Orestis compiled the report methodically.
The inspection itself had been straightforward. The outpost was intact, the lattice responsive, and the dispersion field operating within expected parameters. For now, he kept to the facts—recording what he knew rather than what he suspected. Measurements, tolerances, environmental effects.
The background section took longer.
The outpost had been built to stop a problem before it became one. The surrounding area sat on a natural convergence—a place where ambient mana gathered slowly but persistently. Given time, it would reach the density required for crystallization. That outcome was expected and, under controlled conditions, useful.
Left unchecked, however, accumulation would not remain local. Mana would saturate the surrounding environment, warping growth and destabilising spellwork. Once that threshold was crossed, the change would spread outward rather than stay contained.
Hence the reason for the outpost.
The records also showed when the site had stopped being purely preventative. Someone had realised that excess mana didn’t need to be wasted. If it could be kept from solidifying on its own, it could also be drawn off deliberately. Carefully managed, it became useful rather than hazardous.
The outpost remained a suppression site in name, but now served a second purpose. A portion of excess mana was stabilised and transferred elsewhere, where it was crystallised under controlled conditions. The rest was handled on site, dispersed as always.
Dual-purpose infrastructure. Efficient. Elegant. And precisely the kind of clever optimisation that creates problems no one anticipates.
Nothing about that change had raised objections. Each addition was modest, the transfer limits conservative, and oversight formalised. The original structure was left in place, doing what it had always done—or so the documentation claimed.
On paper, the outpost was stable.
Orestis leaned back and reviewed what he’d written so far. It was accurate. It was also incomplete.
He scrolled to the end of the report.
Status:
Operational
Dispersion:
Within tolerance
Ambient mana:
Stable
Secondary environmental effects:
Present
Cause:
He paused.
Leaving it blank would be honest, but unsatisfying. He had time. Enough, at least, to see whether the answer was close at hand.
And if it isn’t close at hand, I’ll go looking for it anyway. I refuse to submit a report with a blank field.
Orestis turned back to the archives.
***
Orestis came down from the third floor once the archives had told him everything they were willing to. For now.
The Owl was at his desk. Orestis set four volumes on the return shelf and said, “I need access to regional authorisations, sanctioned activity logs, and operational stress allowances.”
His token did not allow access to those records at his current level of clearance.
The Owl tilted his head. “I take it that geological records did not provide answers.”
“The geological surveys are consistent across three decades. No shifting, no settling, no tectonic variance. Whatever is causing the interaction, it isn't coming from below.”
The Owl nodded. “It would have been disappointing if the cause had been something as simple as an earthquake.”
Orestis smiled. This man
understood
. “Which is why I need to look at the usage records—anything that shows what's been happening
on
the land rather than
under
it.”
The Owl regarded him with an expression that might have been sympathy, if sympathy were something he dispensed freely. “Those records fall outside maintenance and oversight. Different clearance tier.”
“I'm aware.”
“Which means I can't give them to you.”
Orestis waited.
The Owl adjusted his glasses. “The records you're asking for are classified under operational jurisdiction. Access requires authorisation from Oversight, which requires a formal request, which requires justification that falls within your assigned scope.”
“My assigned scope is systems analysis. The system I'm analysing is behaving in a way that can only be explained by external activity. The records I need would confirm or eliminate that hypothesis.”
“A reasonable argument,” the Owl agreed. “Which Oversight will evaluate at their discretion.”
“You told me not to ask them.”
“I did.”
“Because they would say no on principle.”
“They would.”
“And yet you're also saying no.”
“I'm saying no with better reasons.” The Owl's expression shifted—not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. “It's not often I get to refuse someone. The position rarely affords the opportunity. Most people don't ask for anything interesting enough to warrant refusal.”
Orestis studied him. “You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“And yet,” Orestis said, glancing down, “I notice your hands have been working the slate since I started talking.”
The Owl did not deny it. His fingers continued their precise movements across the surface—entering the request, attaching the relevant file references, routing it through the correct channels. The bureaucratic equivalent of holding the door shut while unlocking it from the other side.
“Savouring the moment and maintaining efficiency are not mutually exclusive,” the Owl said.
The slate chimed softly. A response, already.
The Owl read it, then slid a slip of paper across the desk. Orestis picked it up. It had a brief notation in institutional shorthand:
Clearance insufficient. Review pending.
“Pending,” Orestis said.
“Pending,” the Owl confirmed. “Which, in Consortium terms, means someone with authority has seen the request and not immediately rejected it. That is, historically speaking, the most optimistic outcome available at your classification level.”
Orestis pocketed the slip. “How long?”
“Difficult to say. Could be days. Could be longer. Depends on who reviews it and whether your request makes them curious or nervous.”
“Curious would be preferable.”
“Agreed. Nervous people send memos. Curious people send access.”
Orestis inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” The Owl was already returning his attention to the slate. “And for what it's worth—the question you're asking is a good one. The archives don't get enough people asking good questions.”
Orestis left him to his domain and stepped into the corridor. The slip of paper sat in his pocket, light and bureaucratically insufficient.
Review pending. Which means waiting.
He disliked waiting. He had disliked it for centuries, and the feeling had not improved with repetition.
With a quiet breath, he pulled out his report. The inspection was complete. The document was due. Delaying it would require justification, and speculation would require authority.
He had neither.
Orestis returned to the final line and completed it.
Cause:
Undetermined
The word offended him, which was unreasonable and therefore irritating. He sealed the report and submitted it before irritation could tempt him into doing something unhelpful.
Like, for instance, infiltrating the archives. Circumventing the wards would be easy enough.
Orestis shook his head. Such thoughts were unproductive at best. And the Owl had been nothing but helpful; repaying that with trespass would be an insult.
Besides, it wasn’t like he had nothing else to do.
His thoughts drifted back to the forest—to the instant the ambush had sprung. He had been late to notice it, if only by a fraction of a second.
Worse, his first impulse had been to let it land and see how much damage it could do; a habit carried over from a body that could afford such experiments. His current one could not.
He’d moved in time—barely—but had the margin been any thinner, he would have woken in his bed again, five years erased without warning.
‘Killed by a plant because I forgot I was mortal’ would be a humiliating epitaph. Even by my standards.
Relying on heavier protective enchantments was not an option. Anything that obvious would draw attention. The problem was not his equipment; it was his habits. And habits could be retrained.
Orestis turned toward the Consortium training facilities. His clearance was sufficient for that, at least.
***
The training halls were rarely empty; Consortium facilities seldom were.
Licensed mages used them to refine techniques or satisfy continuing-competency requirements. Contract casters trained to meet insurance thresholds. Some came to keep their edge sharp. Others came because their contracts demanded a record of ongoing practice, whether they believed in its value or not.
Non-mages used them too, though at a price. The chambers could be tuned down, the emitters capped to levels survivable without casting. Guards, couriers, inspectors—anyone whose work carried a non-trivial risk of hostile spell exposure could book time and learn how not to die when it happened.
The Consortium was pragmatic about such things. Training was cheaper than compensation, after all.
As a result, the halls stayed open long past standard hours, quietly earning their keep. A few figures moved through the outer chambers, some casting, some not, all focused inward. No one cared who trained, only that they signed in and paid what was owed.
Orestis signed in without comment and went into a spell-response chamber.
The space was circular, open, its walls studded with calibrated emitters designed to test reaction speed rather than magical output. There were no targets to strike or patterns to memorise; the focus was entirely on avoidance.
He stepped onto the marked floor, after setting the parameters: low yield, high frequency, irregular timing.
No one paid him much attention. Not that he expected them to. To the casual observer, he looked like a failed mage shoring up fundamentals he should have mastered years ago. Below First Circle, no visible aura, no active focus; just another person trying to compensate for a lack of talent. That suited him just fine.
The first spell triggered without warning—a flash of force aimed centre mass.
Orestis stepped aside and lifted his arm, letting the impact land. The force struck with a dull thud, dispersing harmlessly over his clothes.
He didn’t wait for the chamber to reset. He crossed out of the marked area and went straight back to the slate on the wall.
The yield was too low; he adjusted it upward. The previous strike had been little more than a sting—annoying, but forgettable.
That would not do.
He needed his body to learn faster than his thoughts—to flinch, to move, to
refuse
contact before his mind had time to intervene. Pain was an excellent instructor for such a purpose. Not crippling pain; just enough to make hesitation expensive.
Orestis stepped back onto the floor and let the first spell strike him again. This time, it
hurt
.
The impact bit deep enough to make his muscles seize and his nerves flare in protest—a clean line of sensation his body could not ignore.
He smiled despite himself.
Much better.
The next discharge never touched him. He shifted aside just before it resolved, the movement quick but deliberate. Another spell followed, then another—each arriving sooner than the last as the chamber tightened the rhythm, compressing the gaps.
Orestis kept moving. Soon enough, the margins disappeared, and some spells began to land.
He noted, with a flicker of satisfaction, that his visual acuity remained unchanged from his immortal days. Distance, motion, the brief distortions before a spell resolved—he still caught all of it.
The rest of him was less impressive.
His body lagged behind his intentions, slower to respond, weaker in ways that were difficult to ignore. Mortal limitations asserted themselves quickly when stripped of their conveniences. That part, at least, was deliberate.
He still wore his equipment. Removing it outside his rooms would have been foolish, no matter how safe the Consortium claimed its facilities to be. Those claims meant little without enchantments of his own reinforcing them.
Instead, he had suppressed the runes woven into the gear—the ones responsible for physical enhancement—forcing them into dormancy. They remained intact, ready to answer at a thought; but for now, he kept them silent.
Here, he wanted no artificial strength. No borrowed speed. If his body failed, he wanted it to fail honestly.
***
Orestis signed out and stepped into the corridor.
The bruises were already blooming beneath his coat—dull, spreading aches that announced themselves with every movement. He catalogued them absently. Nothing appeared serious, though a few would stiffen overnight and ache properly by morning.
Good.
As he passed through the public hall, he noticed the looks—a pause in conversation, a glance held too long. Someone murmured something he didn’t bother catching. To them, it must have looked like incompetence—an underskilled mage battering himself in a facility designed to prevent exactly that.
I suppose it looks worse without context. Then again, most things do.
By the time he reached the doors, he had already revised his schedule. Morning conditioning first, before the bruises settled. Slow work. Controlled strain. Teach the body what it was expected to endure before the day asked it to perform.
He stepped out into the light, adjusted his coat, and ignored the rest.
Pain would fade. Instinct would not.
Orestis paused.
No more than it already had, anyway.
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