Chapter Text
Rogier slinks through the shadows of Raya Lucaria, keeping his footfalls featherlight. There are students stationed in every corridor; some engrossed in their studies, some keeping watch, all wearing the same expressionless stone mask. He effortlessly slips by without drawing attention to himself, knowing better than to stop to ask for directions. After all, he doesn’t fancy getting blown to smithereens by a hundred rapid glintstone spells.
Admission for this place is ridiculously steep. Rogier thinks with an indignant pout. How else is anyone to gain entry other than breaking in?
For as long as Rogier can remember, there have been tales forewarning people of the academy, painting it out to be a sort of impenetrable fortress. Such news came to be deeply disheartening for his younger self; freshly plucked out of death, trying to find his purpose in this sorry excuse of a second chance at life, and utterly enraptured by the art of sorcery.
But by the stars, don’t venture to the academy, Rogier.
No good can come of it, Rogier.
The gates are locked. You’ll never get inside, Rogier.
So, he never bothered to try.
Instead, he travelled the lands, he made friends; he did everything to ignore the constant presence of Raya Lucaria looming in the distance on its rocky pillar. Oh, how he yearned to get his fingers on the knowledge stashed away behind those high walls, but for the sake of his sanity, he chose to yield to the hard truth that gaining entry wouldn’t be possible.
So, he expanded his abilities using the scraps littered among the wilds, shaping himself into the spellblade he is today, instilling weapons with magical supplements to get by. Rogier has always excelled at wielding a blade, and on occasion, he used to spar with a good friend, D.
Once a good friend.
Whatever.
Anyway, then he got terribly, terribly drunk after an unfortunate altercation in Liurnia and decided that sauntering up to the academy gates and knocking sounded like an excellent idea. Inexplicably, it appears to have actually worked.
That was yesterday.
Today he woke up with a headache strong enough to slay Gods, curled up under his cloak for warmth, hugging his staff close to his chest. More importantly, he woke up on the bridge outside the academy. How did he get past the main gates? Well, that remains a mystery to him as well. Alcohol seems to have done its job well and burnt away all memory of last night, so he’ll have to assume that either a drunken fool is a force to be reckoned with, or the academy has been bewitching the world to believe their security isn’t complete shit.
In any case, he cleared his head with a simple spell, had a momentary freak out about breaking into bloody Raya Lucaria, before deciding that, well, if he’s already taken the liberty to invite himself inside, he may as well take a look around. He’ll be in and out. Quick as a bunny.
Unhealthy curiosity: thy name is Rogier.
Curiosity and miracles aside, though, Rogier does have an actual reason to break into the academy. This mess isn't entirely the fault of a drunken whim. He’s in search of a book, one he hasn’t been able to locate a copy of anywhere else. The Grand Library of Raya Lucaria is famous for its extensive archives. Rogier knows it’ll be in there. However, it’s always just been a matter of getting there.
Now that he’s actually at the academy, he can’t help but note how unnecessarily creepy the place is. It’s the unnatural stillness everywhere that has his nerves so frayed. But, at the same time, it’s hauntingly beautiful. A spectral, blue mist hangs in the air, glinting every so often with mote sized stars of magic. Intricate cupolas crown the surrounding towers, proudly declaring the academy’s magnificence. It would be easy to get lost in the grandeur here and let the rest of the world fade away.
Rogier presses onwards through the regal halls with a growing sense of familiarity guiding him; inexplicably knowing on some inherent level that he’s going in the right direction. Hoping that he’s going in the right direction, at least.
He deftly circles around a Carian knight stood ramrod straight on duty, and steps onto the square lift behind. The swirling carvings glow, and the lift shifts with a rumbling groan, dust billowing out from beneath. The knight whirls around in surprise just as Rogier fires a spell at the lever that causes it to implode. He gives a polite tip of his hat, rising safely out of reach.
One person knows he’s here – good to keep in mind.
The lift brings him to a bare courtyard, and he half skips over to the set of large double doors. As he creaks them open, he’s immediately thrown by how dark it is inside. Moonlight pours in, casting a large shadow of his figure across the ground, and he stands in the doorway silently waiting for his eyes to adjust, only to delightedly note that fortune seems to have favoured him. This is most definitely the library.
Keeping his ears pricked, he warily steps inside and shuts the doors, drowning himself in darkness. It’s impulse more than anything that has him breathing out a spell with a quick swish of his staff to summon a tiny orb of azure light. It bobs helpfully beside his shoulder, providing the faintest bubble of vision that scarcely manages to push back the prevalent mist even this room can’t seem to escape. He doesn’t dare make it any brighter, though. There are clusters of candles scattered around with skirts of hardened wax collecting at their base. Rogier frowns disapprovingly at the upturned candlesticks, sincerely hoping that all the books in here are charmed to be flame resistant. He’s been here a mere thirty seconds and can count more potential fire hazards than he has fingers.
Peculiarly, nobody else appears to be here.
He advances across the plush rug that rolls towards the middle of the library before a child-like excitement bubbles over, and he veers off into the many rows of bookshelves. The dark wood structures reach to meet the silhouettes of chandeliers on the ceiling. Rogier trails his fingers along the spines of the many tomes, dust collecting on his fingertips. These are ancient. How tragic that nobody has thought to pay them any mind recently.
It’s quite unlike any library Rogier has ever seen, and it’s also quite a mess. The state of the library actually pains him a little bit. There are mounds upon mounds of books piled up, having not been returned to their proper shelves. Rogier’s leg bashes against one of the smaller piles, sending them all collapsing into worse disarray.
“No, don’t do that, shh, shhh –“ he hushes, frantically trying to steady them.
Nothing horrible and murderous instantly descends on him, so he continues on, ensuring to watch where he steps more carefully this time. He would genuinely re-arrange this entire library for free. Heck, he would damn well pay to do it. These books deserve better respect than this. But that’s not why he’s here, and he’s not a secret tidy-up fairy for a school of homicidal students.
There’s no order. No system in place. No glossary. Rogier doesn’t even know where to begin searching. Could it be that the most revered school of sorcery has no organisational skills whatsoever? That’s an unexpected discovery. A rather unfortunate one for his goal as well. How is he to find a single book in this muddle? It’ll be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. The simplest approach he can think of is by working his way from one side of the room to the other – which he’s grossly aware he doesn’t have time to do, but that’s not going to stop him from trying.
He goes through the jumbled pyramid of books closest to the door first, scouring over their titles. Unconsciously, he makes a habit of setting the ones he’s checked on the nearest shelf. For a library that’s been tended to so little, its contents certainly are interesting.
Primeval Sorcerer Azur’s Memoirs.
The Heart of Glintstone
Lusat’s Ordinal
The Crown of Hierodas: A Short History
Carian Astrology
Something Rogier roughly translates to: Arcane for Dummies
It goes on.
And on.
And on.
Quelling the urge to steal all of them is becoming increasingly more difficult. But he reasons the academy might notice him making off with an entire library worth of books.
He’s sat cross-legged and mid-yawn when he finally finds it.
The Principia of Death
His eyes widen. “Holy…”
In response to his budding excitement, the tiny ball of light eagerly hovers closer as if it wants to see too, letting blue light wash over the hard ridges and knots of the books covering, reflecting on the obsidian skull in the centre. This is it. This is it. The book that could hold the very answer on how to save those who live in death – or at the least point him in the right direction for where to find it! Provided of course, that this is the original copy written by Sorcerer Schorl.
Not wishing to push his luck any further, he squirrels the book away in his satchel, and rises into a stretch, joints popping.
Well, that was remarkably easier than expected, he thinks while returning to the main walkway. Just as he’s about to leave, a tiny glint of light catches in his peripheral, sliding his attention to the uncharted depths of the library.
A lone globule flickers ephemerally against a dark canvass of shadows, like a setting sun catching on ripples of a lake. Rogier pauses, trying to work out whether it’s a candle or not. It’s much too large to be a flame on a wick, so against his better judgement – way against his better judgement – he takes a step towards it. And then another. Until he’s approaching as if drawn in by a reel.
He enters a hexagonal space marking the heart of the library, and his blue light sweeps into the area, allowing him to set his gaze upon…
Well, he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at, really.
There's a cradle of rich wood housing an amber egg.
What a strange thing to have as a centrepiece.
He makes sure to check he's unequivocally alone one last time before warily sinking to his knees before it, cocking his head and wondering what the egg could be. It must hold some importance to be on display like this. The oddly comforting light emitting from the egg gleams in his company. Welcoming. Captivating. He would hate to come across the creature that laid this, given that it's almost the size of his head. Yet, it looks as delicate as glass - Rogier's almost afraid to breathe near it. The egg could easily be mistaken for a meagre ornament but peering into his amber reflection on its smooth surface, he can feel the power thrumming from it in desperate waves - calling, almost.
There's energy suffused in this. Not quite life force, but something. Powerful and primordial.
Rogier’s fingers itch.
Somewhere, distantly, behind layers of curiosity, warning bells are sounding. Every second Rogier spends in here increases the chances of getting caught. He has what he came for, so by all means, he should leave. And really, Rogier knows better than to touch random artefacts found in a dubiously accredited school of magic.
But Rogier doesn’t think about that. Apparently, he doesn’t know better. He thinks, ‘hey, that looks cool’, and reaches out to brush his fingers along the egg.
Almost instantly, he knows he’s made a mistake.
The light intensifies, pulsates, and heats up. A jolt of panicked regret whips Rogier's nerves, but before he can even think to remove his hand, he finds himself trapped in a traitorous situation where his body starts shutting down limb by limb.
He can’t move.
He can’t move, and the egg burns. The fine silk of his gloves smoulder away, charring black until skin meets amber –
A flurry of frenetic energy smacks into him.
Rogier doubles over from the impact, but his mind and body are quickly grappled into firm submission again. He stands helplessly frozen as flowing tendrils of gold rush up his fingertips to blossom as warmth in his chest. Rogier can sense the hum of approval and feel the horrifying sense of belonging as it worms through his system until something clicks into place. A sacred and precious part of him is swiftly caged in orderly ringlets, forging a connection that swells so intensely it snaps something else in its stead.
Blood roars in his ears.
The backlash hits him with such agony his jaw drops into a silent scream, breath seized in his lungs. Elements of his core are being surgically sliced apart like butter and reshaped into -
His mind shreds itself to pieces under the stress of it.
Then, as quickly as it started, it stops.
A resounding crack pinches beneath his fingers at the same time his vision explodes into pure, blinding gold.
"Thou art the visage of him."
Rogier wakes to a soft gasp and cool fingers brushing across his cheek. He blinks hard to get the world into focus, mildly alarmed to find his head cradled on the lap of an unfamiliar woman.
"Where'm I?" Rogier murmurs, briefly forgetting his whole ingenious 'break into the academy' idea.
"At lasteth, thou hast returned. Be not afeared, I shall not maketh the same mistake twice. I will keepe thee safe at mine side." The woman smiles adoringly down at him - wait, he does recognise her. "Forever."
He recognises the crescent crown wrought with gold, at least.
Is that…Queen Rennala? Where the hell did she come from? He manages to bewilderedly discern before a cloud of sparkling, lilac dust gets blown in his face.
Reflexively, he sneezes.
Rogier has concocted sleep dust before. He'd recognise that deceptively innocent lavender scent anywhere. Belatedly, he shoves himself off the queen and attempts to scramble away. His body frustratingly refuses to cooperate - again - as a sudden pressure builds up in the base of his skull, and he crumples into a graceless heap on the ground, cursing his useless limbs.
Shit. Shit.
Numbness spreads over his mind like staticky pins and needles, and he knows it’s only a matter of seconds before sleep rips the rug out from under him.
Forever.
The queen's words ring in his ears. Getting captured here will undoubtedly mean suffering a fate worse than death. Any other enemy would be merciful enough to kill him, but oh no, not the academy. Sorcerers are creative. They'll trap him here for an eternity as a puppet, a test subject, a tortured soul, or all of the above. The possibilities are maddeningly endless, or so the stories go.
So, in a last-ditch attempt to escape, Rogier raises a trembling hand to grip the little green gem that dangles from his hat, mind swimming too much for him to care about the golden carvings on his palm that definitely weren’t there earlier.
“D…” He whispers, almost like a prayer. “Help.”
The green gem brightens in salute and dims as the spell imbued within dashes away to relay his message.
He’s going to fucking kill me, Rogier thinks, and promptly passes out.