"Get out," Belisarius ordered, standing at the threshold of the holding cell like a judge passing sentence.
Martin didn't even glance up from where he sat cross-legged on the cot, humming quietly while reassembling a fragmented sigil crystal with threadlike mana. "Open the door first."
Roen leaned in from beside Belisarius, arms folded. "We know you already picked the lock."
Martin grinned and let the reassembled shard hover in the air before vanishing it with a twitch. "Smart boys."
With a casual stretch, he stood and walked out, looking as refreshed as if he'd been in a spa rather than a magically shielded detention box. "So," he said, rolling his shoulders, "are you both coming along, or am I expected to give guided tours myself?"
"Yes," Belisarius said, turning on his heel.
"Wow," Martin said, falling into step beside him. "You just decided to jump into a tar pit on purpose. Bold."
Roen smirked from behind them. "You should've heard what he called you earlier."
"Oh?" Martin raised a brow.
"'Catalyst.'"
Martin's eyes lit up. "He likes me. That's horrifying."
"I said you'd cause change," Belisarius replied dryly. "Not that I'm fond of it."
The trio made their way through the stone hallways of the Barmo precinct, their pace brisk but unhurried. Magical sensors flared softly overhead, scanning their identities, but none dared challenge the Warden or his unsettling new companion.
"To Varncrest now?" Martin asked after a few moments of companionable silence.
"Yes," Belisarius said. "We'll take a flight to the outer anchor, then transfer through the Rift Gate. A direct jump would draw attention."
"I do love being smuggled into prestigious institutions," Martin said, admiring the runic engravings along the walls. "Makes me feel valued."
"You're not being smuggled," Belisarius corrected. "You're being deployed."
Martin paused. "That's… significantly worse."
Roen chuckled. "Take it as a compliment. Most people don't survive long enough to be a problem Belisarius wants to use."
Martin noticed the attention they were drawing. Civilians and enforcers alike glanced their way—first at the Warden, then at the pale young man trailing embers of latent mana behind his coat like a warning sign.
"You do realize I'm going to break something expensive, right?" Martin said cheerfully. "It's in my nature."
"Then make sure it's something useless," Belisarius replied.
Roen smirked. "That assumes he can tell the difference."
Just outside the precinct gates, a sleek rune-carriage awaited them—long, silver-bodied, marked with the crest of the Concordant Wardenate. A masked construct-driver stood at attention, its intelligence aura faint but disciplined.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss.
Inside, the walls were paneled in charmed obsidian, and soft stabilizer runes pulsed underfoot. The interior reeked of silent authority.
Martin slumped into the far bench with theatrical grace, boots up, coat sprawled around him like a defiant flag. Belisarius took the seat across, and Roen angled in beside the driver, silently watching the skies as the carriage lifted from the street with a hum of compressed flow.
Barmo shrank below them—its towering mage-spires, its weather-weaved dome, its distant light-forges reduced to glimmers on the horizon.
Silence settled inside the cabin.
Then Martin turned to Belisarius. "You know," he said lightly, "I could disable this entire ride before we hit altitude."
Belisarius didn't blink. "That's why I'm sitting next to you."
A beat passed.
Then Martin chuckled, genuinely amused. "Fair."
He leaned his head back, watching the magical insulation shimmer against the windows, mana sheens dancing across the surface like auroras under pressure.
"So…" he said after a pause, tone curious now. "What exactly do you want from me, Belisarius? Varncrest doesn't admit wildcards for fun."
The Warden didn't answer immediately.
Then: "I want you to shake the floorboards."
Martin turned his head, expression shifting into something more focused.
"You're a rogue element," Belisarius continued. "Unclaimed. Undomesticated. You haven't been taught to pull punches or keep your head down. That makes you the most honest mirror the academy has seen in years."
Martin gave a low whistle. "So I'm not the hammer. I'm the crack in the wall."
"You're the reminder that the wall can crack."
"Poetic." Martin rubbed his chin. "And what happens when someone decides to patch me up with a nice collar and leash?"
Belisarius's voice went flat. "Let them try."
Martin watched him for a long moment. "You're playing a dangerous game, Warden."
"I always have."
Martin looked out the window again. "And what if I decide to play my own game instead?"
"I'm counting on it."
The words landed with weight. Belisarius wasn't asking for loyalty—he was betting on volatility.
Roen finally spoke up from the front. "Varncrest isn't ready for you."
"That's the point," Belisarius said. "They've forgotten what unregulated talent looks like. What it feels like to be uncomfortably aware that someone next to you sees the world differently. That their logic doesn't follow your rules. That they might be right, and that scares you."
"Sounds like you're trying to start a war," Martin said.
"No," Belisarius said. "I'm trying to remind them what one looks like."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was anticipatory.
As the rune-carriage climbed higher into the sky, cutting through spell-thin clouds, Martin leaned forward just slightly—eyes sharp now, thoughts racing, heart already ahead of the next curve.
They were taking him to the most powerful place on the floating island.
And they had no idea that he'd already decided what to burn.
To Be Continued…