"Earth."
The earth crumbled, scattered, reformed as grey mist. Air swirled around the room, lifting papers, rustling robes, tugging at hair.
"Air."
The councilmembers stared. Their faces were pale. Even Theron, the Archmage, the man who’d seen everything, looked like he was watching a miracle.
Lucian wasn’t done.
The air stilled. The space around his hand shimmered—not light, not color, a distortion, a bending. The sphere vanished and reappeared three feet to the left, then back, then split into two, then four, then eight, each identical, each real.
"Space."
The spheres merged. The shimmering stopped. Something else took its place—a pulse, a rhythm, a heartbeat. The sphere began to move, but not through space. Through time. Forward, then backward, then forward again. The councilmembers saw themselves reaching for their papers, then un-reaching, then reaching again.
Master Corvin stood up. Sat down. Stood up. Sat down. He hadn’t moved. Time had.
"Time."
Lucian’s hand closed into a fist.
The sphere stopped. Everything stopped. The fire in the fireplace froze mid-flicker. The papers in the air hung suspended. The councilmembers couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Then Lucian opened his hand.
The world resumed.
The councilmembers gasped. Magister Holt had her hand over her heart. Master Corvin was trembling. Even Elara, with her sharp smile and sharper eyes, looked shaken.
Lucian lowered his hand.
"Seven affinities," he said quietly. "Just like Finn. But I don’t need a crystal to access them."
The room was silent.
Finn watched the councilmembers’ faces. Watched them recalibrate, reassess, realize that the man they’d dismissed as a bodyguard, a tutor, a nobody—was something else entirely.
Theron spoke first. His voice was hoarse. "Who are you?"
"I told you. Lucian Black."
"That’s not—"
"That’s all you’re getting." Lucian put his hands back in his pockets. "You wanted to know what I can do. Now you know. The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
Elara found her voice. "We could arrest you. For questioning. For—"
"You could try." Lucian’s tone didn’t change. Still calm. Still relaxed. "I wouldn’t recommend it."
More silence.
Magister Holt leaned forward, her round face pale but curious. "You said there were worlds beyond this one. Other powers. Other wars."
"Yes."
"Are you from one of those worlds?"
Lucian looked at her. Something shifted in his eyes—not warmth, not coldness, something in between. Recognition, maybe. Respect.
"Yes," he said.
"And you came here to teach Finn?"
"I came here looking for someone. I found Finn instead." Lucian glanced at the boy. "He reminded me that not everything is about the search."
Finn’s chest tightened. He looked away, stared at the table, blinked hard.
Theron stood up. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a man who’d just realized he was standing on ground that might collapse beneath him.
"The board will need to discuss this," he said. "New information. New... considerations."
"You have until the end of the week," Finn said. His voice was steady. He’d practiced. "After that, we’re leaving."
"The king’s decree—"
"Change it."
Theron stared at him. Then at Lucian. Then back at Finn.
"You’re both impossible," he said.
"We’ve been told," Lucian replied.
The councilmembers gathered their papers, their composure, their dignity. They filed out of the common room in silence, not looking at each other, not looking back.
The door closed behind them.
Finn let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
"That was intense," he said.
"You handled it well."
"I almost spoke. When they asked about you."
"But you didn’t." Lucian walked to the window, looked out at the street. "You let me handle it. That’s progress."
Finn stood up, stretched. His back ached. Posture was exhausting. "Do you think they’ll agree?"