The victory in the Hall of Disputation was pyrrhic. Felix had shut down his aristocratic critics, but he had also put a bullseye on his back that glowed in the dark. He was now the** of the Academy, a man of intense scrutiny. Everything he did was watched, every word parsed.
He spent the next few days in the only place where he felt at ease: the bottom-most, oldest sub-levels of the Grand Library. A labyrinth of deserted stacks, the air thick with centuries of dust and light from floating, ethereal lumen-orbs being the only source of illumination for the room. There, amidst shelves stacked high with yellowed scrolls and books on outdated magic, he could breathe. He was seeking something—a mention of void magic, to personal skills, to others who might have been like him.
It was during one
