The chicken was good.
Not really great. Definitely not transcendent. Just good. The skin had a decent crisp to it, and the meat beneath was juicy enough that it didn't require excessive chewing. The honey glaze added sweetness without overwhelming everything, and there was a hint of spice—something herbal, maybe thyme or rosemary—that kept it from being one-note.
Sael took another bite and chewed.
The problem with not needing to eat was that food lost some of its impact. Hunger sharpened taste. It made mediocre things seem excellent and excellent things seem revelatory. Without that edge, everything flattened into a more honest assessment.
This chicken was honest.
It was well-prepared. The vendor knew what he was doing. But Sael's body didn't care. His stomach wasn't rewarding him with relief. His brain wasn't flooding him with satisfaction chemicals. He was just... eating. Going through the motions because he liked the motions, not because they served a purpose.
He took another bite anyway.
The nimbus cloud beneath him was solid. Perfectly solid, actually, in the way only magical constructs could be. It didn't shift or compress under weight. Didn't have texture in the traditional sense—not soft, not hard, just present. Like sitting on the concept of a surface rather than an actual one.
The wind was pleasant up here. Cooler than ground level, but not cold. He'd built temperature regulation into the cloud's structure a hundred years ago, back when he'd first decided to make it his home. Very minimalistic, too.
He finished his chicken and set the bones aside. They vanished into his [Inventory] automatically—a habit he'd developed to avoid littering.
Sael reached for his pipe, then paused.
Ilsa and Orion were sitting exactly where he'd left them when he'd brought them up here ten minutes ago. Neither had moved. Neither had touched their food.
Both were staring at the cloud beneath them.
"Why are you not eating?" Sael asked.
They both jumped slightly. Ilsa's hand had been resting near her sword hilt—not on it, but close enough that the instinct was obvious. Orion had been gripping his robes with both hands, knuckles almost white.
"We're—" Ilsa started, then stopped. She glanced at Orion, who looked back at her.
"We're fine," she finished, which was obviously untrue.
Sael looked at them for a moment and finally understood.
"You think you're going to fall through."
It wasn't a question.
Orion made a noise that might have been agreement or might have been a suppressed whimper. Hard to tell.
Ilsa, to her credit, straightened slightly. "Sir, with all respect, we're... sitting on a cloud. In the sky. Several thousand feet above the ground."
"Yes," Sael agreed.
"Clouds aren't solid."
"This one is."
"But—" She hesitated, clearly trying to find a diplomatic way to phrase her concern. "How?"
Sael considered the question. It was reasonable. Clouds were water vapor. Water vapor didn't support weight. Therefore, sitting on a cloud should be impossible. Basic logic.
He pulled out his pipe and began packing it. Not because he needed time to think—the explanation was simple enough—but because having something to do with his hands made conversations easier.
"I made it," he said.
Silence.
He struck a small flame spell and lit the pipe. Took a pull. Exhaled.
"About a hundred years ago," he continued, "I decided I wanted a place to live that wasn't on the ground. The ground had people. People asked questions. People wanted things. So I made this."
He gestured vaguely at the cloud around them. It stretched maybe thirty feet in diameter, though the exact size was flexible. He adjusted it sometimes depending on mood.
"It's a construct," he explained. "Condensed water vapor bound into a mana structure with permanence enchantments layered through it. The solidity is maintained through continuous mana flow—mine, specifically—which means it exists as long as I want it to exist and maintains whatever properties I've designated."
Orion was staring at him. "You... made a cloud."
"Yes."
"A solid cloud."
"Yes."
"That flies."
"It doesn't fly," Sael corrected. "It floats. Flying implies propulsion and directionality. This just exists at whatever altitude I tell it to exist at."
Ilsa's expression had shifted from fear to fascination, though her posture was still rigid. "And we're not going to fall through it?"
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Yes."
"Because—"
"Because you're here with my permission," Sael said. He took another pull from his pipe. "The construct recognizes intent. I've designated you as allowed. Therefore, you're solid to it. If I hadn't, you'd have fallen through the moment I brought you up here."
This did not seem to reassure them as much as he'd hoped.
Orion leaned forward slightly, moving as if testing ice. He pressed his palm flat against the cloud's surface. His hand didn't sink. Didn't shift. Just... rested there, supported by something that looked like it shouldn't support anything.
"This is insane," he said quietly.
"It's practical," Sael countered. "No rent. No neighbors. No one knocking on the door to ask if I've heard the good news about whatever deity is popular this century."
Ilsa almost smiled at that. Almost.
"You've lived here for a hundred years?" she asked.
"Not continuously. I travel. But I come back." He paused. "It's home."
The word sat strangely in the air. It felt a bit too heavy for casual conversation, and too honest for the tone he'd been maintaining.
He cleared his throat.
"Eat your chicken," he said, nodding toward their untouched food. "You must be hungry. It was good."
Neither moved.
Sael frowned slightly. "It will get cold."
"Sir—" Ilsa started.
"That chicken was alive this morning," he insisted. "It had plans. Probably not good ones, but still. Then someone killed it so you could eat it. If you don't, that would be rude. To the chicken."
This druidic logic seemed to reach them where reassurance hadn't. Ilsa slowly picked up her wrapped chicken. Orion followed her lead, though he kept glancing down at the cloud like he expected it to betray him at any moment.
They each took a bite.
"It's good," Ilsa said, sounding surprised.
"I told you it was good," Sael said.
"You did," she agreed.
They ate in silence for a moment. Not comfortable silence—they were still too tense for that—but functional silence. The kind where people were doing something with their mouths that wasn't talking, which was a relief because Sael still wasn't entirely sure what to say to them.
Orion swallowed and looked up. "Sir, can I ask a question?"
"You just did," Sael said.
Orion blinked.
"That was a joke," Sael clarified. "You can ask another question."
"Right." The boy took a breath. "Why did you bring us up here?"
That was a fair question. Sael considered it while taking another pull from his pipe.
"You said you wanted me to come with you," he said finally. "To Marrix. To investigate the Corruption."
Both of them straightened slightly, food momentarily forgotten.
"Yes," Ilsa said. "That's—yes. That's what we're asking."
"Then we should discuss it," Sael said. "But the village was loud. And there were people. And I didn't want to discuss it there."
Ilsa and Orion exchanged a glance.
Sael observed the exchange. A quick look between them, Ilsa's eyebrows rising slightly, Orion's mouth quirking at the corner. Some unspoken communication passing between them that he couldn't quite parse.
He'd had more social interaction in the past hour than he'd had in years, and while he wasn't terrible at it, he was certainly rusty. The nuances came back slowly: when to elaborate, when to stay silent, how much explanation was too much
These two were still figuring him out. He could work with that.
"That makes sense," Ilsa said, in the tone of someone desperately trying to find normal footing in an abnormal situation.
"Good," Sael said.
He took another pull from his pipe and looked out at the horizon. Gatsby was a small cluster of houses far below, toy-sized from this height. The forest stretched in every direction, broken occasionally by roads and clearings and the distant glint of a river.
It was peaceful up here.
Sael glanced at the little ones. They were still too stiff and careful. Like they thought one wrong word would get them disintegrated. That was why he'd made the joke earlier. It was supposed to lighten the mood and make them realize he wasn't some terrifying figure of authority who would smite them for breathing wrong.
Sadly, it hadn't worked.
Sael wished he was better at jokes. Or maybe his sense of humor was just different. The joke was funny to him but then again, what seemed funny to him didn't always translate to people who hadn't spent centuries alone with their own thoughts. He sighed quietly and took another pull from his pipe.
Back to business, then.
"Tell me about the Academy," he said. "And this professor. Your cousin."
"Ah," Ilsa swallowed her bite of chicken quickly. "Professor Aldric. He's—he's my father's cousin, actually. Second cousin, technically. He's very prominent at the academy, and the next in line to become its new headmaster."
"And he wanted you dead because you were going to Marrix," Sael said.
She flinched slightly. "Yes."
Sael considered this. The logic was straightforward enough. If someone wanted to prevent you from reaching a location, they either didn't want you discovering something at that location, or they didn't want you interfering with something at that location.
"Then we need to talk to him first," Sael said.
Both of them looked up at him.
"Before Marrix, we go to Orlys," he continued. "Find this cousin of yours. If he wanted you dead, it means he has a problem with you going to Marrix. Which means he knows what's there. He can tell us."
He paused, a thought occurring to him.
"We should hurry," he added. "Now that I think about it, he might know his plan didn't work. One way or another. Hired killers don't report back, people start asking questions. He might flee."
Ilsa's expression shifted to something more focused. Less afraid and more professional. "You're right. We need to move quickly."
"Yes sir," Orion added.
Sael sighed heavily.
"Call me Sael," he said. "Like everyone else. And please stop being so tense and awkward. It makes me tense and awkward too."
Ilsa made a sound that might have been a chuckle. She caught herself immediately, eyes widening slightly as she looked at him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No," Sael said, raising an eyebrow at her. "This is perfect. Laugh. Smile. Be at ease, please."
She hesitated, then offered a small smile. "Thank you. It's just—" She paused. "In Bran the Brave's journal, he described you as... well, he said you were 'frighteningly powerful but refused to take anything seriously, including yourself. Had a dry wit that could gut a man faster than his spells, and somehow made apocalyptic threats sound like observations about the weather.'"
Sael blinked.
"He said that?"
"Yes," Ilsa said. "He also wrote about the kingdom of Darrash. When you pulled the Sword of Succession from the stone."
Orion's eyes widened. "Wait—that was true? You actually became Darransh's king? People say you are, but there's no real proof, and the records from that time are—"
Sael laughed at that. A short, genuine sound that surprised even him.
"It happened," he said. "It was Bushy Brow's plan, actually. The Darranshi princes were tearing the country apart with their succession war. Resources wasted, armies fighting each other while corruption spread through the northern border. Bran wanted to pull the sword, prove himself worthy, stop the whole thing. He couldn't get it out of the stone."
He tamped the bowl of his pipe.
"So I did. That was the end of it. We left the day after the battle, though, so I was king for about a week, I suppose."
Orion opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then stopped himself. His expression suggested he had about forty questions but wasn't sure if asking them would be overstepping.
Sael looked down at his pipe.
An immense wave of nostalgia hit him all of a sudden.
He remembered the old days. People called it the Ages of Ash or Dark age now, which was fair, there had been horrors enough to earn the name. But... there had been good things, too. Moments of grace tucked between the cracks. Many of them.
Like his duels with Bushy Brows.
It had been their thing. Their rivalry. Every time Bran thought he'd finally caught up, Sael would do something that reminded him the gap was still there. Not intentionally—Sael had never wanted to make Bran feel inadequate. It just happened. And every time it did, Bran would get that look, storm over, and demand a fight.
They'd fought 4,999 times over the fifteen years they spent on their quest.
Bran hadn't won once.
But he'd kept asking. Trying. Insisting that the next one would be different, that this time he'd gotten strong enough.
He never had.
And Sael would have given anything for a 5,000th fight. For one more chance to see that determined scowl, to hear Bushy Brows call him a "smug bastard" before launching into another doomed assault.
4,999 felt... incomplete. Like a sentence cut off mid—
"Um, sir?" Orion said, interrupting the thought. "What speed can this cloud fly?"
Sael looked at him. The boy was fidgeting with the edge of his robe, nervous again but pushing through it.
"It doesn't fly," Sael corrected. "It floats."
"Right. Sorry. Float. What speed can it float at?"
"Maximum velocity is around thirty miles per hour with favorable wind conditions," Sael said. "Without wind, closer to twenty."
Orion's hands started moving. Not in a spell formation, more like he was counting on his fingers, then making small gestures in the air. Calculating something.
Sael watched him with mild curiosity. "What are you doing?"
"Math," Orion said absently. Then he seemed to realize who he was talking to and straightened. "I'm—sorry, I was just trying to figure out how long it would take to reach Orlys at that speed. The Academy is in the southern province, and Orlys City is..." More finger counting. "Roughly five thousand miles from here, accounting for terrain. So at twenty to thirty miles per hour, that would be..."
He trailed off, then looked up at Sael with an expression that suggested he'd reached an unpleasant conclusion.
"About a week," he finished. "Maybe five days if the wind's really good and we don't stop."
"Hmm."
This was a hmm of consternation.
A week.
He'd forgotten how far Orlys was. Distance became strange when you could teleport. Everything collapsed into "places I can see" and "places I can't see," with travel time becoming irrelevant beyond the effort of casting the spell.
But teleportation wasn't an option here.
Not for them, anyway.
He could teleport himself without issue. Had been doing it for centuries. But teleporting other people—especially people not accustomed to it—was brutal. The spell worked by essentially disintegrating matter at point A and reintegrating it at point B. For inanimate objects, this was fine. For living beings with complex biological systems, it caused problems.
Internal clocks got disrupted. Circadian rhythms went haywire. Digestive processes stopped working correctly. The body knew, on some fundamental level, that it had been taken apart and put back together, and it didn't like that knowledge.
People not used to teleportation would spend days feeling off. Nauseous. Disoriented. Chronic symptoms could develop if they teleported too many times in quick succession—and they'd need to teleport many times, since Sael could only go places he could see. Multiple jumps meant multiple instances of cellular disruption.
It had taken him fifty years to get fully used to it. His body had adapted through sheer repetition and probably some degree of magical resistance he'd built up over time.
These two didn't have fifty years.
Flying was an option. He could carry them. Cast [Fly] on himself and use telekinesis to keep them stable relative to his position. They'd done it to get up to the cloud, after all.
But that had been a short distance. Flying thousands of miles– accounting for their need for rest– would take days. Days of being suspended in the air by magic, wind tearing at them, temperature fluctuations, no proper rest. It would be deeply uncomfortable.
And time was a factor. A week was too long. Five days was too long. Every hour they delayed was another hour for Professor Aldric to realize something had gone wrong and disappear.
The man already had attempted murder on his conscience. He wouldn't hesitate to run if he thought he'd been compromised. Probably had contingency plans. Fake identities, safe houses, the sort of paranoid preparation people developed when they were involved in things they shouldn't be involved in.
If they took too long, they'd arrive in Orlys to find an empty office and cold trail.
Sael took another pull from his pipe and frowned.
There had to be a faster option.
He could go alone. Teleport as far as he could see, then again, then again. Chain jumps across the continent. It would take time—he'd need to orient himself at each location, account for geographical obstacles—but he could probably make it to Orlys in a day. Maybe less if he pushed it.
Then he could find Aldric, extract the information, and—
"We could take the train," Orion said.
Sael paused mid-thought.
"The train," he repeated.
Orion nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. The lightning train. The newer models use stabilizing fields instead of combustion, so they can hit two hundred miles an hour on straight track. The old ones still have runes on the engine—mostly for calibration and user interface—but they don't actually do anything. Just instructions. Mage code from when they still needed mages to operate the system. Now it's all automated through—"
"Orion," Ilsa said, cutting him off gently.
"Yes?"
"Normal people call that 'fast.'"
"Right," Orion said. "Fast."
His hands kept twitching, though, like they wanted to keep explaining.
Sael was still thinking. That hadn't occurred to him. Trains were relatively new, at least by his standards. He'd taken one once, about twenty years ago, when they'd first been introduced. It had been comfortable enough, but slow. Painfully slow compared to magical travel. Unless they'd implemented magic into the system or significantly advanced the technology since then as Orion said...
He looked at the boy.
"How long would the train take?" he asked.
Orion's hands started moving again, doing more mental calculations. "From Gatsby to Orlys... there's a direct line that runs through Westmarch. Changes once at the capital, then straight south. About..." He counted on his fingers. "One day, I think. Maybe a bit more depending on delays. We actually took one to get here."
"Oh," said Sael. "How convenient."
Silence.
Ilsa looked between them. "So... we take the train?"
"Yes," Sael answered. "We take the train."