Chapter Text
The moment he steps into the mages’ quarters of the Tantervale Circle, Ferdinand knows this will be nothing like Ansburg. The landing isn’t open and spacious, for one thing; instead, there are narrow hallways lined with sconces, doors and walls separating everything. Each mage has their own cramped, dingy room, equipped with a bed, desk, chair, and not much else.
“So they don’t get up to any funny business after hours,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, shooting Ferdinand a knowing smile, as if they’re sharing some well-kept secret.
Ferdinand returns it, for lack of a better response, and dimly thinks, Prison cells.
The Junior Enchanters’ quarters are on one side of the hall, with the Senior Enchanters’ on the other, along with a door that connects to a new hallway, one that then leads to the library. It’s almost mazelike, this layout. As if whoever designed this place purposely endeavored to make it difficult for the mages to get around.
This can’t be his reward for his tireless efforts back at Ansburg. This transfer being approved was supposed to pave the way for a promotion, to facilitate his rise through the Templar ranks. This—whatever this currently is—was supposed to be an exciting, momentous occasion. Yet all he can focus on are the goosebumps skittering under his skin.
“I thank you for taking the time to personally tour me through my new environment, Knight-Commander,” Ferdinand says, maintaining his polite, charming mask. He may be unable to uphold his usual eagerness, but he can make up for that in spades with professionalism. He will prove himself worthy during his probation and climb another rung on the ladder at last. Of that much he is sure.
“You’re very welcome, Knight-Lieutenant.” This time, the Knight-Commander’s grin is menacing, almost ominous now, if Ferdinand didn’t know any better. “But don’t thank me just yet. I’ve been saving the best for last.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Oh?”
Knight-Commander Rhea’s striking green eyes glint in the gloom as they turn back towards the staircase, her perfectly placed ponytail swaying with an ethereal sort of majesty.
“The dungeons, of course.”
Yes, he is far, far away from Ansburg now.
Ferdinand follows Knight-Commander Rhea down the tight stairwell, past the common spaces floor, past the main floor, possibly even further than one level underground, if he’s been counting correctly. The further down they go, the scarcer the lighting becomes.
When they finally arrive at the landing, a Knight-Lieutenant on guard at the door raises his arm over his chest in a rigid salute. Ferdinand salutes back, but the Knight-Commander simply gives a small nod. The guard opens the door, and they step inside.
There are two torches hanging off the walls, one next to them, and one all the way at the end of the hall. The sides of the hall are lined with dark, barred cells.
Knight-Commander Rhea grabs the near one and holds it out, motioning for Ferdinand to walk with her. They make their way down the dungeon hall, the flames flickering, but providing just enough light to see inside the cells. Most of them are empty, save for a makeshift cot.
How silly of him to liken the mage chambers to this.
“This,” the Knight-Commander says, “is where we confine any enchanters who disobey our carefully crafted regulations. It is of the utmost importance that we ensure orderly conduct at all times, for the safety of mages and Templars alike.”
A low, husky voice hisses, “Maker forbid the kitchens fall short of their excess bread rolls.”
Ferdinand startles, but Knight-Commander Rhea does not flinch. A shadow stirs from within the farthest left cell as they approach, and then long, sallow, bony fingers are reaching out and grasping at the bars.
In the torchlight, half of the mage’s face is illuminated; the rest is covered in darkness and what Ferdinand deduces is a messy mop of black hair. A pale eye glitters dangerously. Ferdinand thinks the mage is smiling. Baring his teeth.
“You know the rules, Junior Enchanter,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, lifting her chin. Her air of command, of indifference, is evident from every angle. “You of all people should know by now not to take more than that which is given.” Her eyes narrow. “Or perhaps you enjoy the punishment.”
“Maybe I just like to get under your skin,” the man sneers. That eerie eye shifts past the Knight-Commander to Ferdinand and blinks. Then his face relaxes into something much less angry and much more…playful.
“I haven’t seen the likes of you before,” he says with a leer that chills Ferdinand’s bones almost as much as his new Knight-Commander does. “How fortunate for me. Fresh blood.”
Ferdinand’s mouth goes dry.
He considers responding, but he’s not sure what the protocol is here. If this brief exchange has told him anything, he can only assume it is much stricter here than at Ansburg. Would something even as innocuous as talking back result in discipline? All for a bit of extra food?
Knight-Commander Rhea’s voice cuts sharply against the stone and metal. “An additional day here for your troubles, then,” she proclaims. She glances over at Ferdinand with a sad smile. “I regret that one of the first enchanters you speak with is one such as him. You will find that most of our enchanters are perfectly compliant and amiable individuals.” A smirk spreads across her porcelain features. “Speaking of, let’s head to the dining hall. It is time for the evening meal, after all.”
She whirls around to return the torch to its perch in the wall, so that all Ferdinand can see of the cell are those two hands wrapped around the bars. He turns to follow her, but one bent finger catches his eye. A nail rakes against the metal. Ferdinand feels the screeching noise it makes down to his very core.
If he lets out a massive sigh of relief once they’re back in the stairwell behind his Knight-Commander’s back, well, no one has to know.
The dining hall is a grand, spacious room lined with three long tables, one on each side of the room with the third in between, and a fourth table perpendicular to them at the far end. The seats are littered with Templars already, with some standing by in casual conversation. Ferdinand can tell by the insignias they wear that they seem to be divided by rank.
“Most Templars sit here,” Knight-Commander Rhea says, a hand sweeping to the leftmost table. Then to the right, “Knight-Corporals here, and finally Knight-Lieutenants in the middle, so you will get to know your fellows over your meals.” She gestures to the final table at the end of the hall with a supreme grin. “The Knight-Captains are privileged enough to dine with me, of course. Perhaps we shall see you join us there in due time.”
Ferdinand nods, carefully toeing the line of proper enthusiasm—too much, and he will appear unworthy; too little, and his ambition will be found lacking. “That will be a fine day indeed,” he settles for.
Something is off, however, and he has to ask. “Do the mages dine elsewhere, then?”
Knight-Commander Rhea laughs then, so bright, but somehow so dark. Ferdinand doesn’t trust it.
“Oh, no, they dine here, but only after we’ve finished,” she explains with a hearty chuckle. “But never worry. You can take all the time in the world. Do not concern yourself with their needs. I assure you they are quite content to respect our laws.”
“I see,” Ferdinand says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Expressing concern for the mages seems to be a line he can’t afford to cross, not if he wants that promotion. He will have to learn through experience.
It seems he’ll have a lot to adapt to, after all.
“I’ll leave you to it, Knight-Lieutenant,” Knight-Commander Rhea says. “Enjoy a warm meal after a long and arduous day, get to know your comrades, and take this evening to peruse and relax. Your assigned duties shall begin in the morning.”
Ferdinand salutes. “Thank you very much, Knight-Commander.”
He starts to slack from his pose as the Knight-Commander strides forward to the end of the dining hall, but as she does, everyone stops to hold at attention, frozen stiff in salute. Ferdinand rapidly mimics those around him. Knight-Commander Rhea strolls down the aisle between two tables, and any Templars there are quick to make room for her. She walks with an authoritative click of her boots along the floor, her ponytail swishing gracefully from one side to the other as she goes. In this hall, she commands respect, and Ferdinand can’t help but admire the leadership qualities that exude from her, the way everyone in the room appears earnestly devoted to follow her. It’s inspirational, to be sure. Ferdinand hopes he can be that kind of Knight-Captain at least, someday.
Knight-Commander Rhea rounds the table at the end of the hall and positions herself directly behind the middle-most seat, outwardly facing everyone else.
“My fellow Templars,” she begins, her voice echoing throughout the room, off the high ceilings. “Before we sit down to enjoy our meal, I would like to formally introduce the newest member of our establishment. Please give a warm welcome to Knight-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Aegir.”
Ferdinand puffs out his chest with pride at the salutes that come his way. He tries to make eye contact with as many as possible, nodding his thanks, and in short order the Templars turn back to their leader.
“Now,” Knight-Commander Rhea says with a beatific smile, “let us enjoy tonight’s meal in comfortable companionship.” She takes a seat, and everyone’s stances loosen. Knight-Captains file into place on either side of her. Others take their seats at their respective tables.
Ferdinand goes to the middle table, approaching a cluster of other Knight-Lieutenants. “Excuse me, brothers and sisters, may I join you?”
They assent, and so Ferdinand seats himself. There’s a round of greetings, and Ferdinand tries to memorize names with faces as his new companions point out other notable individuals. It doesn’t last too long, however, for they are all impatient to dig into the wonderfully smelling roast beef in front of them.
The tables are lined with platters of meat, potatoes, and other vegetables, and it is divine. Ferdinand permits himself the indulgence of several bites of everything, taking his time to savor each morsel, before he finally puts down his fork and clears his throat with some mead to ask:
“Please, friends, you must tell me the names of our illustrious cooks, so that I may thank them for their efforts.”
The Templars trade glances.
“We don’t know who they are,” one says—Pam, Ferdinand remembers. She sports a very short haircut and a thin scar under her left eye. “They reside in the servants’ quarters, otherwise they spend their time in the kitchen, right? So we don’t see them.”
Ferdinand frowns, completely baffled. “But what about the wait staff? Or the cleaning staff? Surely you see them moving about the Circle.”
“Well, sometimes, sure,” says another Knight-Lieutenant named Joanne. Her hair is blonde and tied in a tight bun, and she sits close enough to Pam for their sides to touch. “But the entire point of their work is to make themselves scarce. They’ll answer to you if you need something, but otherwise, they’re supposed to stay out of the way.”
Ferdinand persists. “If I wished to give my compliments to the chef, must I hunt down one of the serving staff to pass on the message, then?”
Pam shrugs. “Sure, you could do that. You’ll find one eventually. But they won’t really care.”
None of this makes any sense. Surely the chef would love to receive praise, to know their work is appreciated! “But why ever not?” he presses.
Pam and Joanne make eye contact, briefly.
“Well, they’re Tranquil,” says Joanne.
Oh.
“…all of them?” Ferdinand asks, ashamed of how his voice cracks.
Thankfully, neither seems to notice. “Well, yes. It’s cheaper than hiring from the town,” Pam explains.
“And we’ll be sure to add on to their numbers soon enough,” a burly man named Myles jumps in through a mouthful of meat and potatoes.
“Aye,” a few of the Templars at the table chorus, raising their glasses.
Ferdinand watches, utterly bewildered. “Why is that?”
Myles leans in and, voice pitched low, rumbles, “There’s been suspicions of a blood mage running about behind our backs.”
Ferdinand’s nerves feel like they’ve all fizzled into numbness. “Certainly not.”
But Myles nods sagely. “There’s been evidence of unsavory activity from the library. Highly questionable. There’s been an increase in dead rats lying around as well, and it’s not the cats. They’re keeping clear of those spaces.”
Highly unsavory indeed. Just the very prospect of a wayward mage falling victim to the temptation of blood magic sends chills down Ferdinand’s spine. Regret, too, that this unfortunate circumstance couldn’t have been averted. And yet, the Templars here don’t seem too bothered with their failure. Instead, they seem so much more intent on capturing the poor lost soul.
Which is a fair response, no qualms there, as is The Rite of Tranquility. This way, the mage would never fall prey to demonic influence ever again, and would carry out the rest of their life in peace and safety and comfort. It is a just end.
But Ferdinand wishes to prevent those dark seeds from ever sowing, from ever festering within any of the mages under his care. That is a much more noble venture than simply snuffing out blood magic any time it grows.
If a demon has manifested within the judiciously scrutinized walls of Tantervale…
Myles is still speaking. “It’s not confirmed to be the work of a blood mage just yet, as there are other spells that could have caused it, but let’s be frank. It’s blood magic for sure. And as soon as those investigation results are announced, we’ll begin our hunt proper.”
Hunt. And of the cheer from the other Knight-Lieutenants is any indication, they’ll all relish this opportunity.
Wholly unnerved, Ferdinand places his fork back down on his plate, the chunk of beef it’s stabbing looking rather miserable now. He’d been famished after the final day of traveling and a lengthy tour through the premises, but his appetite has gradually whittled away.
He sighs heavily. “I’m afraid my journeys have tired me out,” he says apologetically. “I think I shall retire for the evening, so that I may have my full strength to commence my duties tomorrow morning. It was a pleasure meeting you all.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Pam warns.
Ferdinand blinks. “Why not?”
“Knight-Commander Rhea hasn’t finished yet.”
Ferdinand looks out towards the end table, where the Knight-Commander feasts, taking dainty bites of food and chewing slowly, taking her sweet, luxurious time. Ferdinand spots wine glasses adorning her table. He has always preferred a good red to mead.
“Must we wait for her to finish before we can leave?” he asks incredulously.
“Oh, yes. She’ll be incredibly cross with you if you disrespect her by leaving early without good reason. Joanne ate it for that one time. Mind, it was a perfectly acceptable reason, and the Knight-Commander’s a lady just like us, so she of all people should have—ow!” She recoils from her partner, who had clearly just struck her with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.
“We are not talking about that,” Joanne hisses firmly. She redirects her attention to Ferdinand. “Point is, no matter how good you think your reason is, it probably isn’t. So, best just stay here with the rest of us and enjoy the food and drink.”
“And company,” adds Pam.
The banter flows easily from the others at the table, and Ferdinand listens halfheartedly as he contemplates the day’s events. He wonders what sort of discipline a Templar faces for something so mundane as excusing themselves from dinner. Especially when a mage faces imprisonment for—stealing an extra bread roll. Here, food is aplenty. Do the mages not receive the same nourishment? And how long must they stew in their hunger every day, when Knight-Commander Rhea sits and eats so leisurely, without a care in the world for the wait she’s inflicting on others? Or are they used to dining later, and Ferdinand is merely projecting?
There is also the matter of the suspected blood mage, the abundance of Tranquil here. An establishment with so many can only mean Tantervale Circle has seen some sort of outbreak of demonic activity, of mages who’ve lost control of their ties to the Fade. Is this some sort of systematic issue, that the Templars here have neglected to protect their charges?
If that is the case, it cannot be allowed to go on. Ferdinand will dismantle that system, root out the rotten bits and replace them with fresh soil to thrive. Maybe this is what he’s been sent here for in the first place. To determine what’s insufficient with the current system here, and modify it based on the model of things at Ansburg, and thus secure his promotion.
He will have to introduce himself properly to the mages and actually take the time to chat with them, unlike the simple exchange of nods in the halls as Knight-Commander Rhea had given him his tour. Learn all of their names, their specialties, their interests.
Except for the one in the dungeons. Ferdinand doesn’t know when he’ll be seeing that one next. After all, Knight-Commander Rhea did just extend his punishment by a day, and Ferdinand hadn’t known when it was originally set to end. Maker, that encounter had been nothing short of terrifying. That man behind the bars represented the perfect vision of what Ferdinand imagined in his mind when he thought of a mage turned evil.
He blinks back to life at the sudden cluttering noises around him. Templars are all getting to their feet and saluting, and he hurriedly follows suit as Knight-Commander Rhea walks down the aisle with a slight inclination of her head and a benevolent smile before leaving the dining hall. Once she is gone, the others depart as well.
Ferdinand lingers as the initial rush subsides; he may as well try to catch one of the wait staff as they no doubt come to clean up and resupply for the mages who will soon be supping next. But no new faces enter the dining hall, and then he’s stifling a huge yawn, so he adjourns and tables that plan for another time.
The Templars’ quarters are separated based on rank, and there are many still wandering about, but he recalls enough from earlier to locate his chambers without a hassle, and he closes his bedroom door behind him to end his evening with grateful solitude.
The inside is much more lavish than a mage’s quarters, though it is still rather plain. Ferdinand does not mind. He thinks he may commission a couple of paintings to brighten his walls—wouldn’t that be a delight, a little decoration—but otherwise the room has everything he needs. A dresser for his things, a small closet, two shelving units hammered to the wall, a comfortable bed, and a nightstand.
He is too tired to unpack all of his things tonight; his bones wheeze and plead for a rest after such an arduous day. Ferdinand musters up the energy to sort his clothes, at the very least, leaving his modest collection of books for another time, and concentrates on removing his armor.
Piece by piece, it’s all deposited along the wall in reverse order for him to work his way through when he dresses tomorrow. Once that is done, he shucks off the rest of his clothing until he is down to nothing but his smalls, throws the rest into a pile in a corner for the time being, and snuggles under the blankets.
He’d entertained the notion of grabbing whichever book was on the top of his pile, he’s glad he didn’t try. The instant his head hits the pillow, his eyelids leaden and droop, and he swiftly drifts off to sleep.