CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

CASSIAN AND THE INFINITE THRONE

Volume 2: The Road to the Academy

Chapter 41: The Child Who Expected Pain

The Crowned Laurel rose five stories above an enclosed carriage courtyard. Pale stone, dark timber, brass lanterns, and uniformed attendants announced wealth without needing excessive decoration.

The desk steward looked from Cassian to the covered trunk and then toward the absent adult behind him.

“I require a private suite for several months,” Cassian said.

“We do not normally lodge unaccompanied children in upper rooms. Which guardian brought you into Caeldor?”

“Tomas Veller arranged my passage and lodging.” Cassian presented both sealed letters. “His introduction and commercial certification explain the circumstances.”

The steward read the introduction, examined the second seal, and returned both documents before adjusting his posture.

“The Laurel Suite is available for twelve Royals a month, including meals, bathing water, messages, and use of the guarded vault.”

“I will take the suite and pay one month in advance.”

“You understand that twelve Royals are required before receiving the key.”

Cassian placed twelve Gold Royals on the counting tray, each coin landing with controlled metallic weight.

The steward regarded the coins, then the covered trunk. “The guarded vault appears increasingly advisable.”

“That was also my conclusion before entering the building.”

Two attendants guided the trunk into a reinforced vault while the steward prepared numbered seals and a withdrawal ledger.

“Will you require access to both chests?” the steward asked.

“Only the chest containing one hundred eight Royals requires routine access. The other one hundred twenty remains sealed unless I appear with the matching receipt.”

“Then every withdrawal requires your signature, our seal, and two witnesses.”

“Nobody claiming to represent me receives access without written instruction and this private mark.”

Cassian drew a small geometric symbol on the receipt. The steward examined it twice.

“You planned for impersonation before choosing a room.”

“Tomas said Caeldor punishes optimism.”

“For once, a merchant described the capital politely.”

The Laurel Suite held a sitting room, separate bedchamber, thick rugs, writing desk, copper bathing tub, secure wardrobe, and balcony overlooking three academy towers.

After testing the lock, window catch, and alarm ward, Cassian placed Elara's journal beside the bed. He wrapped Lena's scarf around his neck again and kept Gareth's knife and Darren's hawk concealed against his body.

The vault can hold my money, and the room can protect my luggage. Father's knife and Darren's hawk remain with me, while Mother's scarf carries home into every street.

After washing away the road dust, he secured his remaining documents and left the inn with a modest pouch of ordinary travel coins he had carried from Frostwood.

I could remain here and study the application requirements. That would be sensible, safe, and completely dishonest about why I arrived early.

Even with the route memorized from above, the walk required nearly an hour. Carriages, porters, apprentices, and patrols competed beneath enchanted lamps waiting for evening.

The Applicant Registry Hall stood outside the academy's inner gates, beneath a carved stone arch displaying an open book surrounded by seven stars.

A gray-haired clerk examined Cassian's Frostwood record, Elder Aldric's attestation, and Tomas's commercial certification.

“Which guardian or merchant escort brought you into Caeldor?” she asked.

“Tomas Veller arranged my passage, and the Crowned Laurel accepted his introduction. His certification confirms my identity and commercial circumstances.”

“You have traveled remarkably early for this year's examination.”

“I hoped preliminary registration might be available before the formal season.”

“Applications open one month from today. The Registry accepts no ordinary candidate before the opening bell.”

Cassian examined the posted calendar. “The primer in Frostwood listed an earlier date.”

“Last year's flood moved the examination cycle. Remote copies were not all corrected.” She handed him a requirement sheet. “Return with these documents, the fee, and enough patience for a long queue.”

She returned every record without copying the seals. “No candidate file can be opened before the season begins. When you return, everything will enter the academy record.”

“Does arriving early provide any advantage when the season opens?” Cassian asked.

“Arriving early provides only familiarity. The queue does not respect ambition.”

“Then familiarity is enough. Which entrance receives general candidates?”

“The eastern court. Magical declarations follow the first assessment, not the applicant’s confidence.”

“What does the first assessment measure?”

“General literacy, arithmetic, mana perception, physical condition, and conduct under instruction.”

“Conduct is examined before the practical tests?”

“Candidates reveal more while waiting and listening than while displaying prepared skills.”

“Then arriving early may provide one useful advantage.”

“Only if you spend the month observing instead of impressing strangers.”

“That was already my intention.”

“Then you are ahead of several candidates I have not met.”

Lysette told me to find her here, but she gave me only a first name. Searching the capital for one future applicant before the academy opens its records would turn curiosity into foolishness.

“May I inspect the public academy grounds before applications begin?” Cassian asked.

“The outer library, exhibition hall, and public gardens open on designated days. Dormitories, training fields, laboratories, and instructional courts remain restricted.”

“That still provides enough access for useful preparation.”

The clerk studied him over the papers. “Most children respond with disappointment after traveling so far.”

“I arrived one month early in the largest city I have ever seen. Disappointment would require unusual effort.”

Her mouth nearly became a smile. “The capital will provide opportunities for that as well.”

Cassian left the Registry and entered the academy avenue as afternoon shadows lengthened and the first enchanted lamps awakened.

A dwarven merchant argued over axle tolls while three apprentices wrestled a sliding crate of brass fittings.

A fox-eared beastkin courier threaded through the crowd with sealed message tubes across her back.

Near a fountain, an illusionist spoke a rapid incantation. Blue birds unfolded from light, circled children, and shattered into sparks.

“First day in Caeldor, young master?” a baked-fruit vendor asked as Cassian studied the rooftops.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You still look upward. Residents watch wheels, elbows, and their purses.”

Cassian checked his spending pouch without touching it. “Then give me one baked pear and keep the lesson included.”

The vendor wrapped the fruit. “You learn quickly. The capital charges more for slower lessons.”

Cassian continued past book arcades, apothecaries, guild offices, theaters, and food stalls while noting covered drains, patrol intervals, public mana lamps, and bridge congestion.

The capital offered more information in one street than Frostwood produced during an ordinary week.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Cassian reached a broad market avenue where banners stretched between upper stories and the crowd divided around musicians, porters, nobles, laborers, and foreign travelers.

For the first time since I opened my eyes as Cassian, the world before me feels larger than the secrets behind me.

He stepped into the crowd, and his sightseeing had only begun.

A shout cut through the avenue before Cassian reached the next row of market stalls.

“Stop him! That red-headed gutter rat stole from us again!”

A small figure burst between a cooper and two startled porters. A loaf bulged beneath one arm, while bruised apples knocked together inside a torn sling.

Short crimson hair showed beneath a filthy hood. The child moved quickly, but every third step faltered, and her breath rasped louder than the pursuing men.

She was an eleven-year-old girl hidden inside a boy’s silhouette, her hair hacked short and her oversized clothing chosen to discourage attention. Cassian saw only the disguise.

Three adults followed from a provision stall. One wore a flour-streaked apron, another carried a split broom handle, and the broadest had already removed his leather belt.

Several bystanders watched the chase begin. None intervened when the men caught the girl near a narrow service passage and dragged her beyond the market’s view.

“That one again,” an elderly porter muttered. “He never learns which stalls remember his face.”

Cassian looked toward him. “Are you calling the city watch?”

The porter shifted his bundle and avoided the question. “The watch will return him to the same streets. Those merchants will finish quickly if nobody interferes.”

“You know they intend to beat him.”

“Knowing is cheaper than becoming involved, young master.”

I can hear the entire cruelty of a crowded city inside that answer. People divide responsibility among enough witnesses until nobody feels responsible at all.

I know they are not taking him to the watch. They are choosing somewhere the watch cannot see.

Cassian set aside his half-eaten pear and followed.

The passage descended between warehouses before opening into an isolated stone alley used for refuse carts. High walls blocked the avenue, and no windows overlooked the ground below.

The child lay curled beside a drain. One man kicked her back while another held both wrists beneath a boot.

“We finally caught you, wretched little curse-brat,” the stall owner said. “Stealing again after every warning.”

The man with the belt struck the child’s shoulder. “Red-haired vermin should be grateful anyone lets him breathe inside the capital.”

The child tried to rise. Her arms failed, yet her violet eyes still searched for the loaf lying near the drain.

“That is enough,” Cassian said.

All three men turned. The stall owner stared at Cassian’s coat, polished boots, and visible academy-district tailoring before deciding he was merely a wealthy child.

“Return to the avenue, young master,” he said. “This thief has been feeding from our shelves for months.”

“Then you had months to report him properly.” Cassian stepped closer. “Instead, three adults dragged a sick child into an empty alley.”

“The watch releases children before the ink dries,” the apron-wearing man said. “He returns hungry, and we pay again.”

“How many loaves equal one child’s life?” Cassian asked.

The stall owner’s jaw tightened. “Do not reduce this to one loaf. He steals whenever our backs turn.”

“Repeated theft explains your anger. It does not explain striking someone already too weak to stand.”

“Easy principles from a coat worth more than our weekly stock,” the man with the belt said. “You have never watched hunger eat your livelihood.”

Cassian’s voice remained level. “You are correct about my coat. You remain wrong about the beating.”

The man with the belt sneered. “You do not know what he is. Look at those eyes and that hair. Some bloodlines are born wrong.”

Bronze skin, crimson hair, and violet eyes brighter than polished amethyst. I have never seen that combination, but ignorance does not make cruelty reasonable.

The broad man lifted the broom handle. “Leave before your guardian pays for your curiosity.”

“Wind Shackles, bind them.”

The name meant nothing. He shaped direct pressure through the alley while speaking as though shortening a formal spell. None of the men knew that true incantations used an entirely different language.

Any trained mage would recognize my deception immediately. These men only need to believe I possess formal spells powerful enough to punish them and controlled enough not to do so.

Air tightened around their elbows, knees, and ankles. Dust flattened beneath six immobilized boots, loose aprons snapped against their bodies, and every raised limb stopped without bruising the flesh beneath.

The broom handle trembled above the broad man’s shoulder.

Cassian turned his wrist. “Splintering Palm, sever the weapon.”

A narrow pressure seam passed through the wood. The handle divided into four clean lengths that struck the stones around the man’s boots.

“Those were warnings,” Cassian said. “The next demonstration can involve the wall behind you, or the bones in front of it.”

The stall owner tested the invisible restraint and immediately abandoned the effort. “He steals because people keep protecting him from consequences.”

“Nobody protected him while you were kicking his ribs.”

“Bread, fruit, smoked meat, and cheese have disappeared six times,” the apron-wearing man argued. “Will your principles repay that?”

Cassian drew one Silver Mark from his travel pouch. The coin caught a narrow shaft of afternoon light.

“Is one Mark enough?” he asked, anger making the question colder than a shout.

The stall owner’s expression changed from outrage to calculation. “That exceeds the value of everything he took.”

“Then consider the remainder payment for leaving immediately.”

Cassian released one man’s right hand while keeping every other limb bound. The stall owner accepted the Mark and closed his fingers around it.

“Do not steal from us again, boy,” he said toward the child. “There will not always be a little mage nearby.”

“You have been paid to leave,” Cassian replied. “Do not mistake my restraint for permission to continue.”

He loosened the pressure. The three men retreated toward the avenue, carrying their broken certainty and one profitable excuse for never mentioning what had happened.

The broad man glanced back from the passage. “What academy teaches children to threaten adults?”

“One Mark purchased your losses,” Cassian said. “Silence costs nothing unless you decide to sell it.”

The man looked at the cleanly divided wood near his boots and continued walking.

I cannot guarantee their silence, but admitting the alley, the beating, and the excessive payment gives them reasons to remain vague. I chose the least dangerous lie available, not an invisible one.

Cassian listened until their footsteps disappeared. The alley remained empty except for him and the collapsed child.

The child pushed one palm against the stones, rose several inches, and fell before Cassian could speak.

“I am coming closer,” Cassian said. “I will not touch you until I understand the injuries.”

No answer came. The child’s eyes closed, and her breathing shortened into shallow, uneven pulls.

Cassian spread a diagnostic veil through the air above the child. Fine mana threads followed heat, pulse, respiration, and internal pressure without disturbing her body.

He restricted the examination to breathing, circulation, infection, bones, and immediate tissue damage. Anything unrelated to survival remained outside the diagnostic pattern.

Fever burned through the lungs. Dehydration thickened the blood. Prolonged starvation had consumed muscle, weakened the heart, and emptied the reserves needed for ordinary recovery.

Fresh bruising covered two reopened rib fractures. Older injuries had healed crookedly beneath newer scars, while infection had settled deeply enough to become fatal without treatment.

Some scars were thin and accidental. Others crossed the wrists, shoulders, and back in patterns no ordinary fall could explain.

Cassian forced himself to study tissue rather than imagination.

I do not know who hurt him before today. I only know his body learned to expect repeated violence long before his mind should have understood it.

I am not watching him die from one beating. I am watching every day the city chose not to notice him collect inside one body.

Cassian checked the alley again, then placed one hand above the child’s chest.

Cassian shaped Integrated Restoration, directing the advanced healing technique toward immediate stabilization.

White-blue radiance unfolded from his palm in branching streams. The threads passed through torn cloth, traced every damaged vessel, and illuminated the child’s narrow body from within.

Inflamed lung tissue relaxed beneath precise pulses. Infection collapsed in shrinking shadows. Torn capillaries sealed, bruised organs stabilized, and the ribs shifted into correct alignment without forcing the starved muscles surrounding them.

Cassian guided the technique deeper, stabilizing her heartbeat and circulation despite the dangerous electrolyte imbalance, but he created no missing salts, water, or nourishment.

He stopped before the repaired tissues demanded more metabolic support than her starved body could provide.

I can repair structure, but I cannot create weeks of nourishment without consequences. If I feed him carelessly, kindness could become another injury.

Cassian shaped Cleansing Current, a precise cleaning technique meant to remove contamination without soaking damaged clothing.

Silver-blue mist spiraled around the child while pale light moved inside it. Dirt lifted from skin and cloth in dark ribbons, parasites fell lifeless, and the sour odor of fever and unwashed fabric dissolved.

The current left the girl dry, warm, and still unconscious. Beneath the grime, her features were unexpectedly fine, almost delicate despite starvation.

The transformation made the contradiction sharper. The clean face belonged to an unusually beautiful child, yet the hollow cheeks and guarded brow had been shaped by conditions no child should survive.

I have never seen eyes like those. They catch light as though brightness rests behind them. Whatever lineage produced this child, somebody taught Caeldor to fear its appearance.

Cassian wrapped her inside the weatherproof cloak, covering the short crimson hair and every identifying feature.

A quiet pressure frame reduced her effective weight without lifting her. Cassian slid one arm beneath her knees, supported her shoulders with the other, and carried her from the alley.

At the avenue, no one asked what had happened. Several people recognized the child and looked away more quickly than before.

I watched them see him taken into that alley. Their silence was not ignorance; it was a decision.

Cassian hired an enclosed carriage and paid two Groats in advance. The driver glanced at the slum clothing but chose the coin over curiosity.

The Crowned Laurel attendants noticed the bundle before Cassian crossed the entrance hall.

The desk steward stepped from behind the counter. “Young master, unidentified slum residents cannot be brought into the upper suites without review.”

“He is an unconscious child under my protection,” Cassian replied. “That is the review.”

“Other patrons expect cleanliness, discretion, and security.”

“Your staff will receive payment for cleaning. Your patrons will receive discretion by not being informed about matters outside their rooms.”

The steward’s expression hardened. “The Laurel is not a charitable infirmary.”

Cassian met his gaze without raising his voice. “Then decide whether twelve Royals purchased a private suite, or merely permission to be judged in a more expensive hallway.”

Silence gathered behind the desk.

“Tomas Veller’s letter specifically praised your discretion,” Cassian continued. “I would prefer not to write that his confidence was misplaced during my first afternoon.”

The steward looked from Cassian to the child’s shallow breathing. Professional caution finally defeated personal distaste.

“A guest bed can be prepared in the sitting room,” he said. “Additional cleaning and meals will be charged to your account.”

“No staff member touches him, corners him, or asks questions without my permission,” Cassian said. “He may wake expecting another attack.”

The steward’s brows rose. “You expect violence from him?”

“I expect fear. People often describe frightened children as violent after ignoring everything that frightened them.”

“Our attendants are not trained for this situation.”

“Then their task is simple. Knock, announce themselves, and wait outside.”

“Charge whatever is reasonable. Send a physician’s warming pan, clean linens, and boiled water. No attendant enters without knocking and receiving permission.”

Cassian carried the child upstairs himself. The attendants opened doors, brought clean linens, and followed his instructions without touching her.

Inside the Laurel Suite, Cassian laid the child on the guest bed positioned where the door and windows remained visible from the pillow.

He locked Gareth’s knife inside the secure wardrobe, moved the fire tools beyond reach, and arranged water, salt, honey, and thin broth on a distant table.

Cassian tested the outer lock, then left it disengaged. He placed the suite key on the table where the child could reach them without approaching him.

He also removed the decorative cord from the curtains, folded the balcony chairs away, and opened the connecting bedchamber door to create another visible exit.

I keep finding threats inside objects this room calls luxury. I cannot remove every fear, but I can stop adding new ones.

The child did not wake while Cassian measured a mild rehydration mixture and checked the child’s pulse again.

I brought him into a room he does not know, surrounded by people whose motives he cannot trust. When he wakes, every unfamiliar kindness may resemble the beginning of another trap.

Cassian pulled a chair toward the far wall and waited where the child could see both him and the unlocked door.

The girl slept with one fist closed against her chest, as though even unconsciousness could not persuade her to stop defending what remained.

End of Chapter 41