seals. That people dared do such a thing even here suggested that the Matriarch’s ire was hardly a sufficient deterrent.

"I will make sure of it," she replied. Though she spoke softly, her voice carried a hint of something dark. Not anger, exactly — something more dangerous than that.

Arran briefly considered asking her what she was planning, but he quickly thought better of it. Whatever the Matriarch had in mind would become clear soon enough, that much was obvious.

"Now, you should return to your residence," the Matriarch said. "I will send along several mages to protect you until I can be certain there are no more threats."

"All right," Arran said, keeping his expression calm despite the unwelcome news.

In truth, having the Matriarch’s people guarding him was the last thing he wanted. To have strangers look over his shoulder as he trained would be no small hindrance. But he couldn’t refuse the offer — not without drawing the Matriarch’s suspicion.

"Kephas, Galene," the Matriarch called out. At once, two of the mages from her group stepped forward, a man and a woman. She faced them with a severe expression, then said, "I entrust the both of you with the safety of my apprentice. Do not let him out of your sight — not until this threat has been dealt with."

The two mages nodded as one, their eyes immediately turning to Arran. When he returned their gaze, he found that their eyes held a hint of power — the kind of thing he’d only ever seen in the strongest of mages. Though he couldn’t be certain, he thought they would be Grandmasters at the least, though more likely Archmages.

The Matriarch turned back to Arran, then said, "Return to your residence and take the week to recover. We will resume your studies once you are fully healed."

She took some moments to provide Arran’s new guards with instructions, then spent several more minutes urging Arran to rest properly until he was healed. While there was little need for the advice — his injuries were already healing and would be gone before the end of the day — he appreciated her concern all the same.

The way back to the House of Seals was short and familiar, but the two mages accompanying Arran treated it like an expedition into dangerous territory, constantly wary of hidden dangers. For this, he could not blame them — he had been attacked in a place that should be as safe as any in the Valley, after all.

Their expressions only eased when they passed through the House’s gates, and even then only slightly. While the idea of an attack within the stronghold was ridiculous, it was obvious that they were not inclined to take any chances.

When they arrived at Arran’s mansion, they found both Jovan, Doran, and Anthea already waiting at the gate, concern written across their faces.

Arran explained what had happened as they made their way into the gardens, with their looks of worry only fading once they were certain that Arran was fine.

As he told the events, however, something that almost resembled amusement appeared on Doran’s face.

"They sent adepts?" he asked incredulously. "Against you?"

While Doran didn’t know about Arran’s resistance to magic, the two of them had sparred often enough that he knew all too well how easily Arran could take down an adept.

"They intended to kill me before I could respond," Arran replied. "Though I suspect they misjudged their target."

At these last words, he gave Jovan a grateful smile. There could be little doubt that the attackers had tried to gain information before committing to their plan, and from the result, it was clear that they had failed to do so.

Jovan shrugged, though with a hint of embarrassment on his face. "I told the boys to keep their mouths shut, is all. Figured you wouldn’t want the entire Valley to know about your skills."

"And a good thing you did," Arran said. "But now, let’s eat — fighting always makes me hungry."

Jovan quickly had the cooks prepare a lavish meal, rich with meat and poultry, which he claimed would help Arran heal faster.

"How long will they be staying here?" Anthea asked as they ate, casting a furtive glance at the two mages the Matriarch had sent to protect Arran. Both had declined to join the meal, instead silently keeping watch from a few dozen paces away.

"At least a week," Arran said. He fervently hoped it wouldn’t be more — already, their presence was beginning to make him uneasy.

Barely an hour had passed when Brightblade arrived, hurrying into the gardens with an expression that contained worry and fury in equal parts.

"Tell me what happened," she said to Arran as she approached. "The rest of you, begone. Now!" Doran, Jovan, and Anthea immediately did as she said — her tone brooked no objections. Yet the two mages didn’t move even a single step, instead looking at Brightblade with suspicious eyes.

"I said, begone!" Brightblade roared. And as she spoke, Arran could Sense her seize a terrifying amount of Essence.