《The Arcanum Algorithm》

Chapter 8 The Price of Arrogance

The following morning, the weight of the previous night’s feast felt like a leaden dream. The Sorcerer announced a swift departure, and the newly chosen apprentices scrambled to make ready. Grimm’s mind, however, was on one thing: the cart. The old horse and cart were his last tangible link to Ham, to the simple, honest life he was leaving behind. He wouldn't abandon it.

He sprinted through the waking streets toward the Viscount's estate, earning looks of disdain from Lafey and Weid, who were being helped into a luxurious carriage. “He delays us for that?” Weid sneered, watching Grimm run. “That rusted wreck isn’t worth a single silver.”

Grimm arrived at the estate gates, breathless. The steward was there, his face a thundercloud of petty tyranny.

“You!” the old man shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. “I told you what would happen if you showed your face here again! I said I’d have your legs broken!”

Grimm’s eyes scanned the courtyard behind the steward. There it was—his cart, now parked inside the walls. They’d taken it. “Steward,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I just need my cart. I’ll take it and go.”

The steward gaped for a second, then his face purpled with renewed fury. This was not the cowed submission he demanded. “You insolent wretch! You think you can just *take* it? That cart is property of the estate for your insolence yesterday! Sgarda! Throw this gutter trash into the street!”

The large knight from the day before stepped forward, a nasty grin on his face. He cracked his knuckles, advancing on Grimm.

Grimm’s heart pounded. He had no weapon, no way to fight a trained knight. He backed away, desperation clawing at him.

A voice, dry and rasping as dead leaves, cut through the morning air from the end of the street. It was devoid of anger, yet carried an impossible weight.

“The dignity of a Sorcerer is not contested.”

A streak of black light shot from the Sorcerer’s outstretched finger, missing the knight by inches and striking the wooden gatepost. The black light didn’t fade; it *splattered*, resolving into a seething, buzzing mass of thousands of insects. Each was the size of a thumbnail, with transparent wings and vicious, clicking mandibles.

The knight froze, his bravado evaporating into pure terror. “Sorcerer! Mercy! I beg you!” he cried out, falling to his knees.

The Sorcerer offered no reply. He simply made a subtle gesture and muttered a string of syllables that hurt Grimm’s ears to hear.

The kneeling knight… shimmered. His form blurred, compacted, and twisted. His polished armor melted away into pink skin, his terrified cries became panicked, high-pitched squeals. In the space of a heartbeat, where a man had knelt, now sat a fat, confused, and terrified pig.

The cloud of black insects descended upon it in a humming, clicking wave. The horrible squealing was drowned out by the sound of countless tiny jaws. Within moments, nothing remained of the knight but a few cleanly gnawed bones.

The steward stood rooted to the spot, his jaw slack, a dark stain spreading down the front of his fine trousers. He had bullied and schemed his entire life, but he had never witnessed raw, reality-altering power.

A flicker of movement. A long, pink tongue, thin and impossibly fast, shot out from a shadow near the Sorcerer. It wrapped around the steward’s torso with a sound like cracking whip. Before Grimm could even process the motion, the steward was yanked off his feet and pulled into the shadows, his scream cut abruptly short.

The creature shrank rapidly, morphing from a seven-foot-tall amphibious monster into a frog the size of a palm. It hopped onto the waiting palm of the Sorcerer, its red eyes blinking slowly before it settled into stillness.

Silence.

Absolute, profound silence gripped the street. The few witnesses, guards and early-rising vendors, stood frozen in abject terror. This was not a brawl or an execution; it was an annihilation. Two men had been erased from existence for the crime of inconveniencing the Sorcerer’s retinue.

Grimm’s own fear was a cold stone in his gut, but beneath it, a fierce, burning ember began to glow. *This* was power. True, uncontestable power. The steward’s petty corruption, the knight’s brute strength—they were nothing. Less than nothing. They were insects before a boot.

He would have this power. He would ensure that no one could ever threaten him, dismiss him, or take what was his ever again.

Swallowing hard, he walked on unsteady legs into the now-deserted courtyard. He ignored the gnawed bones, ignored the palpable fear from the windows. He went straight to his cart, untied the old horse, and led it out. The animal nuzzled his hand, oblivious to the horror that had just transpired.

His final stop was the blacksmith’s forge. Sixth Brother was already there, stoking the fire. He dropped his hammer with a clang when he saw Grimm leading the cart.

“Eighth Brother? The… the rumors. They’re true?” he stammered, his eyes wide.

Grimm managed a weak smile. “It’s just apprentice. Sorcerer’s apprentice.”

Sixth Brother shook his head in utter disbelief, grabbing Grimm’s arm. “Apprentice… by the gods. You’re really… you’re really going to become one of *them*?”

It was the same question, but this was the eighth time it had been asked. This time, Grimm didn’t just offer a wry smile. He looked back towards the end of the street where his new Master's terrifying figure waited. He thought of the Siren’s Kiss writhing in his stomach and the knight’s bones being picked clean.

“Yes,” Grimm said, his voice quiet but firm for the first time. “I really am.”