Chapter 10—The Hand of Barowen

“Tenacity without purpose strays into spite”

The mockery had begun the very morning Raiden and his companions were summoned to Mr. Lorig’s office. Garid Barowen heard the snickers on his way to class, carried on half-whispered voices that hushed as soon as he neared. He caught fragments: “bested by a girl,” “storm magic wasted,” “Barowen strength? A cracked reed.”

They did not say it to his face, but the words clung. Barowen was not Rymboven—House Barowen belonged to Olwen’s vassalage, disciplined and cunning, an arm of a Great House. Nobles hesitated to openly scorn him. What Raiden endured daily, Garid never would. But still, the sting burned. Lesser nobles dared snicker in corners; common-born students muttered just out of reach.

By afternoon, irritation had hardened into resolve. Garid gathered his lackeys behind the training grounds, all students sworn to Barowen’s crest. They numbered in the dozens, though only a few stood close enough to hear him clearly. His lips pressed thin as one of them recounted the latest jibe—that Garid’s lightning had been swatted aside like a child’s spark.

“Lies,” Garid snapped, pacing, his boots crunching on the frost-bitten earth. “The Academy breeds vipers. They gnaw at the ankles of those above them. They laugh because they cannot understand Barowen strength.” His eyes burned. “And strength must answer.”

Rad lingered at the edge of the circle, jaw tight, his shield strapped as always. He tried once, voice low but firm. “Let it pass, Garid. Rumors fade. Time buries mockery.”

Garid’s head snapped toward him, fury sparking. “Coward. You’re afraid of her. Admit it.”

The name did not need saying. The image of Ophelin striking him down before the crowd was branded into all of them. Rad flinched, shoulders hunched, no denial forming on his lips. Silence hung heavy, until Garid turned his glare back to the others.

“We will not wait for rumors to fade. We strike in the Barowen way. Silent. Unseen. Relentless. The prophecy clings to that Rymboven wretch like rot. Evil festers there, and we will excise it. When we are done, no one will doubt where true strength lies.”

The lackeys exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak against him.

A week passed, and the Academy’s rhythm carried on as if nothing boiled beneath its surface. But away from the lecture halls, quiet shadows moved.

On the edge of the culture plots, Lynda worked among the herbs, snipping stems for a brewing experiment. Her hands smelled of mint and soil when movement caught her eye. Five figures gathered at the treeline beyond the huts, hoods drawn against the sun. They spoke too softly for her to hear. For a moment she thought to approach—until one shifted, glancing her way. A glint caught the light, something small pinned at his collar. She froze. Curiosity gnawed, but she did not move closer. When she looked back, the figures had already melted into the trees.

The next day, tension snapped. Behind the east dorms, Hein—a minor noble of no repute—was cornered by Garid and nearly a dozen of his sworn. His back pressed against the wall, words spilling in a frantic rush.

“I didn’t—! I swear, it wasn’t me spreading it—!”

“Lies.” Garid’s voice was cold, sharpened. His lackeys closed in, shoving Hein against the stone. “You think me a fool? You think I don’t see your smirk every time my name is spoken? Say it. Confess.”

Hein shook his head, pale. “I don’t know anything!”

Hands reached for him, fists tightening. But before the first blow could land, a shadow stepped into the alley. Tall, cloaked, faceless in the dim.

“Enough.”

The word cut through them sharper than steel. Something in the man’s presence pressed heavy, and the lackeys faltered. Even Garid’s lips curled, teeth grinding, but he spat to the side and jerked his head.

“Scatter.”

And scatter they did, peeling away in different directions, muttering curses as they went. Hein collapsed against the wall, gasping, as the cloaked figure turned without another word and was gone, swallowed by the alleys. No name lingered, no identity offered. Only a reprieve.

By the morning of the storm, Garid’s anger had fermented into planning. Dark clouds churned over the Academy, the sun smothered by their weight. To Garid, it was no omen—only cover.

At midday, after lectures, he found Weldin, a fifth-year mage whose talent had been honed sharp in elemental craft. Garid’s words were low, but firm.

“Tonight. When the storm breaks. You know your task.”

Weldin’s jaw tightened. “And if we’re recognized?”

Garid’s glare was like flint. “No crest. No pin. No symbol of Barowen. We are shadows, nothing more.”

He leaned close, voice dark. “Wait for thunder. Then strike.”

Weldin gave a short nod, no more.

Garid lingered a moment in the empty corridor, listening to the muffled chatter of students settling into their seats. The storm outside had begun to whisper against the windows, wind rising, the sky rumbling in long, low groans. His reflection glared back at him from the glass: composed, unruffled, Barowen to the core.

Let them mock. Let them laugh. By nightfall, they would remember whose strength endured, whose will carved through slander and shadow alike. Barowen did not bend. Barowen endured.

He straightened his cloak and strode into the lecture hall as though nothing weighed upon him at all.

When the storm came, he would be seen in class, untouchable, his hands clean.

But in the shadows, others would bleed.