Page 20 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

“Come on! Haven’t you wanted to at least once?” My cheeks pinched as I forced the quirky puppy dog smile I hadn’t broken out on Sarai since high school. “Could I stab myself?”

“No.”

“I just wanna—”

“This isn’t some game, Wally.” Sarai’s entire demeanor shifted. “There are serious implications being discussed right now. What happened at the Magus Estate. Magus Remington’s death. Everyone who was killed. And a devil unleashed with no true way of being contained again.”

“There might be something in the vault. I’d have to explore it, but—”

“But nothing. You won’t be exploring anything.” Chancellor Russo stood, waving her hand. It released a small gust, which carried the duffle bag toward me. “They’ll send someone to bring you a meal later. In the meantime, let’s get you cleaned up.”

She unzipped the bag, revealing a change of clothes, cloths, and a bottle of water. She dabbed a cloth with water. Taking off my broken glasses, she set them aside and brushed a damp cloth against my face. It tugged. Not painful but bothersome as she scrubbed dried blood away. Silently, I let her work. Three rags later and with flecks of blood on my ruined shirt, Sarai had finished. Afterward, she grabbed my glasses, chanting a soft incantation to mend the cracked lens. Symbols glittered across the glass, settling at the rims and fading once they were repaired.

“Thanks.”

“I hope everything works out, Wally.”

“Have you spoken to my parents?” With everything happening, I hadn’t considered until this moment how it’d affect them. My siblings. Everyone. The Alden name carried a lot of weight, but even they couldn’t fix suspicion that I’d actively made a Diabolic binding.

“Just your mother. She was opinionated.”

I grimaced. “Of course.”

Sarai left. The stone door closed behind her, a glow beneath confirming the barrier was intact again.

I wiped away what grime I could with the remaining cloths. Not exactly the shower I wanted, the shower I needed, after getting a quick whiff of my pits. Guess my deodorant wasn’t run-for-your-life-and-try-not-to-die proof. Still, this gave me a task. Something I controlled.

I changed into the loose-fitting black sweatpants, tightening the draw string as much as possible. They were still saggy. The white shirt was tight and itchy. I emptied my pockets, realizing they’d taken my card key but left my wallet and phone. Not that either did me much good here. My phone had zero bars.

Pacing the room didn’t alleviate my nerves, fears, or wandering mind during the hours of silent contemplation.

The barrier glowed again, and the stone door opened. Maybe whoever came to bring me food would be open to a little conversation. Two older sentinels entered the room wearing stern expressions and carrying shackles in their hands. I doubted this would lead to a funny chat.

“Put your arms forward, hands open, and facing up,” the first one said.

“What’s going on?” I asked, which the sentinel ignored. “Is this part of the protocol?”

Again, my question was ignored. This must be standard practice. That was all. They’d acknowledge me otherwise.

I took an uneasy breath and obeyed the directive, allowing the first sentinel to cuff my wrists, while the second kept a careful eye on my hands like he worried I’d attempt casting. Clearly, neither had been briefed on my talentless exploits. Honestly, the magically imbued cuffs were overkill, but the Collective had endless rules and policies, so I just needed to go along with it until they’d sorted all this out.

There was no reason to panic over formal procedures, especially when I’d done nothing wrong. Once I spoke with someone in charge, they’d realize this was a big misunderstanding, an accident, and everything would be fine.

“This way.” The first nudged me toward the door.

I walked side-by-side with the sentinels down the dark stone hallway. There were few holding cells. Maybe. It was difficult to discern the doors from the walls in this dim lighting. Occasionally, the glossy sheen of a barrier made a door pop out. This place was a lot bleaker than I’d imagined, and I’d always figured the prison system for misfit mages was pretty awful.

We walked up a staircase. The boost of Sarai’s healing magic helped make the trudge easier, but after seven flights, I wanted to reach an end or for them to use the elevator I’d arrived in. The Regiment Headquarters was a vast building, holding layouts for each of the six regiments to do business independently or collaboratively if the need arose. The building was firmly planted as a front for some conglomerate, which kept out prying eyes, and the close proximity to the Mythic Council and Magus Estate made this a key location to maintaining order. Not that it did any good for Magus Remington or everyone else assigned to the estate.

We passed the windowless, armored walls of the civil courthouse, where lesser crimes were handled. I didn’t frequent this area much, aside from the occasional Alden business, but there should’ve been others here. The open area was completely empty, silent except for our footsteps. We reached the end of the hall where huge iron doors spanned wide and reached high to the ceiling. It required two sentinels to saturate the crank in tandem to draw the daunting door open.

I tensed while standing in front of the Tribunal Courtroom entrance. My chest tightened, and I struggled to breathe, but I continued rationalizing my paranoia away because I’d be fine.

There were no chairs inside. No tables. No audience. I was escorted to a single podium in the center of the room placed below high benches that stretched along the wall. All six Regiment Chancellors were seated at their individual bench. The Magi seat remained vacant.

A decorative white tapestry with a golden symbol of the panacea regiment hung on the wall behind Chancellor Russo. Sarai’s kind smile was a small comfort. Seated next to Sarai was Chancellor Driscoll, an elderly man who’d served as the head of the vanguard regiment longer than any of the others had served. He was actually supposed to be the next magus once upon a time, but his feats paled in comparison to Remington’s. Driscoll scowled. Avoiding his gaze, I stared at the dark red emblem of the sword crossed with a dagger. The craftsmanship behind these tapestries was lovely. I would’ve enjoyed learning if they were simply stitched or if perhaps some wonderful magic had been at play. This was not how I wanted my first viewing to go.

Chancellor Belmont cleared his throat, drawing my attention. Heath. A nice gentleman who encouraged the change in my degree. The archivist symbol of an orange tome highlighted his fiery red hair. It’d gotten a bit wispier since the last time we’d seen each other.

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