Chapter 44 — Horns, Hypnosis, and Harbingers from the Flames
The Mirror's Secret
Bennett barred the bath chamber door with an iron latch, ignoring the muffled protests of valets outside. Steam curled like phantom fingers as he leaned toward the gilt-edged mirror. With deliberate care, he parted his damp chestnut locks.
There it was—a nub of obsidian horn, no longer than a child's fingernail, jutting from his crown.
"Damn you, Chris," he muttered, prodding the aberrant protrusion. "Couldn't you make it look dashing? A spiral? Gold filigree? Anything but this rat's tooth."
Adjusting his hair into artful disarray, he smirked. At least the anomaly granted gifts beyond vanity. His fingers brushed the mirror, fogging its surface.
The Deal with the Devil's Advocate
Memory flickered—Chris's sulfurous breath as they'd bargained in that subterranean vault:
"Space magic?" The demon's envoy had chuckled, scales shimmering like tarnished coins. "Child, were I capable of dimensional leaps, do you think I'd linger in this mildew-infested crypt?"
Bennett's throat had tightened. Home. The word had clawed at his ribs—his parents' laughter over Sunday dumplings, the girl from the bookstore who'd never learned his name. All reduced to cosmic debris.
Instead, he'd demanded magic. Real magic.
Now, water droplets trembled at his silent command, coalescing into a glistening orb above his palm. Power thrummed in his veins—not the borrowed trickle of enchanted artifacts, but a wellspring earned.
The horn itched.
Dinner with the Dagger-Tongued
"Your father's orders are explicit, young master." Steward Hill hovered like a vulture over the pheasant pie. "Twelve months' confinement. No contact with estate agents. No—"
"—No funding for debauchery?" Bennett speared a roasted parsnip. "Relax, Hill. I've alternative revenue streams."
The steward's parchment skin tightened. "The… woodland cottage you commissioned—"
"Is complete. Yes, I know." Bennett dabbed his lips, noting how the aged retainer avoided his gaze. Does he fear the horn? The eyes?
Those eyes—Chris's parting jest-turned-boon. Hypnosis refined through millennia of succubus courtship. Bennett had envisioned enthralling tavern wenches, not outmaneuvering geriatric schemers.
Yet when Hill finally met his gaze, Bennett let a spark flare—just enough to make the old man blink rapidly.
"Goodnight, steward." He smiled, sweet as arsenic. "Dream of ledgers."
Midnight Rites
The grandfather clock groaned twelve. Bennett scaled the library ladder, heart drumming against ribs.
Showtime.
He yanked the ancestral portrait free—a dour ancestor in periwig glowering from the frame.
"Wakey-wakey, Lady Ashcroft." Bennett traced the gilded frame. "Let's see what two centuries trapped in oil paint does to one's complexion."
The incantation spilled forth, vowels warping the air. Magic bit this time—a vampiric tug at his psyche.
Vivian's warning echoed: "M-magic has teeth—"
Fire erupted.
Canvas curled like dying petals, embers swirling into a vortex. A leg emerged—pale as moonlit alabaster, draped in crimson silk that hissed where flames licked.
Bennett staggered back.
She stepped free—the woman from the underground sanctum, yet transmuted. Silver hair cascaded over shoulders left bare by her scandalous robe. Eyes the color of smoldering peridots locked onto his.
"Two hundred years," the apparition purred, flames dancing in her wake. "And my liberator is a boy with a demon's horn?"
The Cost of Curiosity
"Seeress Selmar." Bennett bowed, pulse rabbiting. "Or should I say… Selmar the Undying?"
Her laughter chimed like shattered crystal. "Titles are for the living, child. You've awoken more than my ghost tonight." She drifted closer, cold radiating through her fiery aura. "That horn—a crutch for magical impotence? How quaint."
He bristled. "It works."
"For now." Nails like gilded daggers tilted his chin. "But demons collect on favors, little lord. That horn isn't a gift—it's a leash."
Ice water flooded Bennett's veins. Chris's parting grin flashed in memory—too wide, too many teeth.
Selmar's smile turned predatory. "Shall I show you what else you've unleashed?"
The hearth fire roared to sentient life, sculpting into a bestial silhouette.
Ah, Bennett realized with sinking dread. The 'C' in Chris stands for 'Cataclysm.'
Chapter 45— Phantoms, Bloodlines, and Celestial Whispers
The Portrait's Paradox
Bennett had imagined many things lurking within the ancestral oil painting—a shrieking wraith, a skeletal oracle, even a fire-breathing serpent coiled in gilded frames. But when the figure emerged, swathed in crimson silk with silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight, his breath hitched.
Selmar herself.
Or so it seemed.
The woman tilted her head, a smirk playing on lips too vivid for mere pigment. "Surprised, little liberator?" Her voice, honeyed yet edged with smokiness, echoed the timbre from the enchanted recording.
"You… buried yourself in a painting?" Bennett's shock dissolved into wary pragmatism. "What do I call you? 'Great-Great-Grandmother'? 'Archmage Selmar'?"
She laughed—a sound like wind chimes in a storm. "Neither. I'm but a shadow, a echo dipped in her memories." To demonstrate, her hand passed through his cheek, leaving a phantom chill. "No flesh, no bones. Just… essence."
Bennett exhaled. Not the real Selmar. A construct. Relief warred with intrigue.
"Why her face?" he pressed.
"I inherited her mind, her voice, her vanity." The apparition pirouetted, silk rippling unnaturally. "When left to choose a form, why not mirror perfection?" Her eyes glinted—a flicker of mischief that screamed trouble.
"Master," she purred, curtsying with exaggerated reverence.
Bennett's spine prickled. That tone—saccharine yet laced with mockery—confirmed his suspicion: this "Selmar" was no obedient servant.
Ghosts and Garters
The construct's antics began immediately.
Perched atop his desk, she swung her legs—pale, shapely, and scandalously exposed by a slit in her phantom robe. Bennett averted his gaze, lobbing a woolen blanket her way.
"Prudish boy!" She phased through the fabric, giggling. "Two centuries watching your ancestors' adventures hardened me to such trifles. Why, your great-grandfather once—"
"Stop." Bennett massaged his temples. "I don't need a spectral gossip column."
"Spoilsport." She floated closer, silver lashes fluttering. "Fine. Ask your tedious questions."
"The Star Magic." He straightened. "Selmar's legacy. Teach me."
Her mirth vanished. "That accursed craft…" For a heartbeat, sorrow eclipsed her ethereal glow. "It killed her, you know. Not grief. The magic."
Bennett froze. History painted Selmar as a lovelorn martyr, throwing herself from the White Tower after her husband's death. "Explain."
"Ah-ah." She tapped translucent lips. "Rules bind me: no truths until you master the final sigil."
"Convenient," he snapped. "Where do we begin?"
"Under the stars, obviously." She gestured to the vaulted ceiling. "This crypt reeks of mildew and repressed desires. The White Tower—"
"—is guarded," Bennett interjected. His father's decree barred him from the family's astronomical sanctum.
"Then find a hilltop. A meadow. Anywhere the sky doesn't glare through stained glass." Her form flickered, dimming. "Dawn approaches. I'll return when moonlight kisses your brow… Master."
With a wink, she dissolved into motes of argent light.
Haunted Heritage
Alone, Bennett slumped into an armchair. The construct's revelations buzzed in his skull:
Selmar's Demise: If Star Magic caused her death, what horrors awaited him?
The White Tower: A forbidden climb, yet the only path to power.
The Construct's Autonomy: Her sass hinted at free will—dangerous in a being woven from a genius's mind.
He traced the obsidian horn hidden beneath his hair. First a demon's antenna, now a ghostly tutor. What next—dragons demanding rent?
Chapter 46— Ashes, Alchemy, and Gunpowder Epiphanies
Sunlit Schemes
The morning sun blazed with obnoxious cheer—a cosmic joke Bennett resented as he nibbled rosemary bread. His idyll shattered when the door creaked open.
Sorlskea.
The charlatan wizard slunk in, hat clutched to his chest. Since Bennett's abduction, the man had faced scorn: unscathed while others bore wounds, cowardice etched into his twitching smile.
"My lord! How radiantly you—"
Thud.
Bennett's boot sent him sprawling. "Disappointing doesn't begin to cover it."
Sorlskea scrambled up, dusting imaginary grime off moth-eaten robes. "An eight-rank mage! What was I to do? Piss myself awake?"
"You fainted like a fainting goat," Bennett sneered. "Where've you been? Looting my vaults?"
"Relocating my lab!" Sorlskea gestured wildly. "To prove loyalty! Mostly."
Truth: he'd fled upon hearing rumors of Bennett's return. Now, cornered, he surrendered a satchel—Vivienne's pilfered treasures.
"Wait!" Sorlskea clutched a crystalline shard. "One fire-aligned stone! For experiments!"
Bennett snapped his fingers. Flame leapt from candles, coalescing into a searing orb above his palm.
Sorlskea gaped. "You… since when?!"
"Since realizing wizards are overrated." Bennett snatched the bag. "Run along. Your new lab awaits."
Incendiary Inheritance
Beyond the castle's shadow stood a timbered tower—three stories of ambition. Ground floor: worktables cluttered with alembics and quartz. Second: iron cabinets for reagents. Third: an open-air terrace where Bennett planned to mount a telescopic monstrosity.
Sorlskea trembled at the herb garden. "Marvelous! But funds—"
"Will flow," Bennett interrupted. "Soon."
The wizard unloaded his pitiful relics: clay pots, dented cauldrons, vials of amber powder. Bennett uncorked one, inhaled sharply—saltpeter, charcoal, sulfur.
"Your 'fire essence'…" He fought a grin. "How fast can you make this?"
"Three flasks daily," Sorlskea preened. "With materials."
Bennett embraced him. "Brilliant! You'll drown in gold!"
Alone later, he howled laughter. "Gunpowder! Sorlskea, you glorious fool!"
Legacy in Cinders
Before dawn, Bennett had torched Selmar's portrait—ashes now swept by a grimacing steward.
"Accident," Bennett shrugged. "Candle mishap."
The old man eyed the vacant wall where ancestors once glared. That canvas survived wars, plagues, three drunken barons…
"Of course, my lord." Teeth gritted, he bowed.
Chapter 47 — Gunpowder Gambits and Gilded Chains
Alchemical Alchemy
The gunpowder revelation should've sparked euphoria. Instead, Bennett stared at Sorlskea's crude black powder—a mocking pile of sulfurous grit—and laughed until tears streaked his cheeks.
"Revolution? Please." He flicked a pinch into the fireplace. The flare illuminated his sardonic grin. "Even if I forged cannons, what then? Conquer this magic-infested world with boomsticks? Let wizards play Apache helicopters while I lug around glorified fireworks?"
No. The answer glittered in his mind like one of Selmar's cursed treasures: profit.
Fiscal Freefall
Summoning loyal Madde, Bennett learned their coffers bled to 892 gold coins—a pittance worsened by his father's financial embargo. The ex-groom's report dripped with thinly veiled panic:
"That folly of a laboratory drained us, master! And with your allowance suspended—"
"—we're pauper princes," Bennett finished. He scribbled a procurement list: sulfur refiners, saltpeter miners, carpenters skilled in airtight barrels. Madde blanched.
"This'll empty our vaults!"
"Temporarily." Bennett's smile held the recklessness of a man balancing on bankruptcy's edge. "Trust me. By month's end, we'll swim in gold."
Yet privately, he cursed timing. The pirate plunder wouldn't arrive before his mother's birthday—a deadline looming like Damocles' credit bill.
Vault of Vanity
Midnight found Bennett in Selmar's secret chamber, surrounded by nineteen masterpieces screaming untouchable.
The pièce de résistance—the lost papal tiara—glowered from its pedestal. "Oh, I'd fetch kingdoms for you," he told the gem-encrusted monstrosity, "if selling you wouldn't get me burned at the stake."
His spectral companion materialized, perching atop a suit of armor woven from emeralds. "Such delightful constraints! Poverty clutching a dragon's hoard—the truest human comedy."
"Helpful as ever," Bennett deadpanned.
"Sell the tapestries!" She pointed to erotic silk depictions of elven diplomats. "Guaranteed to fund your schemes… and traumatize your mother."
He hurled a candlestick through her smirking face.
Culinary Economics
Lunch brought temporary solace: seared foie gras, saffron-infused bouillabaisse, bread crusted with edible gold leaf. Old Steward Hill's silent protest manifested in portion sizes—a lobster tail conspicuously absent.
"Financial lockdown, yet still dining like a crown prince," Bennett mused, swirling honeyed tea. "How very noble of you, Hill."
The steward's entrance cut through buttery aromas. "You requested a seamstress and your stallion, young master."
Bennett dabbed his lips. "Indeed. Also, have the west wing's moth-eaten banners removed. We'll need space for… workshops."
Hill's eye twitched. "Workshops, my lord?"
"For entrepreneurial endeavors." Bennett's grin sharpened. "Don't fret—I'll ensure Father hears how dutifully you facilitated my… education."