Torvares’s gaze stayed on the paper for a moment longer, like he could see the answer hiding between the ink lines.
Then he leaned back and said, almost casually, “It is probably an enigma.”
Ludger didn’t move. The word hung in the air like a bad smell. Torvares continued, tone dry, as if he were admitting an old embarrassment.
“I’d forgotten,” he said. “But those people… they come from a line of mages who found their successors by giving them enigmas. Tests. Puzzles. A trail.”
He tapped the desk once, eyes still calm.
“You are likely meant to use this to find a clue,” Torvares said. “And then that clue leads to another. Eventually… you find the man.”
Ludger stared at him. Then he stared back down at the tree. Then back up again. He was genuinely, completely baffled.
“That sounds,” Ludger said slowly, carefully, like he was trying not to insult a noble in his own office, “way too stupid.”
Torvares’s mouth twitched as if he’d expected that exact response.
“It does,” he agreed.
Ludger lifted the page slightly, holding it between two fingers like it might be contagious.
“I wanted illusion magic,” Ludger said, voice flat. “Not… scavenger hunting.”
“Apparently,” Torvares replied, “you get both.”
Ludger’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re telling me this is normal?”
Torvares spread his hands in a small, resigned gesture. “Normal for them. Not for sane people.”
Ludger exhaled through his nose, long and controlled. The tree stared back at him in perfect ink silence, roots hidden under implied earth like it was smug about the whole thing.
Ludger felt a familiar, unpleasant sensation bloom behind his eyes. The urge to solve it anyway. Because if the man on the other end thought this would make Ludger go away… He had chosen the wrong person to annoy.
Torvares watched Ludger’s expression harden into that familiar blend of irritation and calculation, and he didn’t seem offended by it in the slightest.
“I understand you don’t have time for games,” Torvares said, voice calm. “Truly.”
He nodded toward the drawing. “But this is what you’ve been given. If you want illusion magic from that line, then this is the price you pay. Not coin, attention.”
Ludger’s eyes narrowed, still on the tree like it had personally insulted him. Torvares continued, tone shifting just slightly, less resignation, more strategy.
“Fortunately,” he said, “this also confirms two useful things.”
Ludger looked up.
“First: very few people will even realize you are looking for him,” Torvares said. “Most will see a drawing and assume it is meaningless. No one will suspect you’re searching for a teacher.”
He lifted a finger. “Second: the discretion of the teacher should be clear. A man who hides behind riddles is a man who understands secrecy. Which… given your current situation, it is not the worst trait to cultivate.”
Ludger didn’t respond immediately. He crossed his arms, gaze dropping back to the tree. He studied it the way he studied a battlefield: not admiring it, not appreciating the craft, but looking for what it didn’t show.
Roots. Branch angles. Leaf clusters. The direction of shadowing, like a sun position. The soil line. The negative space.
He could feel his mind starting to bite into it.
Could I solve this in a day?
He didn’t have time for a week-long trail of smug clues. He had marbles to trace, sealed labyrinths to worry about, and an Empire that was suddenly “preparing” behind closed doors.
A day, tops. That was the limit he was willing to grant this nonsense. Ludger exhaled, controlled, and folded the letter carefully.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll deal with it.”
Torvares’s mouth twitched, amusement flickering like candlelight. “I assumed you would.”
Ludger stood. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor.
“I’m heading to the Lionsguard branch now,” he said, already turning his body toward the door. “I have other priorities.”
Torvares inclined his head. “Of course.”
Ludger paused with one hand near the doorframe, then glanced back.
“Where are Viola and Luna?” he asked.
Torvares answered immediately. “They went to a labyrinth for training.”
Ludger’s brow furrowed.
“A labyrinth,” he repeated, tone flat.
Torvares gave a small nod, expression unreadable. “They wanted to sharpen themselves. After… everything.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Ludger held the silence for a beat, then nodded once.
“Alright,” he said.
He didn’t comment further. Didn’t ask which labyrinth. Didn’t ask how deep. He simply tucked the tree drawing into his coat like it was a live blade and stepped out. If they were training in a labyrinth, they’d either come back stronger… or they’d come back with more problems.
Either way, Ludger didn’t have time to babysit. Not today. Ludger gave Torvares a short nod.
“See you later.”
It came out flat, almost abrupt, but Torvares only waved him off with the faint patience of a man used to Ludger’s priorities being sharper than manners.
Ludger left the manor without lingering, crossed the grounds, and slipped into the route the city didn’t advertise.
The underground tunnel entrance sat behind a maintenance shed and a patch of carefully arranged stone that looked decorative until you knew which edge to lift. A simple ward. A hidden latch. One push, one twist, and the cold air breathed up at him from below.
He went down. Stone steps. Damp chill. The faint mineral scent of Lionfang’s bones. The tunnel swallowed him.
Darkness pressed in on all sides, broken only by the dim glow of mana lamps fixed at long intervals. The light didn’t reach far, just enough to keep you from cracking your skull on a protruding beam. Everything else was shadow and silence and the soft rhythm of his own steps.
It was safer this way. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions. No one tracking where the vice guildmaster went when he didn’t want to be seen.
As he moved through the dark, the folded letter in his coat felt heavier than it should have. A tree. A stupid drawing. A mage line that thought secrecy meant turning basic communication into a scavenger hunt. Ludger’s jaw tightened.
He ran through the merits like he ran through combat routes, cold, structured. For the merits, it was discreet. Almost no one would connect a drawing to a hunt for an illusionist. Anyone willing to hide behind riddles likely knew how to stay hidden when it mattered. Illusion magic would solve problems Ludger couldn’t brute-force without leaving obvious traces: infiltration, misdirection, masking signatures, turning “impossible” entry points into “nobody saw anything.”
For the demerits there was time. Annoyance. The possibility that the illusionist was the type to enjoy watching people dance for scraps of attention. Ludger exhaled through his nose. He didn’t like games. But he liked tools. And he liked having options even more. Especially now.
Valk was still a shadow in the background, too quiet, too connected, too his own world. Shera was still around too, somehow lingering at the edge of the guild’s orbit with that look of someone who’d seen something huge and didn’t want to go back to being small. Herack… Herack was a Northerner with an auramancer’s instincts and a mouth built for provocation, but the man had weight. He wasn’t just muscle. He was awareness.
All of them, in their own way, had the same itch Ludger recognized in himself. They wanted to be part of something big. Something that mattered. That was dangerous. That was also useful.
If he could pull an illusionist into Lionsguard’s gravity, if he could get the attention of someone skilled enough to be hidden like that—then the hassle might be worth it. Not because Ludger wanted a mentor to pat his head and teach him tricks. Because a good illusionist didn’t just change what people saw. They changed what people believed . And belief was a battlefield most nobles and empires won without ever drawing a sword.
Ludger’s steps didn’t slow. If the illusionist wanted a game, fine. Ludger would solve it fast, take what he needed, and leave the pride and theatrics for someone who cared. He emerged near the guild branch entrance on the far side, climbed the last set of stairs, and stepped back into daylight with the cold of the tunnel still clinging to his clothes.
A drawing of a tree sat against his ribs.
And the thought settled, sharp and practical:
If this works, it won’t just teach me illusion magic.
It’ll give Lionsguard a new kind of weapon.
Ludger reached the Lionsguard branch with the timing of someone who treated schedules like a weapon.
He stepped through the outer gate just as the yard hit that familiar pre-run tension, voices sharper, movements faster, equipment being checked twice. The kind of energy that always came before a labyrinth dive, when everyone remembered that a mistake didn’t just hurt.
It killed. A group was gathering near the staging racks.
Harold stood with his arms crossed, posture solid and unimpressed, looking like the kind of man who could carry a wounded delver on one shoulder and complain about the weight of the boots. Cor was there too, older, gruffer, eyes like chipped stone, the sort of sage who didn’t waste words because he’d already watched enough people die to learn silence was efficient.
Aleia was tightening a strap on a quiver, calm and precise, her fingers moving like she’d done it a thousand times. Selene leaned on a post with casual menace, smiling like she was headed to a party instead of a death maze.
Alongside them were the newer members, fresh faces in mixed gear, nerves hidden behind forced confidence. Some were checking blades, others flexing hands, one quietly whispering a prayer he’d pretend he wasn’t whispering if anyone looked his way.
When they spotted Ludger, several heads turned at once.
“Ludger!” Selene called first, bright and sharp. “Look who decided to appear like a ghost.”
Harold nodded once. Cor grunted. Aleia’s eyes flicked over him, quick, assessing.
They said their hellos, and then the obvious question followed.
“What are you doing here?” Harold asked, blunt as always.
Ludger didn’t bother lying.
“I came to learn,” he said.
That earned him immediate frowns. Not because learning was strange, because the shape of him was strange. Because there was a bow on his back. It wasn’t ornate. It wasn’t ceremonial. It was practical and real, strapped in a way that suggested intent, not decoration.
Selene’s grin sharpened into something playful. “Oh?”
Cor’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you carry a bow?”
Aleia didn’t speak, but her gaze locked on the string, the grip, the way it sat against his shoulder. She read weapons like other people read faces. Ludger ignored the scrutiny like it didn’t matter.
“You’re heading into the labyrinth,” he said. “So it’s a good chance.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “A good chance for what?”
Ludger’s eyes flicked toward the gear racks, toward the entry team, toward the direction the branch’s labyrinth gate sat buried behind reinforced stone.
“For me to see the reptilian labyrinth in action,” he answered simply.
That made the newer members stiffen slightly. A few swallowed. The words reptilian labyrinth had a way of tightening throats. It carried a reputation, wet stone, slick floors, venom, and things that didn’t die cleanly.
Selene’s smile widened, amused. “So you’re coming along.”
Ludger didn’t confirm or deny directly.
He just adjusted the strap of the bow on his back and added, tone flat, “And I’m learning.”
Aleia’s eyes narrowed a fraction, not hostile, interested. Harold’s frown deepened. Cor grunted again, like he was annoyed the world kept giving Ludger more problems to solve.
“Fine,” Harold said finally. “Just don’t take us to another crazy adventure.”
Ludger’s mouth twitched faintly.
“It isn’t like I plan it all the time,” he said.
Selene laughed under her breath. “That’s the scariest lie you’ve told today.”
Ludger didn’t respond. Because the bow on his back wasn’t there to look impressive. It was there to stop being predictable.
And the labyrinth was the perfect place to test what the world would assume when it saw him raise his hand and something invisible died at range.