Low-Fantasy Occultist

The scratch of the quill couldn’t have been less irritating after two days spent drafting and redrafting, but hopefully this would be the last time.

Once the scribe was done, finishing with a flourish that was probably meant to grant the historic paper his own signature, even if the man’s name wouldn’t be recorded, it was finally time for the lords to do their job.

Duke Mordhau signed his name with aggressive strokes, the nib biting deep into the thick parchment. He pulled his signet ring from his index finger, pressed it into the pool of hot red wax the scribe had poured along the treaty's edge, and leaned back in his padded chair, clearly annoyed he hadn’t gotten everything, yet too wary to rehash the matter.

The Shadow remained perfectly still at the far end of the table, their porcelain mask revealing nothing of their feelings. Still, the King’s agent had accepted Nick’s terms, and that single gesture had bound the lords of the North to an uneasy truce more than any rational argument ever could have.

Rosmaria Elpen took the quill next. Her knuckles were swollen, the skin pale and thin as parchment. She needed Rhea's help, but her signature was bold, sweeping across the bottom of the document. She sealed it with the Elpen crest—a gear enclosed within a blooming rose.

More lords took their turn then, and finally Varg and Nick did as well, serving merely as witnesses to the treaty rather than as participants, even if their contribution had been greater than that of any who came before.

It was another concession to ensure outsiders wouldn’t appear to be dictating terms, but Nick was simply done with the ridiculous affectations and signed without complaint.

The moment the ink dried and a copy was offered, the Shadow took it and stood. Their porcelain mask turned briefly toward Nick, acknowledging him as they did for no one else, before the figure stepped back into the hall's shadows. The air distorted, and the King's Shadow vanished without a sound.

For several seconds, nobody dared so much as breathe until, at last, some of the lingering tension vanished.

Duke Mordhau stood, giving the room a curt nod. He now once again held the rights to the city of Toneburg, a lucrative share of the merchant taxes, and the glory of formally ending the siege. Yet his eyes were tight, his ambition bruised by the denial of the true prize.

Everything he’d gotten should already have been his by right. That it hadn’t was a black mark on his record, in Nick’s mind. Mordhau had let Ephor have free rein for far too long and was now bearing the consequences.

They’ll talk about this behind his back for the rest of his life. A Duke who needed a treaty to have his due returned. He’ll chafe before long.

That, in truth, the city wouldn’t even be fully under his control for months yet would only make it hurt more.

"I will have my men restore peace in the upper wards," Mordhau said, his tone clipped and formal. "My Silver Falcons will begin patrols by this evening. Ensure your hounds remain in their kennels, Commander Varg, or I will put them down.”

Varg, standing by the door with his arms crossed over his battered breastplate, offered a grin that showed too many teeth. "We know how to heel, Your Grace. So long as the meat keeps coming.”

Mordhau let out a grunt, barely concealing his annoyance, and swept from the room, his aides and knights trailing in his wake.

It still took some time for everyone of note to leave, and even longer for the Estate to be declared secure, but Nick allowed himself a breath of relief.

It’s not over yet, but I can see the light.

Rhea and Rosmaria retired soon after, the old woman clearly drained, leaving with a long look at her grandson, who inclined his head in return.

An hour later, Nick, Gaelen, and Varg sat in a much smaller, warmer parlor adjacent to the main hall. A fire snapped and popped in the hearth, battling the bitter northern chill that had crept in while the room was swept for recording runes.

Two Elpen servants, with hurriedly sewn uniforms and bruised faces, carried in silver trays.

The fare was simple—thick trencher loaves of whole-grain bread, hollowed out and filled with a dark, peppery venison stew, accompanied by roasted garlic and a flagon of sour red wine.

Nothing a noble house would have dared serve in normal circumstances, but allowances had to be made given the Estate’s current state. It’d take a while before the pantry became a priority.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Still, Varg ate like a starved wolf. He tore off a chunk of the crusty bread, scooped up a mouthful of stew, and chewed with his mouth half-open.

“All of that, and I only got a stay of execution," he grunted, swallowing hard and reaching for the wine. "Words are wind. The General is beneath the earth, fighting gods know what. By the time the Royal Army marches back to the sun, Mordhau could have me hanged as a bandit at the first misstep.”

Nick sipped the sour wine. It was far too sour for his tastes, but it warmed his blood, and he needed it after the diplomatic marathon. "Which is why you will not leave Toneburg.”

Varg wiped his bearded chin with the back of a meaty hand, eyes narrowing. "The treaty says I must withdraw from the merchant district, leaving me with little security. But if I stay behind the walls, Mordhau will claim I broke the peace. And if I leave the city, his Falcons will hunt us down on the open road long before we reach safety.”

Everyone already knew that, but Varg’s saying it so plainly meant he was truly annoyed.

“It’s not the best, but the lower wards can be made defensible for a time,” Nick said smoothly, setting his cup down. "Mordhau wants Toneburg back to its former glory, with taxes flowing and the forges burning. He cannot attack you as long as you hold positions near the main thoroughfares, at the risk of ruining his own plans. More likely than not, he will offer you safe passage to leave sooner than the treaty’s terms. And the moment you break camp and hit the open fields, he will attack you.”

Gaelen sat across from the mercenary, his left arm bound tightly in a clean linen sling. He looked pale, the dark circles under his amber eyes speaking to the terrible toll the cursed dagger had exacted. Yet the young Lord of House Elpen sat with his spine straight.

“We can help each other," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "My grandmother has reclaimed the Forge, but the automated defenses will take months to repair. With the Ultimer garrison dead or scattered, we have wealth aplenty but few places to spend it, Commander Varg. The treaty guarantees your payout, but it will be useless if you are too dead to enjoy it. Let us work together for now, so that we both might get what we want.”

Varg stopped chewing. He looked at Gaelen, then at Nick, his thoughts unreadable behind his dark eyes. Even his presence in the ether was shrouded, and only Nick’s new sensitivity told him that Varg had already decided to accept and was merely making sure they were as serious about this as he was.

“It would be an alliance of convenience," the big man mused, leaning back in his chair. “You want the Black Hounds to protect the Elpen estate and the entrances to the lower rings. In exchange, House Elpen will use its new standing to keep the Duke off my back.”

"Until the Royal Army returns and your pardon is formally ratified," Nick confirmed. The flash of satisfaction in Varg’s soul told him the man had been waiting for Nick to confirm that promise. "Mordhau is ambitious, but he is not suicidal. He will not risk open war against a fortified mercenary company backed by two Prestiges.”

Rosmaria was unlikely to take part in any battle. In fact, he’d consider it a miracle if she survived the entire duration of the treaty-enforced peace. But the old woman had somehow found the strength to attend the talks, so he might be proven wrong.

Varg poured himself another cup. He held it up as the firelight caught the dark liquid. "To convenience, then. May it keep our heads on our necks.”

They drank, and the pact was sealed with bad wine and necessity.

Nick left Gaelen and Varg to hammer out the specifics. Normally, he would have stayed to support his friend, but Gaelen needed to prove he was a man worth taking seriously, both to Varg and to himself. His killing of Ephor Ultimer had done much for his reputation, but the long years of absence from Toneburg would take time to overcome.

He walked through the recently cleared corridors on the second floor until he found the secluded study he had claimed for his own. It had once belonged to an Artificer whose head had been splattered on the eastern wall by his magic, so there was no one to complain.

A single window overlooked the snow-covered gardens at the back of the estate. Nick walked to a high-backed leather armchair behind a mahogany desk and sank into it. The leather creaked, and he took a moment to breathe, letting himself unwind.

Finally, he was alone.

I should have done this sooner, he complained to himself, but he knew there had been no time. The talks had gone deep into the night and begun very early the next morning, and he’d passed out in this very chair during the few spare hours he’d been granted as a reprieve, far too tired to even consider his status.

Now that the situation was more stable and no Shadow was lurking around the Estate, he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Nick closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the leather. He breathed in the dusty air.

He needed to understand what he had become.

During the fight with Ephor, he had felt the unbridled surge of his power, a torrential flood that had nearly brought the cavern down on their heads. He had adapted on the fly, wrestling the mana into submission through sheer willpower, but that had barely scratched the surface of what he could do.

Focusing his awareness inward, he searched for the familiar, comforting structure of his mana coils, which had defined his magical existence since he first entered this world, and found them gone.

He’d already known, yet the absence of them sent a brief jolt of panic through his chest, though it faded just as quickly. The coils were gone because the need for a container had passed. His flesh, his bones, his blood—his entire body was now the soul. The Geode had expanded to encompass his mortal vessel, fusing the metaphysical and the physical into a single, unbroken conduit.

It flowed through his skin as naturally as oxygen filled his lungs.

"Status," he whispered.

NICK CROWLEY

LEVEL

MANA

STR

DEX

CON

INT

WIS

CHA

Eidolon of the Formless/ Prestige Human

100

740

238

242

251

372

462

361

Nick stared at the numbers. The leap was staggering. Before his rank-up, he’d had half the amount of mana, and that didn’t even account for the sheer qualitative change. His Int, Cha, and Wis shattered mortal understanding, climbing into a tier where the raw mathematics of the System began to lose conventional meaning.

All of it was hard to picture. He’d known, of course, that there was a reason Prestige classes were considered beyond anything regular people could dream of, but seeing it there made it all the more real.

Every stat had increased by a hundred points. His mana had doubled.

And he knew, without confirmation but with deep certainty, that every level from now on, however difficult to reach, would bring him greater leaps than his previous Class.

And then there were the Traits.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!