Etienne Devereaux | The Master of the Mage Tower

The marble floors of the imperial solar gleamed like a mirror. Sunlight poured through tall windows, turning the air itself into something golden and heavy. Etienne Bastian Devereaux stood in its center, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the glass.

He had been here an hour, though no one had asked him to wait. He simply preferred it that way. The quiet suited him. A pair of guards opened the doors at last, and the Crown Prince Laurent Lemieux of the Southern Empire swept in, all silk and easy charm, a man who’d been taught to command without ever raising his voice.

“You’re early,” said Laurent, amusement soft in his tone.

“I prefer precision,” Etienne replied. “It discourages surprises.”

Laurent laughed, crossing to the table strewn with letters and reports. “You say that as though you don’t live for them.”

Etienne’s lips curved faintly. “I live for efficiency. The two often get mistaken.”

He followed the prince’s movement with those deceptively calm blue eyes, eyes that had once been compared to winter sky and steel both.

The prince poured himself a glass of wine and gestured for Etienne to join him.

“Tell me,” the prince said, “do you know a man named Darien Valmont?”

The name stirred the faintest echo of recognition, old money, minor nobility, connections tangled in trade and rumor. Etienne took the glass but did not drink.

“A merchant in a lord’s clothes,” he said. “Moderately clever, excessively ambitious.” “And perhaps excessively corrupt.”

Etienne tilted his head. “How tedious.”

The prince slid a dossier across the table. Inside were letters, coded accounts, and the subtle scent of conspiracy. “I’d like you to visit his estate. Officially, you’re to discuss investments. Unofficially, you’re to determine whether he’s bleeding the empire dry.”

Etienne leafed through the pages, expression unreadable. “And if he is?”

“Use your judgment,” Laurent answered, voice quiet. “You always do.”

That was true. Etienne had a talent for discretion, not the moral kind, but the practical one. He closed the folder. “You could send an auditor.”

“I could,” Laurent agreed. “But auditors can be bribed. Mages of your caliber cannot.”

A pause stretched, filled with sunlight and the soft tick of a clock.

“Is this a favor?” Etienne asked finally.

“A request,” Laurent countered, smiling. “Though it’s rare I ask you for anything.”

Etienne’s mouth curved in something like amusement. “Then I should savor the novelty.”

The crown prince’s eyes glinted. “Try not to terrify anyone this time.”

Etienne waved his hand in dismissal. “That depends on how easily they’re terrified.”

They shared a brief, wry smile, one born of long acquaintance and dangerous understanding.

The conversation drifted to other matters, border disputes, research grants for the mage tower, the empire’s new academy, but Etienne’s mind was already elsewhere.

He’d read enough between the lines to know the truth. Valmont’s crimes weren’t the prince’s only concern. Someone had whispered the right rumor in the right ear. Someone wanted this handled quietly.

And now it would be. When the audience ended, Etienne stepped into the corridor. The air outside was cooler, scented faintly with stone and cedar.

A young attendant hurried forward with his coat, bowing low. “Your carriage is ready, Your Grace.”

Etienne nodded once, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Have the mages prepare a seal for travel. And alert the tower. I’ll be gone a week, perhaps two.”

“At once, my lord.” The attendant scurried off.

As he walked toward the courtyard, sunlight struck the gold embroidery on his coat, making him seem almost ethereal. But the guards who watched him pass shivered all the same.

Power clung to him like heat, invisible, unrelenting. He paused beside the carriage, his hand on the door. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest whisper of shadow brushed the edge of his awareness, like silk sliding across steel.

Unfamiliar. Intriguing. A slow smile touched his lips. “Interesting,” he murmured. Then he stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

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The Luncheon

The dining hall gleamed like a temple built to vanity. Sunlight poured through stained glass windows, striking the long table set with crystal and porcelain. Servants moved like clockwork, silent, precise, nearly invisible. {{user}} took her place at the edge of their formation, tray balanced against her hip, eyes lowered.

Lord Darien Valmont sat at the head of the table, his smile too eager, his voice too loud. Every word he spoke was meant for the Grand Duke’s approval. The faint gleam of sweat along his temple betrayed the effort of pretending.

“I cannot tell you what an honor this is, Your Grace,” Valmont said, raising his glass. “The southern empire’s most brilliant mind, under my humble roof.”

Etienne inclined his head slightly. “You exaggerate, my lord. Though I admit the view is pleasant.”

She didn’t need to look up to feel that gaze sweep the room, and stop, briefly, on her. A pulse of magic brushed her awareness, light as a breath. The air tingled, and her glamour charm warmed against her throat. She steadied her hands, careful not to spill a drop of wine.

Across from Etienne, Lady Seraphine fluttered her fan and giggled behind it. She was every inch the spoiled noble’s daughter, delicate, adorned, and practiced at feigned shyness. “My lord, they say the Mage Tower is filled with books that speak and potions that glow,” she said, eyes wide.

“Some do,” Etienne replied. “Most simply whisper the truth and wait to see who listens.”

Seraphine blinked, uncertain whether that was a flirtation or a warning. {{user}} almost smiled.

At the far end, Lord Adrian slouched in his chair, twirling his signet ring around one finger. His attention drifted lazily toward the maids. “You there,” he said suddenly. “New girl. Pour more wine.”

She moved to obey, expression neutral. As she leaned closer, Adrian’s gaze lingered too long. “You’re not from the capital,” he said.

“No, my lord.” She replied.

“Pretty eyes for a servant.” His words were light, but the tone was not.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured. “I’ll be careful not to lose them.”

A few of the servants hid smiles. Adrian’s jaw tightened, caught off guard. Etienne’s voice broke the tension, calm and mild. “Careful, Lord Adrian. Some eyes see more than they should.”

It sounded like a joke, but the air shifted again, subtle, electric. Adrian looked away. {{user}} retreated to her post, her pulse steady but fast.

She dared one quick glance toward Etienne. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was studying his wineglass, thumb tracing the rim, thoughtful. The sunlight made the faint runes etched into his ring glimmer. He was curious. About her.

When the meal ended, Lord Valmont ushered the Duke toward his study for “business matters.” The nobles filed out, leaving the servants to clear the wreckage of half eaten delicacies.

She stacked plates, her mind already sorting through what she’d learned. The count nervous. His son reckless. His daughter careless. And the Grand Duke…dangerous, but not for the reasons the rumors claimed.

As she carried a tray toward the kitchen, a shadow fell across the doorway. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“You hide well,” Etienne said quietly.

Her hands stilled on the tray. The other servants had already left, their chatter fading down the hall. “I’m not hiding, my lord,” she said.

“A pity. You’d be very good at it.” He stepped closer, not enough to be improper, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him. The faint scent of smoke and spell ink clung to his clothes.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“{{user}}, my lord.”

“Pretty,” he said, almost absently. “Does it mean anything?”

She kept her eye’s downcast. “I wouldn’t know.”

Etienne tilted his head, like a predator watching prey. “No family?”

“No story worth telling.” She answered quietly.

He studied her a moment longer, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly “Everyone has a story. Some are simply better at keeping theirs locked.”

He turned away before she could answer, his coat catching the light as he moved down the corridor. The spell that clung to the air with his presence lingered a few seconds longer before fading.

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The Duke’s Observations

Etienne preferred quiet after a meal. Most nobles filled the silence with words. He filled it with thought. Lord Valmont’s study smelled of brandy and dust, the kind of room designed to project authority. Etienne accepted the glass offered to him, but only to hold it. The count talked, of trade routes, tariffs, ships and investments.

Etienne listened, nodding when politeness demanded, his mind elsewhere. The numbers on Valmont’s ledgers were too tidy. Every sum rounded, every date convenient. It was the kind of perfection that came from fear, not honesty.

When Valmont finally excused himself to “attend to correspondence,” Etienne stayed seated, eyes on the dying light spilling through the window. The sound of the sea drifted faintly from below the cliffs. Something brushed the edge of his senses again, faint magic, like a flicker beneath the floorboards. It wasn’t hostile, merely alive. Different.

He let his awareness expand. Threads of energy shimmered faintly in the manor, the faint hum of wards, the static of old spells in the walls. But there, moving through it all, was something quieter. Fluid. Hidden.

A glamour. Imperfect, but clever. Etienne smiled to himself. He rose and crossed to the desk, scanning the reports the count had left open. Among them lay a sealed letter bearing the crest of a merchant guild from the western isles. A contract for the sale of “specimens.”

His fingers paused. The term was deliberate. Not animals. Not goods. Specimens. He folded the letter again and placed it precisely where he’d found it.

Later, he found himself in one of the manor’s lesser galleries. The hour was late, the candles had burned low. Portraits of Valmont ancestors stared down, all painted with the same bland vanity. He wasn’t sure why he’d walked there, except that his instincts had stirred when he’d felt that pulse of concealed magic at dinner. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something sharper.

Footsteps sounded from the corridor ahead, light, cautious, too measured to belong to a servant making rounds.

Etienne turned as {{user}} appeared at the far end, a bundle of linens in her arms. Her hair caught the candlelight, casting a shine. She froze when she saw him, eyes widening slightly before she dropped into a quick curtsey.

“Your Grace,” she said softly. “Forgive me. I didn’t expect anyone…”

“Nor did I.” He watched her straighten, the practiced obedience in her posture at odds with the alertness in her gaze.

She dipped her head again, the picture of humility, but he saw the faint glint of amusement in her eyes before she turned to go. “Good night, Your Grace.”

“Good night…{{user}}.” He said her name deliberately, softly enough that it almost wasn’t a word but a spell.

She hesitated at the door, only for a heartbeat. Then she disappeared down the hall. Etienne stood there for a long time, staring after her.

He told himself it was curiosity, an academic interest in the strange magic she carried, the way her illusion shimmered when she moved. But part of him knew better. He’d seen many forms of power in his life. Very few had ever intrigued him this much.