Tyladriel looked over his property in Najer, and a low growl escaped his throat. The campus located on the eastern lower portion of Najer was in ruins. Fire played mockingly among what was left of the buildings and yards. The destruction ended precisely at the edge of his property. It was only one of several schools he had, spread throughout Ice Spires, but the fact that some mortal thought to challenge him gladdened him. Tyladriel loved a good fight.

  Since his return to the mortal sphere a little over a year ago, Tyladriel had been busy. His corpus had been weak. A Rock-Tier Seidren had invited him in. Such a small and inexperienced Seidren had been an easy fight. His victim had aspected himself for crystal and frost. Tyladriel had enjoyed the progression he had done with his new body. If any of his mortal Seidren companions knew that he had raised himself from Rock tier in a year, they might worship him.

  As they probably should.

  But Tyladrial had bigger goals than the adoration of a couple of lowly Seidren. Fell beings of his pedigree didn’t get a chance like this often. Some of the more idiotic fell lords, like Ivarmarktarius, would either immediately begin ruling the local Seidren, or like Helriken, would go on a butchering streak until stopped by a sufficiently advanced Seidren.

  Tyladrial had finesse and style. He would advance until knowledge of his identity didn’t incur the wrath of the ancient Seidren or dragons.. He had been summoned several times throughout the history of Travien, and he bore much knowledge, both forbidden and legendary. Considering which, his progressing of six stages in one short year should have been expected.

  Tyladriel thought that he may have been able to do more, but annoyingly, he had found himself redoing several of the key steps required for proper power acquisition.

  Tyladriel was eager to fight whoever it was attacking his sect, but he had bigger plans, and while he longed for it, he would leave this fight to his underlings. He had already been distracted enough by his journey into the neighboring country after receiving a signal from another of his brothers. The signal had stopped broadcasting, and the country where it had originated from had been strangely well guarded.

  Not so well guarded that a fell lord couldn’t sneak in. Tyladriel thought to himself with a smirk.

  Tyladriel flexed his hand, encased as it was with the calamity gauntlet.

  A Seidren approached him from behind. This particular Seidren would one day host one of Tyladriel’s commanding officers, but for now, he served with his free will intact. That summoning would have to wait until later.

  My Lord, we have news. We have a lead that identifies where some of the Serventian agents are staying in Najer. An inn called snowdrift. They are led by a pearl Seidren who uses the flame aspect. We suspect that he may be the one attacking our sect. There are some weaker disciples there who leave occasionally under supervision.”

  “Excellent. Form a strike team. Bring me one of the weak ones, and we will see what to do about it..”

  Yes, my lord.

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  Tirren was meditating in their rented dojo in the snowdrift. Severin was also there, sitting across the room in his own meditative silence. Tirren had asked Jefremov to check his rituals, which Tirren had gleaned from Ivarmarktarius and without too much concern Jefremov had called them passable. Tirren had also taken the large gold coin Jef had given him, and fastened it to a leather band. He wore it around his wrist, and it was his constant reminder.

  Tirren had spent the last three weeks receiving relentless beatings at the many different schools located in Najer. Word had gotten out about the new Sunflower cult. Jef had actually begun to receive invitations from the different schools, as they realized that he paid full forfeit payments for sand Seidren who could beat a Tree Seidren in a duel. Jefremov was quick to ask Tirren if he wanted to continue, but Tirren would never deviate from the path.

  He had almost won on several occasions, and had only lost control of Ivarmarktarius one other time. His control was growing, but when Tirren took too much of a beating, his control weakened.

  Tirren had reflected much on a potential aspect. Even now, he thought of how he had begun as Seidren.

  A fighting dojo in Varnell had opened, and as a twelve year old Tirren had eagerly applied. He had learned to fight, and when his teachers talked about mana, he had been transfixed. Looking back, he found that in his meager applications of mana, he had been using ambient mana, but there had been an aspect there.

  The aspect of force. With that thought, he felt a hum from within his soul well. Yes. He had prepped himself without knowing for that aspect. Force aspect was not like fire or water, which were quite easy to acquire. Force was an abstract aspect, similar to shadow and dragon. Tirren’s mana senses were spread around him, as he meditated on the nature of mana and force. His mana senses were focused on deliberately forcing the mana into his hands and arms, where it would strengthen him, so he noticed immediately when something was wrong. The ambient mana in the room pulled away from him, and Tirren pulled himself out of his meditation immediately. He watched in his manasight as the ambient mana in the room pulled together in a miniature whirlpool that centered on Severin, who gasped as a mana signature formed over his head.

  Tirren could also see corresponding mana signatures behind Severin’s eyes in his manasight, and they showed the truth of what happened. Severin had opened his mana well. He looked at Tirren triumphantly, blood leaking in a line from his nose to his mouth, before he collapsed backwards with a thump.

  Tirren walked over to him smiling, but when Severin wouldn’t respond he left him to sleep. Tirren felt joy for his friend, mixed with a sharp pang of envy he refused to examine closely. Tirren retreated to his spot, but couldn’t find the necessary mental state to slip into meditation again, and so he left the room and paced into the guest room. Jefremov had ordered Tirren to remain at Snowdrift today. He bore a motley collection of bruises, cuts and wounds, and his fighting performance was becoming limited. He needed to heal, at least according to Jef.

  Tirren wanted so badly to win his duels, without the loss of consciousness or agency.

  There was a loud crash from the next room, and Tirren immediately assumed that Severin must have tried to rise and fallen over. Tirren rose from the guest couch, but it was luxuriously soft, and his body complained at the request to rise.

  “Severin? You alright?” Tirren called. There was no response, and so he hoisted his body up from the couch and walked painfully to the door.

  He looked in, and the door was hanging open. Tirren walked over to the door and looked out. He didn’t see Severin.

  He noticed there was a note on the floor, and he walked over with a premonition of fear. The note was written unhurriedly, which suggested premeditation.

  The Sect of Crystalline Frost has deemed your attacks an act of aggression. Stop your attacks, or the Sunflower cultist will die, as will every member of your powerless cult.

  Severin was gone.