Headed by a Snake

It was done.

Tycondrius shut his eyes and focused on a single thought.

« SASARAME!!!!!! »

Crossing between worlds applied a strange pressure inside his ears-- like he was dunked into water or lifted high in the air.

Tycon shot his eyes open-- they had returned to Sasha's library. A horizontal swipe of his hand dispelled the sigil sealing him and Pale in.

The residual impact from Maximus' strike propelled the boy across the room, through the air.

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, caught the boy-- and the two of them slammed into a nearby bookcase. The explosion of wooden debris was... not small.

Tycon felt his mouth twitch. Glass-like mana shards twinkled down all around him. Dust and wood chips and splinters rained all throughout. And... two more bookcases toppled over, the aged wood bending and cracking.

In theory... it was safer for Pale to collide with a body and a bookcase than against a merciless mana-constructed wall.

As for the damages to the library... Tycon would ask Natalya to cover it.

The dozen or so academy students were in an uproar, bleating like concerned sheep.

"Oh, no!" "What happened in the Ritual Circle?!" "This is terrible!!" "The Hero! Is he dead?!"

Tycon was worried about... so he walked over to her, "Are you alright, Sasha?"

The young lady nodded shyly.

Tycon took her small hand in his and checked her pulse, to better examine her mana. Her condition was stable... and he detected no signs of mana fatigue.

Sustaining a Reality Marble was heavily taxing even for a Gold-Rank caster Class. Sasha had many spell-formations and mana-filled focuses to ease the ritual's burden... but she was still only a Bronze-Rank Oracle.

That the young lady seemed untroubled was a testament to her skill with formations... and perhaps a bit of talent that surpassed the limits of her Rank.

Still... it would be better to have her rest.

"How long has it been?" He asked.

The young lady tugged at her hand, "H... half a bell, Master."

Only?

Tycon tilted his head up in thought... "The time conversion is acceptable."

He turned to the entangled bodies covered in books and bookshelf debris, "Mister Lone, glad you could join us. Status of the boy?"

Lone stood up, Pale in his arms. The boy was spasming, coughing blood onto his chest. Lone had a nasty splinter in his neck, but he hadn't seemed to notice.

"He's breathing, Boss?" Lone replied with uncertainty.

"That will do," Tycon nodded. "Administer a healing potion and let's get him to an infirmary."

"Boss..." The half-dead child muttered, reaching out a trembling hand... "Wait..."

"Quickly, Mister Lone," Tycon insisted.

The Ranger nodded and began to fumble with the flaps of his belt pouches.

"Boss!!" Pale cried out with a sense of urgency.

"Seven hells, boy, what is it?!"

"Boss..." Pale's voice grew quiet... and he began to sniffle and whimper.

The Tyrion students emitted another round of harsh whispers...

"Decanus Tychon must be the Hero's teacher..." "He's heartless!" "Doesn't he kinda remind you of Instructor Severus?"

Tycon strode forward, grabbed the boy's jaw, and force-fed him a magical potion summoned from his spatial ring.

The boy choked it down, rivulets of pain streaming from his eyes.

"Now what is so important, young man--" Tycon fumed, "That you'd delay treatment of your injuries?"

"Boss?" Lone grimaced, "Maybe you should... calm down a little?"

"You, I'll deal with shortly," Tycon glared at the taller man until he looked away.

"Boss..." Pale whispered... "I... I don't want to be kicked out of Sol Invictus..."

Tycon furrowed his brows. The boy was speaking nonsense. He was in shock.

"I'm... I'm sorry I failed..." The boy sobbed, "Please don't kick me out."

...

⟬ High Oracle's Living Quarters. A few bells after. ⟭

Tycon knocked on the door to the High Oracle's room.

Lone was looking around fearfully, "Boss? We... we shouldn't be doing this."

"(If we die, we die,)" Tres Leches offered. The wolf lazily twisted his head back, checking their flank.

"Oh, shut up," Tycon groaned. "The both of you."

An Acolyte opened the door-- one of Troia's attendants, and Tycon explained why they'd arrived. They were let in graciously and led to the High Oracle's bed where Pale was resting.

With respectable timing, a glass window on the opposite end of the room was opened... and a certain High Oracle hopped in. She was holding what appeared to be a baker's tray.

Tycon glanced past Lady Troia, confirming that her personal summon, the 60-fulm tall Dawnbringer, was outside. It seemed she had used it for transport from one of the first-floor kitchens to her third-floor quarters.

It was yet another flippant use of magic in a nation that, as a whole, shunned its general usage.

Troia placed the tray on the bedside table and began to gesture excitedly, [Welcome, Prince and everyone! I made (delicious)!]

She emphasized the tastiness of her baked... items by rubbing her belly.

Even with the window fully open, the scent of smoke lingered in the air.

Tycon glanced over at the tray, which carried black and teal(?) clumps of slightly varied shapes and grossly varied sizes.

[It's (health food) for Pale!] Lady Troia happily signed.

"Ah, very well." Tycon smiled politely, "Young lady... we were hoping for a moment with your Hero? Would that be permissible?"

Troia gasped, then bared her teeth in embarrassment, [I understand. Take as long as you need.]

After a few more exchanges of niceties, Troia and her attendant left... allowing Lone and Tres Leches to breathe relieved sighs.

Lone whistled, "Boss, I dunno how you can just speak to the High Oracle like that."

"(She smells very strong,)" Tres Leches added, "(like... death, incarnate.)"

"Troia is a teenage girl," Tycon raised an eyebrow, "just as Sasha is. I don't see a need to treat either of them particularly different."

"But Boss?" Lone tilted his head, "Is that really how that works?"

"...Well, I haven't been crucified just yet," Tycon shrugged.

Lone frowned... "That's fair."

"Pale, get up," Tycon urged. "It's quite obvious you're awake."