Chapter 311 - Worn weary wizards
“This is truly, truly fascinating,” Magister Penney murmured. “Can you sense that subtle thaumaturgic response, like so? It’s as though we’re witnessing a cascade of etheric harmonics, yet I cannot detect their origin. Are they tied to a mnemonic lattice of some sort? It resembles what’s been observed in the Chamber of Remembrance, doesn’t it? Astonishing. If only this were my realm of expertise. I do wish Senior Wizard Ward were here to delineate these patterns in greater detail. Don’t you think this could revolutionise our understanding of aetherial imprints?”
Gaspar grunted in response, nodding along, though his attention was fraying. Penney’s enthusiasm was understandable, but Gaspar struggled to focus. A well-worn journal sat heavy in his hand, untouched for some time. Had he misplaced his quill somewhere? He couldn’t quite recall.
He supposed he could simply use pyrokinesis to write, as he often had in his younger days, but he doubted his precision in his current state. He’d rather not accidentally set his journal on fire.
Penney, somehow remaining a boundless source of energy, scribbled notes furiously, his gaze darting between his writing and one of the colossal, polished silver discs suspended in midair above them. Its reflective surface shimmered with ghostly images — faint, shifting figures that flickered and faded like memories forgotten lost to time.
Gaspar couldn’t deny the significance of this place. Discoveries of this nature surfaced perhaps once in a generation. It was their responsibility—both as wizards and council members—to investigate it thoroughly, to unearth its secrets layer by layer. Yet at this moment, Gaspar found himself not wholly able to rise to the occasion. The exhaustion of recent events still weighed on him like a mantle — the inexplicable chaos, the unrelenting trials, the constant drain on his mana. It was only natural.
Whatever the case, he lacked the clarity to unravel the intricate mana patterns saturating the chamber, or to decode the ancient wards around them. Instead, he found himself marvelling at Penney’s resilience. The portly magister, who only hours earlier had seemed on the verge of collapse, was impressive. His peculiar stamina was one that was well known on the Isle. As long as the situation wasn’t dire or life-threatening, the man appeared to possess a near-infinite font of energy that bordered on the inhuman.
It was one of many reasons that Gaspar avoided drinking with him.
Still, at least he was grateful that they were indeed no longer in a situation where mortal peril lurked around every corner.
Gaspar’s gaze wandered across the expansive chamber, Penney’s monologue washing over him like the murmur of a distant brook. Though the space still bore scars from the recent battle fought here, it was already mending itself. Fractured stone and scorched walls had largely healed, as if the ancient magic within simply refused to yield to destruction. It was a marvel in its own right, and one Gaspar was interested in studying. But that would have to wait until later.
Near the entrance, their group had established a makeshift camp of sorts. Blankets, food, and other supplies lay scattered among them. Nearly four-fifths of their number were incapacitated in some fashion or another, be it from mana exhaustion, injury, or the aftereffects of alchemical overuse. Those still able to stand—including Gaspar—had taken turns tending to the others. Now, with calm restored, there was little else to do but wait. It would take time for their comrades to regain enough strength to leave, and Gaspar wasn’t about to send anyone back through these halls on their own.
He himself craved rest, but despite his harried state, his mind buzzed with too many unanswered questions. The irony, of course, was that his fatigue and their current circumstances rendered him incapable of properly addressing any of them. As one of the few wizards with enough mana left to cast, he had also taken it upon himself to maintain a vigilant watch. They couldn’t risk the entire group falling into unguarded slumber in a place still laced with potential threats. Magister Penney, to his credit, had volunteered to assist.
Gaspar’s eyes drifted to a pair seated near their unconscious companions — Allyssa and Shin. Allyssa was leaning against Shin, eyes closed in exhaustion. The young Shielders were taking turns keeping watch, ensuring at least one of them remained awake to guard the others. Shin, for his part, was quietly reading a book, even as Allyssa’s head rested on him.