138 – The Future is a Flexible Thing

“What is your name?”

“Malfrasius Patoal.”

“Where are you from?”

“The Kingdom of Chama.”

“What business are you here on?”

“I’m here for a study abroad program.”

Across the table from Mal, the draconid stared at him with narrowed eyes. He wrote something down on a thin sheet of paper, the sounds of the pencil scratching filling the room, the only noise that could be heard other than Mal’s own breathing.

Overhead, a single glowing magic orb rested in mid-air, filling the room with a sickly yellow light.

Mal had been here for the past ten minutes, answering variants of the same question. Despite receiving the same answers over and over, the draconid had yet to switch it up. The familiar weight of Mal's satchel was gone, too, his knives and daggers also taken on the way in.

He was trying to get Mal angry, frustrated. But why?

Mal couldn’t think of what potential benefit that would bring—wait, no. Though he had never personally interrogated anybody, he had people who did in the first timeline.

They were likely trying to get Mal to view this particular interrogator as the enemy, so that when another one came along, Mal would be primed and ready to give up all potential information.

It wouldn't work, of course.

There was a rap on the door from the outside. The interrogator stood up from his chair, walked over to the door, and opened it up. The two nodded at each other and switched out.

The second draconid sat down in the seat and smiled at Mal.

“Sorry about the rough treatment,” the new draconid said. “We’ve been looking deeper into things, and we’re pretty sure that this is all a great big misunderstanding. I just need you to answer a few questions honestly, and then we can get you out of here.”

“Of course.”

Of course not. Like hell I’m going to be answering any questions.

The draconid flipped through a sheet of paper—the same paper that the other draconid had been writing on.

“So you’re a student?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And I’m guessing you were traveling with those other students on board? Are they friends of yours?”

“Yes.”

“The terse type, huh? That’s fine. We have a lot of suspects who talk my ear off. I appreciate the change of pace.”

Mal elected not to respond.

“Anyway, there’s really only one key question that I need to know. As soon as you answer it, we’ll be able to get you out of here.”

Mal tapped his foot against the ground.

“Have you ever used dark magic?”

A beat of silence.

“Just to be clear, you’re not in trouble if you have. Young wizards do stupid things. This is all just to make sense of some other information that we received.”

“Of course not,” Mal said.

“Good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” He stood up from his seat. “I’ll just need you to sign something and you’ll be free to leave—”

Another knock at the door.

Mal’s eyes narrowed. It was suspiciously timed. Too exact. The door swung open, revealing the face of the first interrogator. He walked up to the second and slid a piece of paper across the table. The second interrogator read through it. He set it back down and rolled his clawed fingers across the wood in a repeated drumbeat.

“Mr. Patoal, you claim to have never touched dark magic.”

“Yes.”

“Then why is your body soaked in the stuff?”

Crap.

There were multiple possible reasons. It could have been leftovers from when Mal had performed the dark ritual to help Lusia. It could have been that they were counting all aligned magic as dark magic, in which case, well, Mal was soaked in the stuff. It could have been specifically the withering-type mana that was probably still circulating in his body.

No matter what the option, Mal couldn’t see very many ways to talk his way out of the situation.

“Can I ask how you know that?” Mal said.

“You were scanned on the way in,” the second interrogator said. “And the scan just came back positive.”

“That’s not how dark magic detectors work. They’re instantaneous. They don’t get sent off to another location.”

“That’s how ours work. We know that the Kingdom of Chama prefers instantaneous scanners, but we’ve found them too unreliable. We use slower-acting runes that give a more exact answer.”

There was a hint of frustration in the second interrogator’s voice. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but there.

Frustration toward Mal?

No, frustration toward Chama, and the fact that they thought they were better than the draconids.

This is going to be a terrible idea, but if it buys me a bit more time, it might be worth it.

“I think the term you’re looking for is inefficient,” Mal said.

The second draconid let out a strained chuckle. “Well, that’s just your opinion.”

“It’s all right. I understand. The Violeko Empire is lagging behind the Kingdom of Chama when it comes to spellcraft. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The first interrogator’s lips drew into a thin line.

"You're on thin ice, boy."

"What, embarrassed?" Mal said. "You'll get there eventually, don't worry."

By this point, the faux smile on the second interrogator's face had long since slipped away.

He stood up. "I'll be stepping outside for a moment."

Another nod passed between the first and second interrogators. The second interrogator left the small room, leaving Mal alone with the first interrogator, the mean one.

"I know what you are," the first interrogator said. "You're a cultist. Don't try to hide it."

"You're so embarrassed by your country

that you'd resort to an accusation like that. Pretty pathetic, don't you think?"

"Quiet."

Faster than Mal could perceive, the blunt side of the draconid's claws banged against his jaw like a hammer.

Pain blossomed across Mal's cheek instantly. Blood seared from the inside of his mouth across his tongue, hot and cold all at once. Mal's head was carried by the momentum, his body forced to follow the motion. He just barely managed to grip the edges of the chair and avoid being thrown off.

Mal swallowed the blood and ran his tongue along the wound.

This could end badly.

The draconid stood up. He walked around to the other side of the table so that he was face to face with Mal.

"We're going to get every last bit of information out of you if it's the last thing we do."

The draconid reached out his claws toward Mal's robes. In that moment, Mal had a decision to make.

He could either consent to what was probably going to be the beating of a lifetime, or he could try to get out.

It seemed clear to Mal that the draconids didn't believe him. There was a real risk of death during torture, and Mal still had things to do.

His best shot was to get to Igna and have her sort things out. But to do that, he needed to get out of this room and away from the interrogators.

Mal dove to the side and over the table, dodging the swipe of the draconid's claws.

Mal didn't have access to his satchel or his knives, but they hadn't noticed his boots or his gloves.

Stored-up wind launched out of his boots and his body left the ground in a spinning motion.

His foot did a complete cycle and smashed into the side of the draconid's head with an audible crack.

The draconid fell to the ground in a heap.

Mal landed, hit the wall, and fell backwards onto the ground and against the table, creating a loud, clattering noise. A second later, the door opened. The other interrogator stared at Mal, then at the downed interrogator on the floor.

Mal rolled to the side and jumped back up to a standing position. He dashed forward, hand outstretched. The draconid brought his hand forward to grab Mal.

Mal let the latent fire in his Firegloves burst out in a roaring blaze. The draconid shut his eyes and stumbled back. Mal slipped around him with a quick movement, then broke off in a sprint through the damp dungeon halls. Ahead, he spotted his satchel to the side. He swept it off the ground and swung it on his shoulder.

He just saw the light of day up a set of stairs when two figures blocked the front. From behind, he could hear the sounds of rapid footsteps. He checked around him. Moss coated the stone, and the roots of various plants were rubbing up directly against the other side of the rock walls. Mal was just about to drag them out when—

"Causing trouble?"

The two draconids in front jumped and looked behind themselves. Igna strode down the staircase and passed between them as if they weren't even there.

The other two draconids, who were running toward Mal, slowed to a stop.

"I leave you alone for an hour," she said, "and you go and get yourself arrested."

She sighed. "Really, you're rather irresponsible, aren't you?"

"It was an utter nightmare taking care of all of that, and you're not going to be allowed to walk around the city unsupervised after that little disaster. The draconids wouldn't allow it."

Mal suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Very well, Professor."

They were inside of a small inn that had been reserved by the school, in a common area, where they'd been served some tea. Igna took a sip of hers, then set it back down on the table.

"Can I at least ask why they thought that I was a terrorist?" Mal said.

Igna's lips moved into a smile. "I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

"I tried to find out, but whatever tipped them off seems to be deeply classified. I couldn't get a word out of them, not even a hint."

"That's a little surprising."

"It's also rather curious, isn't it? What could you be connected to that would have such security, such lack of trust surrounding it?"

"I couldn't tell you, I don't know any more than you."

She scoffed, her eyes as sharp as pinpricks. "I read the reports from those draconids. You summoned fire from your hand? Propelled yourself off the ground with vast amounts of force? It seems a little bit outside the range of a typical first-year student."

Mal kept his face straight. Completely lying wouldn't work. She already had irrefutable proof that he was doing something he wasn't supposed to. Telling the truth—at least the whole truth—would invite further questions that he wouldn't be able to answer. Why did he choose to shatter his core? Why pursue witchcraft?

No... come to think of it, Mal didn't have to tell the whole truth. He could pick out the parts that would lead to the least amount of suspicion. In fact, he had the perfect cover story.

"I've been learning witchcraft."

Igna went perfectly still. "Is that so?"

"As you know, I have an F-grade core. I'm unusually weak. This is a way for me to close the gap with my peers."

She hummed and tapped her index finger against her chin. "It sounds like a plausible story, I'll admit."

Her fingers stilled.

"But you must understand, I've had my fair share of dealings with witches. It takes a lifetime to get to your level of proficiency. There's a reason why wizardry replaced witchcraft, for the most part."

"I'm rather talented at the craft."

"Supernaturally talented." She tilted her head. "Could you demonstrate for me?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mal caught sight of a potted plant. He sent out a mental pulse to his bramblevine bracelet and the plant grew upward by a few inches.

She laughed. "Do you expect me to believe that's all you're capable of doing?"

"You'd be surprised how effective a small thing could be—"

She teleported out of sight. Mal's senses went haywire. Total Awareness kicked in and screamed at him that a pulse of mana was coming from behind him. He gripped the potted plant with his mana and requested it to strike at the source. The vine grew out with such force that it knocked the pot to the ground, it extended out, and wrapped around what he knew to be Igna's hand, just on the verge of closing around the back of his throat.

Mal slowly turned back to face her. "What was that?"

She reached with her other hand and ripped the vine off her wrist. "I could ask you the same question, Mr. Patoal."

Mal shouldn't have been so hostile, it had been a test, and he'd failed.

Damn it.

She leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I don't know what you're hiding, but I'm going to get to the bottom of it. Whether you're a cultist, or some other third party—I don't care. You're involved in Savaly's disappearance, somehow, even if just by accident. Whatever the case, you're going to tell me everything you know—"

The inn door swung open. The innkeeper—who'd been asleep on the counter—jerked upward and made a mumbled greeting. Philo, Lusia, and Rolam stepped through the open door.

Philo's eyes wandered to the broken pot. "Oh, how did that happen?"

As smooth as butter, Igna adjusted her hand position to rest on Mal's shoulder. "Oh, Malfrasius had a little bit of an accident."

Rolam jogged up to the two of them. "Honored leader! We've been trying to find you all day. Do you know what happened? Why were you arrested?"

"I'm not sure," Mal said. "Igna had to get me free."

"Professor Igna." Igna's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Do try to show respect, Mr. Patoal."

Mal refused to let any of the discomfort show on his face. "Of course, Professor."

He turned back toward the group of three that had just entered. "Did you do anything productive?"

"Philo showed us around the city a little bit—not that we weren't looking for you, but it's just there were so many attractions, and—"

"No, it's fine. Were there any highlights?"

Rolam opened his mouth, then closed it. He crossed his arms and looked at the ground. "We actually got something of a history lesson."

"Yes, we happened to pass by the home of Clarin. Philo only noticed because there were more guards than usual."

Than usual? Who is this person?

"You're gonna have to catch me up. Who's Clarin?"

Philo dug one of his claws into his other hand. "A very bad person. A former servant of the last Endbringer."

Rolam and Mal exchanged a look.

"He looked at me as we were passing the window," Rolam said.

A chill went down Mal's spine. This "Clarin" had managed to pick out the new Herald of Glory? How? Unless it was just a coincidence?

"It was rather strange, wasn't it?" Philo said. "He didn't care about me and Lusia, but it seemed as if he was staring into the soul of Rolam."

Lusia had manifested her kinetic redirection, but Mal had long since realized that particular ability had nothing to do with her being the Herald of Victory. And Philo hadn't manifested any of his abilities related to being the Herald of Knowledge. Not yet, anyway.

Mal's shoulders tensed. If Mal were to walk by, would Clarin be able to pick Mal out as an Endbringer? Or would he have no idea? Mal's situation was a little bit different than Philo and Lusia, after all—he had his memories, and he'd been interfering with the timeline in a particularly egregious manner.

Another knock at the inn door.

Oh, who is it now?

It opened up, and two draconids entered in, the interrogators that Mal had beat up earlier.

They shot a glare at him, and Mal merely raised an eyebrow in return.

The one on the left looked back through the doorway and nodded. "Bring him in."

Igna took her hand off of Mal's shoulder and stepped forward.

"Now what's all this about?" she asked, lips still upturned.

"Someone has requested to see you," the draconid said.

Mal furrowed his eyebrows together. Who could possibly want to see him?

A figure strode through the gap created by the draconids. He was wearing a long black cloak, but it couldn't hide the thinness of his body, the way his bony shoulders pressed out against the cloth. His skin was a pale white, and his lips were chapped, his eyes milky with blindness, unfocused.

Rolam gasped. "Wait, that's—"

"Hello, Malfrasius Patoal," the man croaked. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Rolam leaned in toward Mal's ear.

"Honored leader," he hissed. "That's him, that's Clarin."