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The Exalted Mage - Chapter 12: Countdown Begins at Three
🕑 Added 2025-12-29 23:51:16 +0000 UTCVeronica stood in the courtyard where the cloaked figures had gathered moments ago. She made sure to wait a few minutes before stepping out to the center of the ruins.
She crouched down, running her fingers along one of the stone slabs. A fine, silvery dust clung to its surface, barely visible against the aged rock. She rubbed a bit between her fingers, watching as the residue disappeared, leaving no trace behind.
A frown appeared on her face.
They were prepared.
This wasn’t some backwoods gathering of fools dabbling in the occult. The powder, the ritual, their planning, it was all real.
She dusted off her hands and stood.
Ashvein Powder.
It was an alchemical compound used to dissipate magical traces. More than that, it could muddle physical evidence. Common findings such as fingerprint markings would be covered, effectively eliminating any trace of their existence.
“Whoever they are, they don’t want to be tracked,” she muttered under her breath.
Finn, standing a few steps behind her, had a much less serious look on his face. He grinned, rocking on his heels. “Sooo… you are a secret spy, huh?”
Veronica arched a brow. “What?”
“You know! Like an agent of justice! A rogue mage sent to take down evil cults with your magic?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re a legendary hero in hiding?”
Veronica snorted. “Yeah, sure, kid. That’s me.”
“I knew it!” Finn said, pumping his fists close to his chest. “I mean, that spell you did back there? That was awesome! The way the ground just—bam!—and then that guy just tripped and fell down! It was so funny! You have to teach me how to do that!”
Veronica sighed, rubbing her temple. “It was a weak displacement spell. And no, I don’t have to teach you.”
Finn gasped dramatically. “What? Why not? I’d be a great apprentice!”
Veronica gave him a flat look. “You’d get yourself killed in five minutes.”
“Pshhh. That’s what training is for!”
She exhaled sharply, turning her attention back to the ruins. Finn was excitable, sure, but she couldn’t afford to waste time indulging his fantasies.
The real question was, what would happen in three days? She replayed the cultists’ words in her mind.
The Ronswick’s envoy will arrive in three days. Everything must be in place by then.
Were they planning to use someone in the envoy for their ritual? Or were they merely aligning their activities with the noble family’s arrival? If the Ronswicks were involved, then things were even worse than she thought.
Summoning a demon required strict conditions—most often a pact, an offering, and a controlled summoning environment. These fools were likely under the delusion that they could summon a demon, offer a sacrifice, and be granted power in return.
That was the theory, at least.
In reality, demon pacts rarely worked out the way summoners expected.
A lesser demon might uphold its end of the bargain, though always with hidden clauses, loopholes, and consequences that ensured the summoner got the worst end of the deal. And a greater demon? That was another matter entirely. A summoner asking for power would be lucky if they got a fraction of it before being devoured, their soul ripped from their body before they even realized their mistake.
This was a small, ruined site, tucked away in the middle of nowhere. Hardly a place for a major summoning.
If they truly planned to summon a demon, it was likely a lesser one. Something small, unnamed, and weak compared to its greater counterparts. Not that it made things any less dangerous. Lesser demons could still kill and corrupt easily enough.
The worst thing about demon rituals was that they could summon almost anything. A demon general wouldn’t usually appear in the world. They could be summoned. That didn’t mean powerful demons never invaded—but a ritual that could guarantee it? It was dangerous.
And foolish.
“This is a mess,” she murmured.
Still, three days was an important detail. It meant the cultists weren’t ready yet. The ritual required something. Whether it was a key component, timing, or the specific arrival of someone from the Ronswick envoy, she couldn’t be too sure. There was still very little information.
“So?” Finn asked beside her. “What’s the plan, oh mighty sorcerer?”
Veronica glanced at him. “What?”
“Well,” he said, stretching his arms over his head, “you’ve been standing there all serious-like, thinking real hard. You got a plan to stop them or what?”
“I don’t even know exactly what they’re planning yet,” Veronica muttered.
Finn pouted. “C’mon, it’s obvious. They’re, like, some evil cult trying to do bad things. Clearly, this is where you swoop in with your awesome magic and bam!—no more bad guys.”
Veronica stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how this works.”
“It could be,” he responded.
Veronica sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. “Gods, you are exhausting.”
“Yep.” He grinned. “So, when do I learn magic?”
“You don’t.”
“Aw, c’mon! You totally need an apprentice!”
Veronica ignored him, her mind already working through the next steps.
♠♠♠
The walk back to Greystone was quieter than their journey into the forest. Finn, surprisingly, didn’t talk too much. He did, however, keep sneaking glances at her, no doubt hoping she’d suddenly change her mind and agree to take him on as an apprentice.
By the time the town’s wooden gates came into view, Veronica exhaled, expecting some much-needed solitude.
“Alright,” she said, slowing her pace. “Scram.”
Finn blinked. “Wait, what?”
“You heard me. Go home, kid.”
He put his hands on his hips, clearly affronted. “But we just got back! You’re really ditching me already?”
“Yes.”
“But what if I—”
“No.”
Finn groaned dramatically, but stepped back, eyeing her with a mischievous glint. “Fine. But if you don’t teach me magic, I will keep spying on those cultists.”
Veronica’s brows furrowed. “What? No, you are not—”
Before she could finish, Finn spun on his heel and bolted down the street, disappearing into the town before she could grab him.
She stood there, jaw clenched. A long sigh escaped her lips.
I should’ve tripped him instead of that cultist.
Shaking her head, Veronica turned to make her way back toward the inn, only to be intercepted by a town guard.
“Excuse me,” the man said, straightening his back as he approached. “Are you Veronica? The mage who has met with Steward Hadrian?”
Veronica stopped, eyes narrowed. “…Yes?”
The guard nodded. “Baron Welterman has requested a meeting with you.”
Baron Welterman. The town’s ruler —he wanted to have a meeting with her?
“Why?” she asked cautiously.
“He heard that a mage had arrived in Greystone. Whatever you did for steward Hadrian and at the barracks reached his ears. Now he would like to speak to you,” the guard replied.
Veronica folded her arms, considering her options.
Though the guard had said requested, she knew better. This was more of a summons than a request. She was staying in his town, after all. If the baron already had a mage under his employ, she had little room to refuse without drawing unwanted suspicion or displeasing him.
And right now, she was just a Tier-1 mage—too weak to go against a higher-tiered spellcaster, should she have to. It would be possible if she used exalted spells, but as it stood, she probably couldn't handle the strain, making this impossible.
Her choice was clear.
“Lead the way,” she said.
It wasn’t like she was about to refuse the baron’s invitation, anyway. Whatever this meeting entailed—she definitely couldn’t ignore it.
♠♠♠
The Baron’s Manor loomed ahead, standing in stark contrast to the rest of Greystone. It was a grand estate, far larger than anything else in town, its architecture refined and stately. The main structure was built from polished stone rather than the wood and plaster of most buildings in town, its walls standing tall with intricate carvings woven into its design.
Iron-wrought fences surrounded the estate, their blackened metal adorned with detailed flourishes and insignias, their pointed tips a silent deterrent to unwanted guests. Beyond the gates, manicured gardens framed the path leading to the entrance, the flowers and hedges maintained with the care and precision of nobility.
It was clear that, despite being the ruler of a relatively small town, Baron Welterman lived in luxury far above his people.
Halfway to the gate, the guard leading her stopped.
“This is where I leave you,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Proceed to the entrance. You’ll be expected.”
Veronica glanced at him but said nothing as he turned on his heel and walked away. She exhaled, shifting her gaze back to the gates, already expecting an elaborately dressed steward or an armored house knight.
Instead, she was met by a maid.
A beautiful maid.
She was tall and poised, dressed in an elegant black-and-white uniform. Her long dark hair was tied into a neat bun. Her posture was impeccable, and her expression unreadable save for a faint, practiced smile.
“Welcome to Greystone, Lady Veronica,” the maid said smoothly. “Baron Welterman is expecting you.”
With a small, measured bow, she turned and gestured toward the gate.
“If you would follow me, I will escort you inside.”
Veronica glanced once more at the manor before exhaling lightly.
Alright, let’s see what the Baron wants.
♠♠♠
The maid led Veronica through the grand entrance, where polished marble floors gleamed beneath the soft glow of chandelier light. The air smelled of lavender. Nobility sure did love the smell of lavender.
Despite the manor’s opulence, Veronica remained unimpressed. She had walked through far grander estates in her previous life. Noble palaces in the capital. Arcane towers where esteemed scholars met. Grand rooms where royalty dined. Compared to those, Baron Welterman’s manor was luxurious, yes, but not extraordinary.
Still, for a town as remote as Greystone, it was far above the standard. Almost exceedingly so. She wondered exactly how the town still operated when such wealth was spent on personal lavishings.
They ascended a wide spiral staircase, its railings carved with delicate floral motifs. The second floor was lined with private offices and personal studies. The third floor, where she was being led, was even more refined—reserved for guests, important meetings, or perhaps the Baron’s private quarters.
Finally, the maid stopped at a waiting room—a spacious chamber lined with velvet-upholstered chairs, a carved wooden table at the center, and a tall window overlooking the town below.
The maid turned to her with a pleasant, practiced smile.
“Please, have a seat. The Baron will see you shortly.”
Veronica folded her arms, glancing around before settling into one of the chairs. “I take it he isn’t here yet?”
“He will arrive shortly.”
She would be waiting, then.
The maid, unbothered by any impatience Veronica might have had, tilted her head. “Would you care for some tea while you wait?”
Veronica exhaled lightly. “Chamomile.”
The woman nodded, stepping toward the door. “Please wait here.”
With that, she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
The room fell silent.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Five.
Veronica drummed her fingers against the armrest. Hmph.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what was happening.
Politics. This was a subtle game of status and control. The Baron had no real reason to make her wait, but he was doing so anyway, sending a clear message before they had even spoken a single word.
Your time is expendable. Not ours.
By making her wait, they were establishing a power dynamic, one where she was the one asking for something, even if she had never actually requested this meeting in the first place.
And it wasn’t just the waiting.
She had walked through the entire manor, past its lavish corridors, up the grand staircases, and through chambers designed to impress.
Another subtle tactic—forcing her to acknowledge the Baron’s wealth and status before she even stepped into his presence.
Veronica smirked to herself, leaning back in her chair.
Clever.
At least, that’s probably what he thought.
Veronica had seen these tricks before, and she wasn’t particularly impressed. He was playing as a big fish in a small pond. Meanwhile, Veronica had lived in the ocean in her past life, surrounded by golden carp.
“Let’s see how long you make me wait, Baron Welterman…” she muttered, her fingertips tapping against the leather chair’s armrest. “How long, indeed…”
