Page 89 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

“How dare you.” My mother balled a fist. Weapons lining the walls of her office rattled.

“The first thing I learned becoming an archivist was to investigate without assumptions. Never delve into your research believing you already have the answer.”

“What have you done to me?” she asked, realizing the incantations secured around her office waned, not registering or attaching to her mana.

“I almost made that mistake when analyzing the grimoire found on Vanguard Corvine,” I explained, ignoring her question. “You see, Al believed it was connected to proof about Chancellor Driscoll’s involvement, and I believed Al. I supposeactingMagus Driscoll since he died before the ink dried and all that. Point is, it filled a preconceived idea and connected dots in the weirdest way.”

She rushed to the wall, grabbing the first weapon she could pry off a mounted display. I flicked my wrist, accessing the telekinesis embedded in the essence offered to me by Bez. The axe flew from my mother’s hands and into a neighboring wall.

“Once I threw out my preconceived notions, the pieces fit together so much better,” I continued, more for myself than her. As per usual, she’d rather see me dead than listen to what I had to say.

This was a pretty triumphant moment, and she didn’t care. Bez didn’t either. He didn’t even listen when I explained the intricacies of my plan, claiming killing her would be easier.

“The grimoire was too perfectly connected to Driscoll. A fake enemy you allowed to rise above you as acting Magus so you could lay the blame at his feet. If anyone other than me had gotten their hands on the grimoire, I doubt they’d have made the connections. Yes. It belonged to an elite vanguard mage. Yes. It had the fine binding craftsmanship of the artificer regiment. Yes. It held access to the Nexus Grimoire, something only an archivist should have. And all those keys and codes pointed to the secrecy of the infiltration regiment. If I’d had a few more days, I’d probably have found a link to the panacea regiment, too.”

She seethed with rage, refusing to acknowledge a single word I’d uttered. Her eyes scanned me, searching for incantations or tech meant to record her complicit actions. As if I’d be so pedestrian.

“Chancellor Victoria Alden always taught us as children in order to be the best defenders, it’s important for sentinels to know how all regiments work.” I smiled. “Your way of guiding us to protect the Collective from outside threats and those within.”

Her obsession with awe-inspired names for her children came from her own name, given to her by her grandfather, a tradition from his father before him and down many generations of powerful Alden’s dating back to the founding of the Collective.

Victoria meant victory, something she believed fated to her at every encounter.

Victory didn’t lie in her future anymore. She held her hands close together, creating the tiniest spark of lightning. An attempt almost as tragic as every practitioner exam I’d shown up to.

“It won’t work. I’ve stunned your mana.”

She glared.

“It’s temporary.” I shrugged, treating this complex siphon of her magic like a trivial casting when in actuality, it required all five Pentacles of Power. First, I needed the Mythic toxin from the glands of a basilisk. Another request from Mora and a debt I was certain she’d collect one day. I had to channel water through it to funnel away the deadliest aspects, then use incantations to alter the numbing agents to specifically target the nerve receivers which channeled mana. After that, I needed a familiar to administer the toxin, which I had to calmly saturate, and finally glamour to sneak inside.

It was a really amazing process. She wouldn’t want to hear it. Bez rolled his eyes the entire time I explained my plan, claiming that it was too many steps. Sure, killing her would’ve been quicker, but I wanted her to live with this. Feel how her ego and ambition destroyed a legacy she claimed I was never fit to inherit.

“You should get used to not having access to your magic. Trust me, it sucks.” I snickered at the reversal of fortunes in our casting. “Once Chancellor Russo sifts through the evidence I’ve provided and finds the long list of stolen items from the archives in your home, I’m sure the other chancellors will have you brought before the Collective to properly bind your magic or simply lock you away in some dungeon for the rest of your days.”

Both truly abhorrent acts, each kinder than what she’d planned for me.

My mother threw things from her desk, hurling items and profanities at me in equal measure. I left her, taking my final leave from the Regiment Headquarters, the Collective, and the Alden legacy.

Once outside, I hopped on a broom someone had left unattended. Saturating the sigils with my mana, I levitated high above the streets, cloaking my presence with a glamour. I soared freely through the city, allowing the wind to carry away my anxiety.

30

30

Beelzebub

Mora rummaged through the treasure of artifacts I’d brought from the Alden Manor, treating them like baubles. Wally wanted to allow the Collective to keep most as evidence to use against his mother. Killing her would’ve been quicker. Quieter too. Bet she wailed and cried at his spells. It was a sophisticated measure he’d developed to bind her casting. I listened to him prattle about it for hours, explaining the history of each step. How most had been lost or remained unknown since whoever didn’t share whatever with whomever or something.

“So, I’m meant to discreetly unload all these trinkets on my own time?” Mora asked, feigning irritation—if she were really annoyed, she’d have simply avoided me.

“Yes. Think of it as a way to improve relations while you maintain a lower presence.”

“Because your audacious arrival has put a spotlight on all things Diabolic.” She picked up some elven hand mirror, studying the fine craftsmanship while primping her hair. “I’m not just handing them out. I’ll do my best to make a modest profit off this junk.”

“I really don’t care.” I rolled my eyes as she delicately set the mirror back onto the table, being extra careful with the so-calledjunk.

The few things Wally sent me to pilfer from his family home were items he believed would end up lost in bureaucratic red tape for the better part of a century.

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