Fallen Mage Regressor

Mal went completely still.

Nima continued to stare at him with that smile, while Lucia was still unconscious.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the room was cast in twilight. The handful of candles were brighter now at this time due to the lack of external light.

"Nima," Mal said quietly. "You have ten seconds to explain what you're doing."

Please let this be a bad joke, Mal thought. Please, please, please—

Nima let out a roaring laugh. It ripped through the air and hurt Mal's ears from how loud it was.

Nima wiped a tear from his eye. "You haven't figured it out yet?" He spread his arms out. "I'm the bad guy. I'm the cultist! Come on, put two and two together, and stop insulting both our intelligence."

"That's impossible. There was only one cultist in this entire city, and I killed him." Nima wagged his finger. "Unfortunately not, my old friend. That was no cultist you killed. Merely an unfortunate student who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Nima stepped over Lucia's body. He paused, then purposefully backpedaled and crunched his boot into her hand.

The sick sound of cracking joints, then a snap.

Mal's blood turned white-hot. He channeled energy into his vine bracelet—

But nothing happened.

Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!

"It was a bit of a long con," Nima said. "Just like this whole mess has been. I found someone particularly weak to illusion magic and slowly melted his brain until he couldn't tell what was real anymore. He was there because he thought that his sister would be killed if he didn't do exactly as I said." Nima laughed again. "The idiot doesn't even have a sister. Or, I should say, didn't even have a sister."

Mal stared at Lucia's hand. His heart pounded in his chest, his blood boiled, every part of him itching to beat Nima within half an inch of his life.

But that damned weakness hadn't gone away.

"The brandy," Mal suddenly said. "You poisoned it."

Nima clapped slowly.

"Full marks to the young student with a shady looking face. Yes, Rolam and Philo won't be getting up anytime soon. Which is good, because I can't risk them getting in the way."

Poison?

Mal still had his satchel on. He had a collection of herbs. If he knew what it was.

Lavendertoad.

A small dose—small enough that it was only acting as a paralytic, not as a deathblow.

And luckily for Mal, he still had some lavendergrass from when he'd retrieved the cup.

But he couldn't take it now.

He needed Nima to turn his back. Just for a moment, just so that Mal could have a split second to reach his hand into his satchel and consume the herb. He had to buy time.

"I still don't quite understand," Mal said. "If you were planning to kill me, why not do it at the church? Why even go to the trouble of setting up a puppet?"

"Because of that damned sensitivity of yours." Nima crossed his arms and scoffed. "Every time I make an illusion, you can smell it. And no matter how much I try to disguise the scent, I can see the way your face perks up when you spot it. For the past four months, I've spent my entire time trying to figure out the limits of your perception. That fight was the final test."

"I managed to find the exact combination of spells and the exact makeup of an illusion that would even manage to trick you, if only for a moment."

Nima strode over to him. "Of course, this won't work again. I'll never get another opportunity like this. But it doesn't matter, because you're completely at my mercy."

Mal's hand slowly drifted down toward his satchel.

"You've been watching me all this time?"

"Yes, yes," Nima said. "I saw you in the matron. I saw you in the library. I saw you fighting those demons. I've been your friendly stalker for the past four months. Well, not so friendly, but you get the point."

"Can I ask why?"

At that, Nima's eyes flickered. "Why what?"

Mal's fingers unclasped the latch.

"Why are you doing all this?"

"Because I'm a cultist, obviously." Nima rolled his eyes and shoved the collar of his shirt down. Purple metal gleamed and he pulled a necklace from up and into and shoved it into Mal's face. "Come on, dude. Keep up."

"I get that part. What I'm asking for is why you joined the cult."

Nima's eyes clouded over. The grin on his face dropped.

"It was kind of strange," Nima said, his voice quieter, his gaze locked on a point behind Mal. "I joined while I was in school. I'd never even thought of joining the cult before, but I was suddenly hit with this urge. This feeling that it was where I was meant to be."

Mind control?

It was hard for Mal to believe that Nima had done a complete heel-face turn, especially with his reasons being so vacuous.

Unfortunately, Mal didn't have any way to help him if that was the case. Mal had gotten good at preventing mind magic intrusion into his own brain. But stopping other people? No, impossible.

The expression of confusion disappeared from Nima's face.

"Let me tell you, just about popped my lid when she didn't take that drink. Meant I had to turn things ugly."

Nima looked down and slammed his boot into Lusia's arm for a second time. Another sick snap rang in the small room, the sound similar to that of a twig.

At that instant, Mal moved his hand and pulled the lavendergrass out and into his mouth. Nima grinded his foot into Lusia's arm.

Mal was going to kill him.

"Oh, look at that expression on your face!" Nima cackled. "You really do care for her, don't you?"

"And if I do?"

Mal's head crept toward his satchel.

"Then you're an idiot," Nima said. "Caring makes you weak, Mal. You haven't figured that out, yet? I'd expect more from someone like you."

"I would've expected more from you, as well, Nima," Mal said. "To make such an amateur mistake."

There was a brief flash of confusion. Then Mal rocketed over the table with a reared-back fist.

The fist impacted Nima's jaw hard to enough to make Mal's knuckles flash with pain. Nima stumbled backward with a cry of pain. Mal reached out and stopped him from moving backward any further, then slugged him in the nose. Instantly, Mal felt the bone collapse from the force of the blow, caved inward with a crack.

Mal pulled his fist back for a third punch. He slammed it forward with everything he had.

The punch sailed through Nima's face with the sound of glass cracking. It hit the floor, and a loud slam echoed out a split-second later.

An illusion.

Mal's eyes darted from corner to table.

"I hated it, you know."

Mal elbowed the air behind him, where he thought the noise had come from. Nothing.

"Pretending to be your friend," Nima said. "Pretending that I was a good person. Pretending that I didn't want to burn this country to the ground."

"What did this country ever do to you?" Mal muttered. "Is it about your brother?"

The sudden smell of sulfur. Mal dived to the right, a knife appearing in mid air before disappearing at the end of its arc.

"You really think it's something so pedestrian as family?" A scoff. "I'm just like this. The smell of blood. Death. Combat. This is what gives life meaning."

"There are better ways to compete in bloodsports other than crazy cultist organizations."

"Yes, but this is so much more fun."

Another flash of metal. Mal attacked with his own strike, betting that he'd hit Nima based off previous patterns.

His fist passed through the air. It had been an illusion.

Another flash.

This time, Mal was too slow.

The knife pieced his shoulder. Steel met sinew, every inch of the blade sunk deep inside of his muscle.

Time slowed to a crawl.

It was a funny thing—when adrenaline was high enough, perception increased to absurd, astronomical levels. One could pull off miracles in such a state, if one was particularly lucky.

In Mal's case, his miracle was a mere observation.

Lusia had disappeared.

Frying pan met skull with a single swing of her arm. Nima tumbled to the side with a pained cry. He covered his head and groaned to himself.

Lusia breathed haggerdly, her skin pale white and her hair disheveled.

For one brief moment, Mal had never been happier to see her.

Then he smelled it.

Her core. It's on the cusp of stabilization.

Whether it was shock or simply her natural progression, she was on the edge of developing a fully functional core.

And in that moment…

Mal ignored his thoughts. At one end of the room, a traitor. On the other end, a servant and her master.

The vine bracelet twitched.

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