Chapter 11: The Proposal

Killian kept walking through the Sunken Garden.

The path here wound between low hedges and stone benches, eventually leading toward the Argent Spire dormitories. It was a longer route than cutting through the main hallways, obviously. He’d started taking it more often lately, mainly for the quiet. The bubbling of the enchanted fountains was a steady, predictable sound. It helped him think.

He rounded a corner where the path widened near a large central fountain. Water arced from a stone gryphon’s mouth, falling into a wide basin with a soft, constant splash. The kinetic enchantment in the base kept it running without any visible mechanism.

And there was Lysander, standing beside it as though he’d been admiring the sculpture the whole time.

He wasn’t looking at the water. He was looking down the path, waiting. He’d positioned himself under an archway draped with flowering vines, where the afternoon light caught the silver thread on his student council lapel pin.

Killian didn’t break stride. He didn’t slow down or speed up. He just kept walking along the flagstones, his boots making a soft, regular sound against the stone. His mind, however, snapped into a different kind of focus. This wasn’t an accidental meeting. Lysander had chosen this spot deliberately—secluded enough for a private talk, public enough that nothing overtly violent could happen without witnesses.

When Killian was about ten feet away, Lysander took a single step forward, placing himself squarely in the middle of the path.

“Thorne,” he said.

His voice was pleasant, almost conversational. It was the tone of someone who had all the time in the world and knew exactly how this would go.

Killian stopped. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his hands loose at his sides, his weight balanced evenly. He watched Lysander’s face, which held an expression of serene, unshakable smugness. It was a complete shift from the last time they’d spoken, when fury and humiliation had been barely contained. This confidence was colder. More dangerous.

Lysander smiled. It was a small, practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he said, his voice still light.

He reached into the inner pocket of his robes and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. He handled it with deliberate care, unfolding it slowly so the crisp paper made a faint rustling sound. Then he held it up, turning it so Killian could see the writing.

It was a copy of Althea Vayne’s notes.

The handwriting was neat and precise, laid out in columns and sections. Killian’s eyes tracked over the page quickly, taking in the structure. There were dates and times listed down one side. Locations down another: Herbalia Annex – Silence Ward. Corridor 7-B – Everlight Sconce. Kitchen Storeroom – Levitation Mop. Brief descriptions of each malfunction followed, with words like ‘flicker,’ ‘instability,’ ‘deactivation.’ And beside each entry, in a separate column, was his name. Killian Thorne. Sometimes with additional notes about proximity and observed timing.

At the top of the page, someone—probably Lysander himself—had written a summary line: ‘Correlated incidents of localized enchantment disruption.’

Lysander watched him read, that faint smile still playing on his lips. He seemed to be enjoying the moment, letting Killian absorb the damning inventory of his own carelessness.

“Fascinating stuff, really,” Lysander continued after a few seconds of silence. He gave the parchment a little shake for emphasis. “A prefect named Althea Vayne compiled this. She’s quite thorough, you know. Notices details others miss.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

“She witnessed the ward failure in the annex herself. Saw you touch the beam. Saw the silence die.” His tone became instructive, as though explaining a simple concept to a child. “And instead of dismissing it as a fluke, she decided to investigate. She checked movement logs. She interviewed witnesses. She built a pattern.”

Lysander refolded the notes along their original creases, taking his time.

“And then she brought her findings to me,” he said, his voice dropping into a more confidential register. “She wanted a discreet second opinion from someone on the student council before bothering the faculty with what she called a ‘potential vulnerability.’” He tucked the parchment back inside his robes, patting the spot where it lay hidden. “She handed the entire investigation over to me.”

He spread his hands slightly in a gesture that implied both helplessness and immense power.

“So now I have it. The full record. Not speculation. Not a hunch. Documented evidence of a recurring anomaly that follows you around this academy like a bad smell.”

Killian said nothing. The fountain bubbled behind Lysander. A bird chirped somewhere in the hedges. Inside, Killian’s thoughts moved with a cold, practical clarity. Althea hadn’t just been suspicious; she’d been methodical. She’d connected dots he hadn’t even realized were visible. And she’d given her work to the one person who would understand its true value immediately.

This wasn’t about mutual blackmail anymore. This was evidence of what he was.

Lysander took a step closer, closing the distance between them to about six feet. He kept his posture relaxed, his hands now clasped loosely in front of him.

“Here’s what I see,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable. “I see a unique asset. A tool that nobody else knows exists.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Your… condition… isn’t just an absence. It’s an active negation. You don’t just lack magic. You erase it around you.” He gestured vaguely toward the fountain beside them. “You can disrupt wards. Confuse verification charms. Scramble simple enchantments just by being near them.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment, his eyes fixed on Killian’s face, searching for any reaction—fear, anger, desperation.

Killian gave him nothing. His expression remained as blank as a stone wall.

“Blackmail was crude,” Lysander admitted with a slight shrug, as if acknowledging a past tactical error. “It created a standoff. Mutually assured destruction is messy business.” He shook his head faintly. “This is different. This is an opportunity for a new arrangement.”

He took another small step forward. His voice dropped even lower, becoming almost intimate.

“You work for me,” he said plainly.

The words hung in the garden air, clear and unambiguous.

“You become my agent,” Lysander elaborated, his tone shifting to one of persuasive logic. “Your particular talent is uniquely suited for certain tasks. Rival students rely on magical aids for their projects—warded notebooks, charmed study aids, enchanted components. A brief proximity from you could introduce… glitches. Enough to disadvantage them during critical evaluations, without leaving any trace of tampering.”

He began pacing slowly along the edge of the path, laying out his vision like a merchant presenting a business proposal.

“There are secured areas in this academy—storage vaults for rare ingredients, archives with restricted texts, private practice rooms belonging to certain faculty favorites. Their security is entirely magical. Locks, wards, proximity alarms.” He stopped pacing and turned back to face Killian directly. “For someone like you, those things are just suggestions. You could walk right through them.”

A slow smile spread across his face again, wider this time.

“I would provide the targets. The timing. The objectives. You would provide the access. The disruption.” He spread his hands once more. “In return, I keep this evidence buried. I ensure Prefect Vayne’s investigation goes nowhere. I protect you from exposure.”

He moved closer still, until only three feet separated them. His expression hardened into something more serious.

“It’s the only logical path forward for you now,” he said quietly but firmly. “Refusal means I submit this report to the faculty council and the Arcane Inquisition liaison.” He let the threat settle between them. “They won’t see a student. They’ll see an aberration. A living void that breaks their spells. They’ll lock you in a containment sphere and pick you apart to figure out how you work.” He leaned in slightly. “Service is your only alternative to dissection. So. What do you say?”

The words hung there, an offer that sounded almost generous if you didn’t listen to the structure underneath.

Killian listened. He listened to the whole pitch. The cold clarity in his mind parsed it instantly, separating the promise from the mechanism.

Lysander was offering a deal, sure. He’d keep the secret. He’d bury the evidence. In exchange, Killian would become his personal saboteur. His ghost in the machine. Every task would be another crime, another layer of complicity. Each one would be a fresh piece of leverage Lysander could hold over him, far more specific and damning than the general fact of his nullity. The first job would just be the down payment. There would always be another rival to undermine, another lock to open, another favor to call in.

It wasn’t protection. It was ownership. Signing up for that meant handing Lysander a leash, and the noble would never let go. The moment Killian became more trouble than he was worth, or hesitated on a command, the evidence would come out anyway. And then he’d be exposed not just as a fraud, but as a magical saboteur acting on behalf of a council member. That added conspiracy to the charges. It was a trap with a very comfortable-looking chair in the middle of it.

Killian looked past Lysander’s shoulder at the bubbling fountain. The water fell in a perfect, endless arc, powered by magic he couldn’t feel or disrupt from this distance. He brought his gaze back to Lysander’s expectant face.

“No,” Killian said.

The word was flat. Simple. It carried no heat, no defiance, just a final statement of fact.

Lysander blinked. The smug, confident expression on his face didn’t vanish immediately. It just froze for a second, as if his brain needed a moment to process a response that wasn’t in the script. He’d clearly prepared for negotiation, for fearful bargaining, maybe for reluctant acceptance. Outright refusal didn’t seem to be on his list of possibilities.

“No?” Lysander repeated, the word coming out a bit slower than he probably intended.

“I won’t work for you,” Killian said, his voice still even. “I’m not your tool.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t explain his reasoning. He just stated the decision.

The frozen expression on Lysander’s face began to thaw, but what replaced it wasn’t the earlier anger from their last confrontation. That had been hot, personal, humiliated. This was something colder and more controlled, like metal contracting in a frost. The pleasant mask was gone entirely now, stripped away to reveal the sharp calculation beneath. A flicker of disbelief crossed his features, quickly smothered by a rising irritation.

“You’re misunderstanding the situation,” Lysander said, his tone hardening. He took half a step forward, invading the space between them more aggressively. “This isn’t an invitation. It’s the only exit I’m offering you.”

He tapped his chest where the notes were hidden.

“I have proof. Solid, documented proof compiled by a respected prefect and corroborated by witness accounts. Proof that you are actively interfering with academy enchantments.” His voice took on a lecturing quality. “Do you have any idea what they do to people who sabotage magical infrastructure? Even accidentally? They don’t just expel you. They nullify you. Permanently. They’ll strip whatever weird quirk lets you do this right out of your soul and then drop what’s left into a lightless cell.”

He was trying to repaint the picture, making the threat vivid and immediate now that the softer sell had failed.

“Working for me is your amnesty,” Lysander insisted, his jaw tightening slightly. “It’s the only way you walk out of this with your mind and your freedom intact. Refusing isn’t bravery. It’s suicide.”

Killian listened to the warning. He understood the consequences well enough already; Elian had described them in panicked detail weeks ago. The Arcane Inquisition didn’t ask questions first. They contained first, which usually involved magical bindings that would probably fail around him too, causing even more confusion and alarm. Then they would investigate, which wouldn’t be gentle.

But agreeing turned him from a problem into a puppet. And once you were a puppet, you only moved until your strings got cut.

“The answer’s still no,” Killian said.

A muscle in Lysander’s cheek twitched. The controlled anger was there now, simmering just under the surface of his skin. His eyes narrowed, losing their persuasive gleam and turning flinty.

“You think you have a choice?” he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “You think you can just say no and walk away?”

He gestured sharply toward the garden path behind Killian.

“I walk from here straight to Head Archmage Valerius’s office. I hand him this report and my own statement. I tell him how Prefect Vayne uncovered a systemic vulnerability linked to a single student, and how I, fulfilling my duty, investigated and confirmed it.” He leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper now. “You’ll be in chains by nightfall. You’ll never see the sky again.”

The threat was explicit, laid out with cold precision. It was meant to be the final push, the unmovable reality that would crush Killian’s resistance.

Killian didn’t move. He held Lysander’s furious gaze, his own face still impassive.

Inside, he was tracing the logic of the threat backward, following the chain of events Lysander was so confidently describing. And he found a weak link. A big one.

Lysander saw the lack of fear in his eyes. The noble’s expression tightened further, confusion and anger warring in his gaze. This wasn’t going how it was supposed to go at all.

“Last chance,” Lysander hissed, the words clipped and tense. “Agent or inmate. Choose.”

“You go to Valerius,” Killian said, his voice still level, “you don’t just hand him a report. You have to explain where you got it.”

Lysander’s angry expression faltered for a second, caught off guard by the shift in focus.

“What?”

“The evidence,” Killian continued, speaking slowly as if working through the steps aloud. “Prefect Vayne gave it to you. For a discreet student-level review. That was the agreement.” He tilted his head slightly. “She trusted you to handle it within the council. To investigate quietly.”

He let that sit for a beat.

“So you take it to the Head Archmage. The first thing he asks is when you received this information.” Killian’s eyes didn’t leave Lysander’s face. “You tell him. Then he asks what you did about it in the days between getting it and bringing it to him. What do you say?”

Lysander opened his mouth, then closed it. The furious confidence in his eyes flickered, replaced by a darting calculation as he followed the same path.

“I’d say I corroborated it,” Lysander stated, but his tone had lost some of its force.

“How?” Killian asked. “By confronting the suspect alone in a garden? Without witnesses? Without filing an intent-to-investigate form with the proctor’s office?” He shook his head once, a small, dismissive motion. “That’s not procedure. That’s not how a council member handles a potential security threat. That’s how someone with a personal grudge handles it.”

He took a small step forward now, reversing the pressure.

“You had proof of a student who can break academy wards. A walking vulnerability. And instead of alerting anyone immediately, you kept it to yourself. You met with the suspect privately to cut a deal.” Killian’s voice remained quiet, almost conversational. “How does that look to Valerius? Like diligent duty? Or like you found a dangerous tool and tried to keep it for yourself?”

The color drained slightly from Lysander’s face. His earlier rage was cooling into something else—a dawning, unpleasant realization.

“He’d understand the need for discretion—” Lysander began, but Killian cut him off.

“He’d understand you concealed a threat,” Killian said flatly. “You had information about a fundamental flaw in campus security. Information a prefect gave you specifically so you could act on it. And you sat on it. For your own purposes.”

He gestured toward Lysander’s robes where the notes were hidden.

“That report doesn’t just expose me. It exposes you. It shows you knew about a serious problem and chose not to report it. At best, that’s negligence. A breach of your council oath. At worst, with our history…” Killian let the implication hang. “It looks like attempted coercion. Misuse of authority.”

The fountain bubbled beside them, the sound suddenly loud in the tense silence. Lysander was no longer looking at Killian with pure anger. He was staring through him, his mind racing ahead, playing out the scenario Killian had outlined. He was seeing the faculty meeting, Valerius’s cold eyes, the pointed questions. He was weighing his pristine record against the story of how he’d acquired and held this information.

His evidence was a weapon, sure. But weapons could blow up in your hands.

A tense stalemate settled over the garden path. The earlier dynamic had inverted completely. Lysander wasn’t holding all the leverage anymore. He was holding a live grenade, and the pin was tied to his own finger.

Killian watched the understanding solidify in Lysander’s eyes. The noble’s jaw was clenched so tight the muscles stood out in cords on his neck. The controlled anger was still there, but now it was mixed with frustration and a bitter kind of respect for the trap he’d walked into.

“You think you’re clever,” Lysander finally said, his voice low and venomous. It had lost all its persuasive polish. This was raw spite.

“I think your evidence has two names on it now,” Killian replied simply.

Lysander took a sharp step back, putting distance between them as if Killian were contagious. He looked at him not with the earlier smug superiority, but with a pure, icy hatred. The kind that doesn’t fade.

“This isn’t over,” Lysander hissed. The words weren’t a dramatic threat; they were a cold statement of intent. “You have something. A defect that breaks magic. That information has value. I just need to find a way to extract it without getting my hands dirty.”

He smoothed the front of his robes, a futile attempt to regain some composure. The gesture was stiff, unnatural.

“Enjoy your walk back to the dormitory,” he said, his tone dripping with contempt. “Enjoy your next meal. Enjoy every moment you’re not being dissected by inquisitors.” He took another step backward, then turned on his heel. “Because I will find another way to use what I know. And when I do, you won’t see it coming.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He strode away down the garden path, his back rigid, his steps quick and angry. The flowering vines rustled as he passed under the archway, and then he was gone around a bend in the hedge.

Killian stood alone by the fountain.

The water continued its endless cycle, splashing softly into the basin. The late afternoon light was starting to turn golden, stretching the shadows of the hedges long across the grass.

He didn’t move for a full minute. He just stood there, listening to the water and the distant sounds of the academy—a faint shout from a far-off courtyard, the chime of a bell marking the change in study periods.

He had turned Lysander away again. Neutralized the immediate threat. But the cost was clear.

Before, Lysander had seen him as an inferior to be blackmailed or crushed. Now, Lysander saw him as a resource to be harvested. A dangerous, defective resource that needed specialized handling. That was a more focused and patient kind of enemy.

The evidence was still out there. In Lysander’s possession. And Althea Vayne knew about it too, even if she didn’t understand its full significance yet.

Killian turned away from the fountain and started walking slowly back toward the Argent Spire. The path felt longer now. The quiet of the garden felt less peaceful and more like the calm before a storm he couldn’t yet see shaping up on the horizon.

Lysander would be looking for that other way now. A method to profit from or eliminate the anomaly without personal risk. Killian would have to be ready for whatever that turned out to be.

He kept walking, leaving the sound of the bubbling fountain behind him, carrying the weight of the stalemate with every step.