Chapter 10
Valerius's Growing Influence
Lord Valerius manipulates events from the shadows, his agents sowing discord. He learns of Randy's search, seeing him as a pawn or an obstacle to his own plans.
The air in the Grand Hall, usually alive with the hum of a thousand students practicing spells or debating arcane lore, felt thick with an unseen tension. It wasn't the usual pre-exam jitters or the excitement of an upcoming tournament. This was something darker, like the static before a lightning strike. From my usual perch near the back, where the shadows clung a little tighter, I watched the students mill about, their faces a mixture of forced cheerfulness and veiled unease. Even Zoe, who usually radiated a confidence that could banish any gloom, seemed to carry a subtle weight on her shoulders, her gaze occasionally sweeping the hall with a vigilance that bordered on suspicion.
Lord Valerius. The name itself was a whisper, a ghost story told to frighten unruly first-years. But the unease was real, and it was growing. It was in the hushed conversations that ceased when you drew near, in the furtive glances exchanged between students who normally wouldn't give each other the time of day. And I, Randy, the magicless wonder of the 700th floor, felt it more keenly than most. My grandmother’s words, about the Sword of Rana and the magic it held, were a constant flicker of hope in my otherwise ordinary existence, but they also made me a target. Any hint of my quest, any whisper of my grandmother’s legacy, could draw unwanted attention.
I’d been spending more time in the library lately, not the grand, sunlit atrium where the advanced texts were kept, but the dusty, forgotten annexes, the ones that smelled of decaying parchment and secrets. It was there, tucked away in a section dedicated to ancient royal lineages, that I’d found a faded tapestry. It depicted the King of Magic, a benevolent figure with a flowing beard and eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of centuries, standing beside a radiant sword. The inscription beneath it, in a script I barely recognized, spoke of a “key” and a “heart of courage.” It was cryptic, maddeningly so, but it was the first tangible link I’d found since my grandmother’s final breath.
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