The Exalted Mage - Chapter 19: Day of the festival

The day of the festival.

It had crept up quietly. The last two days had been slow but steady; subtle movements that let Veronica blend in just enough not to rouse suspicion.

She had returned to the ruins with Finn at her side two days ago, the boy too stubborn or too curious to stay behind. The cultists were long gone, of course. Nothing left but the faint scent of scorched soil and the lingering memory of demonic residue clinging to the air like stale breath. She’d walked the ritual site twice, careful with her steps, but there had been little to learn beyond what she already knew.

If the Ashen Covenant knew she’d been there, they hadn’t acted on it. Then again, reconnaissance and tracking were never her strengths. No matter how long she stared at the footprints in the dirt or the burn patterns carved into the stones, no clarity came. Only guesswork.

The rest of that day had been spent weaving through town.

She visited shops, passed by the mines, and even browsed the old church archives for a time. She made a mental note to start paying closer attention to the townsfolk—their faces, builds, and voices. If any of them matched the silhouettes she saw performing the summoning—well, it wasn’t obvious. No matching limps, no scars she recognized.

Perhaps they hadn’t been residents at all.

She wished she could have done more. Just walking around and listening to things wasn’t something she exactly enjoyed. It would have been better if the demon or cultists had just suddenly appeared for her to slay. When there were no clues around, she was forced to wait until the time came.

Now, it was morning once more—and the festival had fully taken shape.

Stalls lined the main square, decorated with bright cloth and faded streamers. Lanterns were strung between rooftops. A long banquet table—gaudy and expensive-looking—had been laid out the night before, and this morning half the town was already buzzing around it, polishing silver and setting up trays. Most of the miners had been given the day off, their pickaxes replaced with paintbrushes and garden shears as they helped adorn the streets with flowers and banners.

All of it felt just a bit too excessive.

At first, Veronica had assumed it was mere theatrics for a noble’s arrival—Welterman trying to play the part of generous host. But after a little digging, she’d discovered there was more to it. The Ronswick envoy wasn’t just passing through. They were bringing something with them. A donation, apparently. Payment. Tribute. Whatever it was, it was part of a private deal with the Baron, and the town had been ordered to celebrate like it was a gift from the gods.

Veronica stood now just outside the square, watching the early rush of townspeople rush about with baskets and ribbon. The sun was barely over the rooftops, and already the scent of roasted nuts and honeyed bread wafted through the air.

The pieces were moving.

She still didn’t know what game the Ronswicks were playing—or what their connection to the cult truly was—but one thing was certain.

She’d be watching closely when they arrived.

♠♠♠

Veronica dusted her palms together, then reached for the next garland of dried lilies.

“Hold it up just a bit higher, dear,” came the voice beside her. “There—that’s perfect.”

She stepped back, letting Mrs. Sena admire the floral drape from the cobblestone path. The vegetable vendor, clad in a thick apron with streaks of pollen on her sleeves, offered a satisfied hum. Her cheeks were already flushed from exertion, her graying hair tied back with a green ribbon that matched the faded color of her stall’s awning.

Veronica found herself enjoying the rhythm of the work. Simple, repetitive. Tangible.

“Hard to believe we’ll have a noble in town today,” Sena said, setting her basket down and pulling out another coil of wildflowers. “Proper nobility, I mean. Not just messengers or coin-counters.”

Veronica handed her the loop of binding twine. “You mentioned the Ronswicks?”

“Aye.” Sena nodded. “They have frequent dealings with Baron Welterman, but this time’s different. They’re donating. Big money, too—enough to change things ‘round here.”

Veronica adjusted the last loop, letting it rest across the beam of the merchant’s house. The scent of crushed herbs clung to her fingers.

“What kind of changes?”

“Oh, plenty. Pavement in the east road, for starters. Some proper lamps, not those fire-blasted torches we have to relight every day. Tools for the mines, too—new harnesses, sharper blades. Even the kids’ll feel it, once school’s got better windows.”

“And this is all thanks to the Baron?” Veronica asked, glancing sideways.

“So they say. Welterman’s the one who negotiated the deal. Got the Ronswicks to part with their coin for our sake.” Sena leaned back, hand on her hip, watching the workers file through the square. “Can’t say I like his charm, but credit where it’s due.”

Veronica offered a polite nod but said nothing. Her gaze drifted toward the square, where the energy had grown brighter with each passing hour. Tables creaked across the plaza, chairs being set, plates arranged in neat rows, all under the steady hum of motion. But it wasn’t just manpower making it happen.

Stone shifted.

The earth itself rose in a gentle slope, rippling like a slow tide as it carved into a rounded platform. Debris swept neatly to the side. A large plank of polished wood floated across the open space, guided by invisible hands.

At the center of it all stood Elise.

Her hand moved through the air in slow, deliberate patterns. Thin veins of light traced her fingertips, mana responding not just to command, but to nuance. The platform finished settling into place as if it had always belonged there.

Veronica watched closely.

That level of control wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just power, but precision. Sculpted intent. While Veronica’s Path of Ruin demanded overwhelming energy stabilized by sheer will, Sculpting was something else entirely. It relied on control and discipline. The ability to shift mana like clay.

Veronica folded her arms, just for a moment, as she watched the platform lock into place with a satisfying final click.

“Ahh, now that’s a real mage,” Sena said with a smile, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked out. “Does things the clean way. Not all fire and fury.”

Veronica allowed herself a faint smirk. Sena most likely wasn’t privy to all the details that had happened in the square with the mercenaries. Different rumors had been going around—Veronica obliterating the gang, the guards saving a damsel in distress—the actual news was all very messy. Unless you were there in the square to witness it first hand, no one knew what Veronica actually did.

“Different schools of thought,” Veronica said with a smile.

The garlands were finished. The square was almost ready. And the day had only just begun.

When the time came, Veronica left the square and made her way to the edge of the park.

The benches there were familiar now. Weathered wood, soft sun, the chatter of townsfolk passing by just far enough not to intrude. She liked that. The rhythm of this space. A quiet, living bubble.

She sat at the same table she had the last few afternoons. The air smelled faintly of lemon zest and warm bread.

And just like the last few days, he was already there.

Finn.

He was crouched on the bench across from her, elbows on the table, face locked in fierce concentration. His tongue stuck slightly between his teeth, eyes narrowed, like he was trying to solve the secret of the universe with sheer willpower alone.

“So,” he said suddenly, without looking up, “if I just keep imagining the mana inside me... like, swimming around or whatever... it’ll start working?”

Veronica gave him a long, slow look.

She broke the bread roll in her hand, steam rising from the center. “That’s not exactly how I described it.”

He slumped back and groaned. “Then how do I do it? I tried your thing, you know, focusing on the warmth under my chest or whatever, but all I got was a stomachache.”

Turns out, the kid was even more annoying than she’d expected.

Persistent, too.

She exhaled, took a bite, and chewed slowly, eyes flicking to the trees behind him. She had considered just ignoring him altogether—had tried it for a day or two—but that hadn’t worked. He’d simply walked beside her wherever she went. Making declarations about becoming a hero, about magic, about sneaking into ruins again.

Eventually, she caved.

Not much. Just a thread of information, a single step. A simple mana circulation technique, the kind that didn’t require resonance or affinity or deep knowledge. It was beginner-level theory—meant for children at academies or city apprentices. But it was enough to get him started. Enough to shut him up.

Or so she’d hoped.

Finn was still talking, voice full of unearned confidence. She half-listened, finishing her lunch and sipping from her drink. The same tart lemonade she’d grown fond of.

She supposed it wasn’t the worst outcome. Giving him something to chew on meant he wasn’t constantly watching her every move when she slipped out at night to chase shadows in the woods or revisit the ruined altar.

Besides, he really was trying. And, more curiously, he hadn’t failed yet.

Veronica was nearly finished with her drink when Finn stopped fidgeting.

His legs, which had been swinging beneath the bench, stilled. He glanced over his shoulder once—just once—then leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped.

“I, uh... I followed you last night.”

Her eyes lifted slowly.

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet her gaze either. “I saw you leave the inn. Figured you were gonna do something magey, so... I trailed along. Kept my distance.”

She said nothing, but her expression sharpened. He noticed.

“I’m not an idiot. I stayed out of your way,” he added quickly. “You went to the ruins, didn’t find much, and left. But I... I stayed.”

That got her attention.

“I waited, like, thirty minutes,” he said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop in nervous rhythm. “And then they came. The cult people.”

Veronica leaned in a fraction. “How many?”

“A dozen. Maybe more. They had the same masks like the ones you fought. Creepy ones. Some of them looked older, like... not just thugs.”

He bit his lip, then continued. “They talked about ‘preparations being complete.’ Said that everything would be ready by the banquet.”

Veronica’s fingers curled around her cup. Her drink had gone lukewarm.

“And then it got cold.” He rubbed his arm like he still felt it. “Not like night air cold. Like something else. It was wrong. The air just changed. Like I was being watched.”

Veronica’s jaw tightened.

“After a few minutes, they all left. They didn’t cast any spells or anything. But some of them were chanting. Really soft. I waited until they were gone, then came back.”

He exhaled. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Veronica stared at him for a moment. Her expression was still. Calm. But something behind her eyes had sharpened like frost.

“Finn,” she said, voice low, “next time you follow me into the woods, I will turn you into a tree frog. Understand?”

He blinked. “Tree frogs are—”

“Understand?” she repeated.

He nodded. Twice.

She leaned back again, her gaze drifting toward the square. The platform had finished forming. Banners were rising. People were starting to gather. The Ronswicks would arrive at any second.

The festival had begun.

And so had the clock.