Chapter 9: The Council's Gaze
Magus Brom's quarters were a stark contrast to the sterile compliance office. Books were stacked in precarious towers, strange mineral specimens littered every surface, and the air smelled of old parchment and damp earth. He did not speak until he had handed Silas a mug of bitter, steaming tea and sat heavily in a worn leather chair opposite him.
"The Veracity Crystal's log was automatically copied to the Head Archivist," Brom said without preamble, his gaze heavy. "The one I used to gain entry. I saw the reading, boy. I saw the red."
Silas's hands trembled around the warm mug. There was no point in denying it. The crystal did not lie. It had detected something alien, something other. He remained silent, staring into the dark liquid.
"What is it?" Brom's voice was low, not accusing, but intensely curious. "It is not a shadow-weasel. I have studied every bestiary from here to the Silent Realms. Nothing matches that... signature. The cold. The light-devouring quality. The star-pricked darkness."
Silas looked up, meeting the Magus's eyes. He saw no purging zeal there, only the relentless hunger of a scholar confronted with an impossible puzzle. It was a dangerous look, but a different kind of danger than Corvus presented.
"It calls itself Lurk," Silas whispered, the admission feeling like a treason against the world. "It says it is from... the space between."
Brom's breath caught. He leaned forward, his eyes wide. "A void entity. A true one. Not a mere extra-planar being. Something from *outside*." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "The implications... the Celestial Bureau's entire regulatory framework is built on the premise that such things are myths, or at best, extinct. Corvus isn't just hunting a rogue student. He's trying to bury proof of a fundamental error in his world's understanding."
"He wants to delete us," Silas said, the clinical term feeling more accurate than 'destroy.'
"Of course he does!" Brom stood, pacing before the fireplace. "Your existence invalidates his life's work. It challenges the authority of the entire Bureau. They cannot control what they cannot classify. You are the ultimate unlisted entity." He stopped, turning to face Silas. "And he has the data. He will take it to the Academy Council. He will demand a formal sanction for your... excision."
"Will they grant it?"
Brom's face was grim. "The Council is composed of politicians and bureaucrats, not scholars. They fear what they do not understand. Corvus will present his evidence, frame it as a dire threat to student safety and dimensional stability. They will be terrified. Yes, I believe they will grant it."
The last flicker of hope in Silas's chest guttered and died. It was over. The entire established power structure was about to formally declare him a tumor to be cut out.
"However," Brom said, a sharp glint in his eye. "There is one avenue. One tradition even the Council dares not break openly."
Silas looked up, desperate. "What?"
"The Trial of Ascendance."
Silas had heard of it. A brutal, archaic ritual where students could petition the celestial forces directly for the right to keep a controversial familiar. It was a relic, never invoked in modern times.
"It is a duel," Brom explained. "But not of mere combat. It is a trial of worth. Of symbiosis. You and your familiar must face a champion chosen by the Council and prove your bond is not a corruption, but a new, valid form of magic. If you win, your bonding is sanctified, made legal and untouchable. A precedent is set."
"And if we lose?"
"Your familiar is severed and banished. You are left a broken husk, your magical core scorched to ashes." Brom's tone was brutally matter-of-fact. "It is a desperate gamble. But it is the only one that places your fate outside of Corvus's bureaucratic machinery."
A duel. A public spectacle. There would be no hiding, no subtle tricks. They would have to reveal their power before the entire academy.
"The hunter will ensure the champion is formidable," Lurk observed silently. "It is a high-risk path."
*It's the only path,* Silas thought back.
He set the mug down, his hands now steady. The fear was still there, a cold stone in his gut, but it was being forged into resolve.
"How do I invoke it?"
Brom looked at him, a mix of admiration and pity in his gaze. "You must declare it before the full Academy Council when Corvus makes his petition. You will be throwing a gauntlet made of your own life at their feet."
"Then that's what I'll do."
Later, back in his room, Silas stood by the window. The moon was hidden behind clouds.
"They will throw their best at us," Silas said into the quiet.
"Affirmative," Lurk replied. "The champion will be Seraphina Valerius."
The certainty in the entity's tone was absolute. Silas knew it was right. Who else? The perfect, celestial prodigy versus the void-touched anomaly. The narrative was too clean, too compelling.
"Can we beat her?"
There was a long silence. For the first time, Lurk seemed to be genuinely calculating.
"Her power is pure, ordered, and immense. Solaris is a being of creation and conflagration. Our power is one of negation and unraveling. It is not a question of raw strength, but of fundamental opposition. We are the void to her sun."
"And?" Silas pressed.
"And even a sun," Lurk's voice was a whisper of infinite cold, "can be eclipsed."
The clouds outside parted, revealing the moon. Silas watched it, no longer a prisoner in his room, but a general preparing for a war that would have only one battle.
"Then we will eclipse it."